“Jesus, a freaking soap opera,” Constantine said. “You had four witnesses this morning that Lutsky attacked you first. If none of the others support you, feel free to call on me, for what it’s worth.”
“Um, thanks.” This would have been an incredibly cool offer under any other circumstances, but Zeb knew all about bargaining with the devil. “Lavonia will probably stick up for me, but it won’t do any good. My dad will just say I need to learn self-control.” He stood. “Well, thanks for breakfast. And for the guitar. I gotta go face the music.”
“Sure, Zeb,” Constantine said. “But first, why did you take the knife?”
“Knife?” Zeb’s voice cracked.
Constantine didn’t want to feel sympathy for the kid. He would far prefer last night’s instinctive dislike, but to some extent, that had dissipated. His spirit guide said it had something to do with the kid mattering, but, as usual, it made no sense.
Regardless, he needed information. “Who are you protecting, Zeb?”
Silence.
“Somebody drugged a woman and left her on the mound.”
More silence. A shrug.
“He may have raped her.”
“No.” Zeb shook his head rapidly and then went still again.
“You know he didn’t rape her?” Silence again. “You don’t think he did? You just hope he didn’t? Which is it?” More silence; a stubborn kid. “It looked like he was planning to sacrifice her. Why wouldn’t he make use of her first?”
Zeb went green, but shook his head again. “Look, is Mar—is she okay?”
Ah. So Zeb did know Marguerite, and Marguerite knew Zeb, and she’d kept that to herself on purpose. Didn’t want him to question the kid. Again, the suspicion surfaced that she knew more than she would let on. That her motives weren’t what they seemed.
Inside his head, the spirit guide bristled with annoyance. Before it started making a nuisance of itself, Constantine acknowledged what Marguerite’s behavior more likely meant: that she just didn’t want him to hurt Zeb. “Marguerite seemed fine when I last saw her, driving away from the mounds. That doesn’t mean she wasn’t raped. It doesn’t mean she’s not in danger now. If she’s a target, it’s your responsibility to protect her, not the man who’s threatening her.”
“She’s not a target,” Zeb choked out. “He likes—I mean, everybody likes her.”
Ignoring Zeb’s slip of the tongue, Constantine said, “You know and like Marguerite, and you know who did this, and yet you’re protecting him.” Pause. “Why would you want to protect someone like that?”
Silence again.
“You don’t feel any sense of responsibility here? Not concerned about Marguerite? Not about some other girl getting kidnapped, maybe mutilated or murdered?” Pause. “No shame in you at all?”
Zeb flushed darkly under his tan but maintained his silence.
Constantine leaned back. “Okay, so we’ve established that you’re too much of a lowlife to go for guilt, so how about bribery? Would front-row tickets do it? Backstage passes for you and all your scummy friends? Your pick of the groupies?” He watched chagrin cross Zeb’s face, chased and replaced by fury. “Not enough, evidently. How about cold, hard cash?”
Zeb clenched both his fists and his teeth.
“No.” Insulted, was he?
“Threats, then. I’m a dangerous man to cross.” Constantine resisted the temptation to demonstrate immediately what he meant. Instead, he just said, “I can make your life hell.”
Zeb’s voice and eyes were bleak. “My life is already hell.”
“I can make it worse,” Constantine said, and then wished he hadn’t. The kid’s shrug wasn’t one of bravado, or even of indifference.
Desperation. How familiar.
A chicken stalked past the window. It fluttered awkwardly onto the fountain and glared at Constantine with an unfriendly red eye.
A chicken?
“Whoa,” Leopard said, opening his laptop. “This is serious business, kid. You don’t want Constantine pissed off at you. Better give him the answers. Way too much of the bad shit you hear about him is true.”
“Thank you,” Zeb said. “I appreciate your advice. It’s very kind of you to warn me.” He turned to Constantine. “Fuck off.”
The fool had no idea who he was dealing with. Constantine leaned forward, hands clasped. “Zeb, I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, meaning it but preparing himself all the same.
