Danse Macabre

by Kory M. Shrum

  Two men were crashing through the front, with crowbars and pillowcases thrown over their shoulders.

  She didn’t mind. She welcomed the distraction.

  True, she couldn’t kill them. Killing the journalist had seemed to deepen her rut rather than shake her out of it.

  But it didn’t mean she couldn’t blow off a little steam. She’d even do it one-handed, for a challenge.

  Lou stacked her tapes, one on top of the other. Then she stepped into the shop, in full view of the men.

  “Hi,” she said. “Can I help you?”

  They pulled their guns on her, taking aim at the woman in the shadows. Their mistake.

  24

  Konstantine tapped coffee grounds into the portafilter and pressed the switch. The machine hummed with the promise of fresh espresso if Konstantine’s patience could only hold out for a few minutes longer.

  It was nearly one in the morning. But since he’d cracked the pathetic encryption on the dead man’s computer, his curiosity wouldn’t allow him to sleep.

  The honk of a Vespa reached him as some fool flew past the building too fast, engine motoring.

  And at this hour, he glowered.

  The machine clicked, and Konstantine retrieved his espresso cup from the serving tray, carrying it over to his desk.

  The computer sat open, waiting for his instruction. He examined the deleted files he’d recovered, dumping the information onto an external hard drive as he went. Later, he would upload it to his private server, once he was certain no spyware remained.

  He’d recovered photos of Louie and a few of King as well. In several, Louie fought in a dark parking lot, surrounded by at least six men in the haze of a granulated security camera. Her eyes shone reflective as a fox’s as she moved around them easily. They resembled a hyena pack, hungry and circling. They stood no chance.

  And yet she hadn’t killed one of them. She’d beat them senseless and had let them return a few blows. This only solidified his theory that she was not hunting. Her last confirmed kill had been Dmitri Petrov’s son. Had something happened that night? Or was it the runoff from her aunt’s death?

  He thought of his own mother’s death. For months that followed, he’d had no appetite. Not for food, nor company. Nothing in life could reach him. It was as if part of his soul had passed through the veil with her.

  If that was happening to Lou now, it would explain this reluctance to kill.

  He squinted at the photograph. Dio mio. She hadn’t even brought her gun.

  His pulse quickened even though he knew she was safe. She’d been in his apartment hours before, hadn’t she? This photo was dated weeks ago.

  Yet it wasn’t entirely irrational to fear for her safety.

  It was true he’d seen her in action himself, watched as she laid waste to every man on Ryanson’s boat. One bullet, one body dropped as they scrambled to keep her in their sights.

  Then she’d destroyed an entire villa full of Nico’s men, bringing it down around them as easily as a child tumbles down her tower of blocks.

  She was more than capable, so why should he be afraid for her?

  Because he’d also stitched her wounds closed. He’d seen her blood awash on that wet boat deck, saw her bleed unconscious.

  She was fast, strong, a predator. But she was not immortal.

  Not immortal, not immortal… his mind taunted him at every turn.

  She was also the girl who’d appeared in his bed over a decade ago, lost and mourning her father. He still saw the tears gleaming on her cheeks as she cried her way through nightmares.

  She was that girl too.

  And she wasn’t fighting.

  She wasn’t bringing her guns.

  She wasn’t wearing her vest.

  She wasn’t fighting. He only hoped Petrov didn’t know it.

  “We all have our limitations,” he murmured to himself, looking at the photos’ metadata.

  He searched the computer for a linked email account and found two that were password protected. One held mostly junk mail and typical correspondences with staff of The Herald. But the second email—

  He opened the encrypted message coming from an indeterminate source.

  1:15 EST was all it said.

  Konstantine reviewed the call log from the man’s phone bill, which he’d already downloaded in hopes of finding a connection. Had he been wise, Petrov would’ve sent a man in person to speak with Baker. Somewhere private like his home, where security footage wouldn’t be a problem.

  But maybe even Dmitri Petrov was careless from time to time.