He’d always done what he had to, and this was no different. Marguerite didn’t know any better and couldn’t possibly be expected to understand. As for the bird in its many forms, all annoying, it could go to hell and wait for him there. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he repeated, “but I will.”
The kid didn’t respond, so Constantine released a brief twinge of pain. Nothing much, just enough to show him.
Zeb’s eyes widened, but he showed no other sign that he’d felt the pain. “You can still fuck off.” He stood. “I thought you protected innocent people.”
Stupid, pigheaded kid. Outside, a whole host of birds were making a god-awful clamor. It sounded a lot like cheering.
“Which reminds me,” Lep said into the charged silence that followed, “looks like someone got to that perv before you, bro.” He clicked a few keys. “Some young guy beat the crap out of him in a bar the other day.”
If Constantine hadn’t been frowning at Zeb, trying to figure him out, he wouldn’t have seen that betraying flicker. “You’re that guy.”
Zeb jutted his chin in response. “He’s been hitting on a friend of mine. She’s only fourteen.”
Constantine blew out a long, slow sigh. Why couldn’t that aggravating bird have given him this useful info earlier? But that was always its way—incomprehensible commands or veiled hints. “Go away, Zeb. I’ll give you a while to think about it. Don’t kid yourself—you will give me the information I need. You’d be a lot smarter to do it before someone else gets hurt.”
Zeb went out, leaving the guitar behind. The chicken dropped from the fountain and out of sight. Good riddance.
Then it reappeared inside his head, clucking madly.
Lep eyed Constantine over the laptop screen. “That was unusually merciful of you. What’s going on?”
“Shut up!” Constantine shook his head violently. “Get the hell out!”
“Who are you telling to shut up? I’m a dangerous man, too.” He slid off his stool, let fly a few playful punches, danced away, and then leapt onto Constantine from behind.
“It’s this frigging bird,” Constantine said with a grunt. He stood and shoved his arms apart, sending Leopard and the stool flying. “Flapping around in my head like some manic chicken, talking absolute bullshit.” He thudded his forehead with the heel of his hand and retrieved the fallen stool.
“Sure you don’t mean chicken shit, bro?” Lep chuckled and went over to the espresso machine. “Glad I’m not a fucking Indian, stuck with a spirit guide. Enough shit going through my head without birds crapping in there, too.”
“The bird says,” grumbled Constantine, “I should stop being an asshole.”
“No doubt about that.” Lep tamped coffee into the portafilter.
“That hurting this kid will backfire on me. That’s supposed to be news? I know how karma works.”
Lep grunted, positioning the shot glasses.
“It says this kid is a gift from the gods,” Constantine said.
Lep glanced at him. “Say what?”
“It says I might be able to redeem myself by way of this kid.”
“Redemption.” Leopard’s voice was contemplative; espresso dripped slowly into the shot glasses. “We could all use some of that.”
Constantine rested his head in his hands, listening to the coffee and the comforting hiss of milk being steamed. The spirit guide also said Marguerite was a treasure from the heavens, but he wasn’t about to admit he’d even heard that one. Sure, it sounded good, but what was he supposed to do with her? Say he got
up his nerve and slept with her. Even if, by some miracle, that didn’t turn out to be a catastrophe, his Enemy was still out there. What if Marguerite got hurt through association with him? Why couldn’t the bird tell him something useful about his Enemy instead?
On that issue, it was utterly silent.
Now that the bird had spoken its mind, it was taking its sweet time pecking its way across the patio and out of his head.
Lep set a double espresso on the table before Constantine and returned to his laptop. “Your bird might be right. I don’t know what’s going on with the kid, but he looks exactly like you used to: glowering over a cup of coffee before you did something.”
“Great. So what’s my role here? Mentor? Moral preceptor? I don’t think so.” Constantine noticed himself glowering and downed some espresso.
“You know what I think?” asked Leopard innocently.
They’d been over this countless times. “Your solution to everything is not the same as mine.”
“Life is simple when you don’t have a chicken messing with your mind, saying ‘Do this, don’t do that.’ Maybe if you got laid now and then, you’d be able to think straight.”
A bird cackled from some distant height. Not a chicken, though. Small mercies.