  Konstantine cross-referenced the date and time on the email to a number in Baker’s call log. These computers made it too easy, syncing phone and all devices to a single hub.

  Konstantine smiled, recognizing the number.

  It was the same number that Petrov used to call him, the night a wounded Lou Thorne recovered in his bed.

  As the path through this wilderness widened, Konstantine decided another espresso would do him fine.

  After four shots and six hours of intense investigation, Konstantine had a decent profile of the dead man. He’d pulled everything from Clyde’s employment records, credit score, educational background, past living arrangements, phone and email records—even his social media accounts.

  The man who emerged was a man of many debts and two failed marriages. The second divorce bankrupted him. He had two daughters, eleven and twelve, and a corgi named Trundle that went with the second ex-wife. Behind the mediocre GPA at the University of New Orleans and a decent record for the 100 meter dash, lay a man with terrible instincts who loved to gamble. He also had an arrest record for possession of cocaine, but that was thrown out in court.

  Why had Petrov approached this man? It was possible that he’d owed Petrov’s bookies some cash or had a connection to one of his dealers. It was possible they’d decided to call on him in hopes of learning Lou’s identity.

  But why this man? That was the question.

  Was that Konstantine’s doing? Had he failed to delete some pertinent photo before Petrov’s bots—of which Konstantine knew he had a legion—had captured it? He’d already found half a dozen annoying bots in the system this week. Bots whose sole purpose was to take a photograph—like the one of Lou he now reviewed—and duplicate it over and over until it flooded the wires.

  Perhaps it was more than his own programs could handle. Perhaps one or two had fallen through.

  He drained his espresso cup and ran a hand down his face.

  Now was not the time to worry about his inadequacies. Whatever was done was done. The photos told a story of their own. Petrov had been looking for Louie from nearly the moment she killed his son and found a connection to New Orleans.

  But he didn’t think Petrov knew Louie’s name, her history, or her connection to Konstantine. What he did know was that Melandra completed a W-4 for a young woman who also worked at The Herald. He didn’t believe that was a coincidence. Not only because their social security numbers were identical, but because it would’ve been easier for Baker to send a proxy to investigate Lou than to follow her himself. Any mediocre search would’ve returned his name.

  If the girl was placed, that meant Dmitri was in New Orleans, or he would be soon. Konstantine was sure of it.

  He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a cell phone, one he used in discreet situations like this. He considered his options. There were only a few men he would call in this situation, those he trusted. Who is closest to New Orleans? he wondered. Or better, who could get there first?

  He dialed the number. A man answered. “Eh, yah. What can I do for you?”

  Konstantine told him what he wanted and what he was willing to pay for it.

  The other man whistled. “I can’t imagine anyone would turn you down for that price, especially in The Big Easy economy. Momma needs a new levee.”

  “These men are not from New Orleans,” Konstantine said. He did his best to make the situation crysta
l clear.

  The man sniffed. “In that case, what if they expect more?”

  “Just pay it,” Konstantine said, his eyes sliding to the gray photo of Lou, to her empty hands inviting death. “Whatever they want.”

  The man whistled again, this trill even longer and louder than the first. “And what about me? Will you cut me a blank check, too?”

  Konstantine named a figure.

  “I’m happy with that.”

  “I will be happy if you accomplish what I need you to,” Konstantine said.

  “I’ve never disappointed you before,” the man said, followed by an expectant silence.

  Konstantine smiled. “No, you haven’t.” He hoped he sounded light-hearted.

  “I’ll call you back in a few hours with an update.”

  “Good.” Konstantine ended the call without saying goodbye, putting the cell phone back in the drawer and closing it.

  He stood, stretched and made his way upstairs. He pulled off his shirt and reached into the dresser for another. He pulled it down over his head as he entered into the bathroom and turned on the light. He brushed his teeth, washed his face and prepared to fall into bed. He was ready at last to welcome the exhaustion.