“Nathan Bone says you’re making it with a hot babe. That news actually woke me up for a moment or two. Tantric sex, no less.” He eyed Constantine and sighed. “I had hopes that for once it might be true.”
“Shut up, Lep. I need to protect the girl, not destroy her.” He paused. “I need you to do me a favor. Two favors.”
“Sure, as long as you do yourself a favor, too, and start thinking seriously about getting laid.”
“Believe me, I’m thinking about it way too much.” He shook his head. “See what you can find out about Zeb—where he lives, some history on his parents, who he hangs out with. Also, get me whatever you can on a prof at Hellebore named Eaton Wilson.”
“Will do.” Lep’s cell phone chimed, and he read the display. “It’s Jabez. He’s at the babe’s place. Says you sent him there to scope the place out.”
Constantine’s heartbeat ramped up. “What’s wrong?”
Lep hooted. “You do want to screw her! There’s hope for you yet.” He relented. “She’s not home yet, but something went down last night. Jabez says you need to get over there right now.”
With a vague hope that he might recognize something, Marguerite led Al to her car to see the paraphernalia in her trunk.
“Quite an impressive mask,” he said. “The photos on the Internet don’t do it justice. Now, where have I seen one like it?”
“There’s a drawing of something similar in the mound museum,” Marguerite said.
“That must be why it seems familiar. For what it’s worth, the beads look homemade. The cup and bowl don’t ring a bell.”
She thanked him and had just shut the trunk again, when Janie, one of Lavonia’s witch friends, waltzed up with Roy Lutsky, whose aura was churning even more than usual today. Marguerite groaned. Usually, bumping into acquaintances was one of the pleasures of small-town life. Not today.
She’d forgotten about Roy. Lutsky had been a pain in the butt when he was errand boy for her father in his college days, and he hadn’t improved with time or a PhD in psychology. Unfortunately, thanks to her father, Lutsky knew she could see auras. He’d also gotten her the interview that had landed her the job at Hellebore University, so she owed him.
Damn.
“Why didn’t you tell me you’re going out with Constantine Dufray?” Lutsky demanded. “You were supposed to call me if you so much as met him!”
Marguerite cursed under her breath. Ages ago, Lutsky had asked her to read Constantine’s aura if she got the chance—and she’d reluctantly agreed. Trust Lutsky to bring it up in public. The man had no tact or sense of time and place. Next he’d be blurting out questions about what she’d seen in the rock star’s aura. “I’m not going out with him,” she said in a hurry. “I only met him a few hours ago. Give me a break!”
“You’ve definitely been kissing him,” Janie said. “Did you know your picture is all over the Internet?” Her eyes slid flirtatiously to Al. “Hi, Bon-Bon.”
“Don’t call me that,” Al snapped, and Janie giggled. Marguerite didn’t blame him. He was a distinguished-looking man in his late forties, and Bon-Bon was a juvenile sort of name. On the other hand, as long as he handed out candies, the nickname wouldn’t go away.
“Finally, someone who is seeing him socially,” Lutsky said. “The fan club people, except for Janie here, won’t give me the time of day.” His gaze bored into Marguerite. “What’s he like up close?”
Fortunately, neither of the others knew what he was getting at. Janie said, “Yummy,” and Al rolled his eyes.
“The same as at a distance,” Marguerite said repressively. “Gorgeous and scary.”
“You can get me an interview.” That was Lutsky: a statement, not a request.
“No,” Marguerite said. “I can’t.”
“Don’t harass her,” Al said. “She got caught in a publicity stunt, but she’s not the sort of woman to date a rock star.”
That rankled, but before Marguerite could retort, Janie said, “Oh, come on, Bon-Bon. What woman wouldn’t want to date him?”
“A woman of discernment,” Al said. “Which you clearly aren’t.”
She chuckled. “Marguerite didn’t look all that discerning in the pic we saw.” She grinned. “Is he a good kisser?”
“Yes,” Marguerite said irritably.
“I bet,” said Janie, dreamy-eyed.
Lutsky paced up and down behind the car. “According to the tabloids, his wife, Jonetta, said sex with him gave her nightmares.”
“Such edifying reading material,” Al murmured.
“Tabloids provide a useful societal function.” Lutsky’s brows drew together. “The sexual aspect of Dufray’s abilities is not what I wanted to tackle, but it’ll do for a start.”
“Not by way of me, it won’t,” Marguerite snapped.
“Testy, aren’t we?” Al gave her a wry smile. “Go home. Bathe. Put on some clean clothes. Then you’ll feel better.”
“No, she won’t,” Janie said. “There’s only one cure for sexual frustration. She wants that hunk to finish what he started.”
“You’ll be making a significant contribution to academic knowledge every time you sleep with Dufray,” Lutsky said eagerly. “If you tell me all about it, that is.”
“Don’t be an idiot. She’s not really taking up with that freak,” Al said.
Again, Marguerite had to suppress a retort. She could take up with Constantine if she damned well pleased.
“You didn’t call him a freak when you asked me to get free tickets,” Janie said.
“Those were for Zeb,” Al retorted, “and a major tactical error on my part. If anything, attending those concerts increased Zeb’s tendency to violence. I’m lucky he wasn’t trampled to death. It’s hardly a suitable environment for a scholar like Marguerite.”
“Even scholars have sex drives,” Janie said. Now it was her turn to roll her eyes. “Oh, come on, guys. Jonetta was on drugs. She was hallucinating. According to what I’ve heard from quite a few adoring fans, he can give a woman an orgasm with just one touch.”
“Now that does sound like a hallucination,” Al said dryly.
“Or even without touching her at all,” Janie added.
“Where’s the fun in that?” Al huffed. “What a bunch of baloney.” As a chemistry prof—a garden-variety scientist—he tended to pooh-pooh anything the least bit woo-woo.
Lutsky stopped pacing and frowned at Marguerite. “There may be some risks. His wife also said being in the same room with him was sometimes so painful that she’d pass out—but those hardly matter in the pursuit of scientific knowledge.”
Marguerite got ahold of herself. “I’m tired and dying for a shower. Nice to see you all, but I really must get going.”
“I need to interview you first,” Lutsky said, motioning toward the bookstore. “I’ll buy you another coffee.”
Marguerite gritted her teeth. “Thanks for your generous offer, but I have to go.”
Janie said, “Come on, Marguerite. Dish.”
Marguerite managed not to snap again. “No.”
“No what?” grinned Janie. “The one-touch orgasm? The tantric sex?”
“The hysteria-induced pain and the fainting spells?” murmured Al. “The tabloids probably paid his wife for that one.”
“Even if you’re not sleeping with him,” Lutsky said, “you damned well will tell me your impressions from this morning.”
“Later,” she said to the lot of them and drove home. She would have to tell Lutsky something, but she needed to plan exactly what to say. Sure, she owed him, but she probably owed Constantine far, far more. Not that she was ever likely to tell him so, because she had no idea how to go about it, given the chance. Did you really induce my scumbag uncle to kill himself? Because, if so, thanks very much!
Not the sort of thing one said aloud, even if one had good reason to mean it.
If he hurt Zeb, she might not feel so grateful anymore. But maybe Zeb would tell Constantine why he’d taken the knife, and everything would work out all right. With luck, in a day or two, she would thankfully crawl back out of the limelight to her calm, peaceful, private life, and Lutsky would have no reason to pump her for more information. Sighing, she turned the corner into the quiet cul-de-sac, where until a few weeks ago she had shared a house with Pauline and shared it now only with Pauline’s dog.
Two vehicles were parked in front of her house: a big blue pickup truck and a familiar white BMW. People gawked from behind windows. A few kids hovered by the curb. And on her front porch, sitting in the wicker chairs and chatting like the best of friends, were Nathan the reporter and Constantine Dufray.
CHAPTER FIVE
She’d done this before; she could do it again. This was no phalanx of reporters, merely one slimy pseudo-Brit, and if he had a camera, it was small and not in your face like that horde of photographers with their flashes when she was a terrified child.
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