  Except when he reentered the bedroom, he found Lou Thorne sitting on the edge of his queen-sized bed.

  Her mirrored sunglasses were pushed up onto her head to reveal her beautiful dark eyes.

  “How long have you been here?” he asked.

  “My father knew they wanted to kill him. He stayed and prosecuted the Martinellis anyway.”

  Konstantine leaned against the bathroom doorframe. “Would you have stepped down? Even if it meant endangering your family?”

  She considered him for a moment. “I would’ve hidden them somewhere first.”

  Konstantine gestured as if to say there you go. “You are your father’s daughter. But smarter.”

  “I’m surprised,” she admitted, placing one hand on the coverlet. The other rested on her thigh. Again he noted the lack of vest and guns. His uneasiness grew. “I always thought he was…”

  “Caught unaware?” Konstantine asked. He loved this American expression and the comic image it conjured in his mind.

  “Yes. It made him seem more…innocent.”

  Konstantine crossed to the other side of the bed. He lay on top of the covers, his back against the headboard. He expected her to get up and walk away from him. Perhaps she’d lean against the opposite wall or disappear altogether.

  Instead she pivoted toward him, one leg still on the floor, and regarded him over her shoulder.

  “You know who is not innocent,” he said, hoping he seemed indifferent. Too eager was far from cool.

  She regarded him with those dark eyes, saying nothing.

  “Mr. Clyde Baker worked for Petrov.”

  “That’s what his computer said?”

  “It seems Petrov approached him, asking him to get more information on you. Clyde tracked you to King, and then sent one of his employees undercover. It makes sense. If Petrov warned him about your penchant for killing, he would be foolish to get too close to you. But when Petrov pressed him for an update, he was forced to follow King himself. That’s when you picked him up.”

  “I knew Baker sent the girl. I didn’t realize he was working for Petrov,” she said. “Do you think the girl works for Petrov, too?”

  “No,” Konstantine said, lacing his fingers over his lap. “I think Baker was using her. A means to an end.” Another expression he enjoyed.

  She seemed to consider this. Whether this weighed in the young journalist’s favor or not, Konstantine couldn’t be sure.

  “Petrov must be in New Orleans,” he whispered.

  “He was in L.A. when I saw him. His men were going to take me to him.”

  “He knows about King. He’ll be there soon.”

  He wanted to bite her lower lip hard enough to make it bleed, but she seemed to be listening to something in the distance.

  “They’re safe for now,” she murmured.

  “Does that mean you are unoccupied for the moment?” He reached for her mouth, desperate to steal a kiss or recommence what they’d begun earlier, but she pulled back, out of reach.

  She hooked a thumb through the buckle of her belt and freed the leather strap. His heart jolted in his chest. Two tugs and her belt slid free. The sight of it sliding from its hooks made his palms sweat. His body became one thunderous pulse of anticipation.

  Is this happening? he asked himself. Is this really happening?

  All thoughts left his mind as she took his right hand in hers. She forced it over his head, aligning it with the wooden post holding up the headboard. It took her only seconds to bind his right wrist to the right post.

  He smelled her hair cascading over his face. He was desperate to reach up and find her throat with his lips.

  She slid her hand over his abdomen and tugged on the belt around his waist. Two more sharp tugs and the second belt was freed. Another breath and she’d fixed his remaining hand to the left post.

  His body thrummed under her touch. His stomach churned at the realization, he was fully extended. He licked his lips nervously, trying not to squirm. He wanted to look calm, collected, even if everything inside him writhed.

  Her boots hit the wooden floor. Clop, clop. She shrugged her shoulders out of the leather jacket and tossed it over the foot of the bed. She removed the sunglasses from her hair and tucked them into a pocket.

  His mind was a chorus of more, more, more, more.

  He wanted more of her skin, more of her body against his.

  But she was still mostly dressed when she climbed on top of him. Her thighs clenched either side of his body. The pressure stirred his own desire, amplifying the undercurrent of fear he already felt.

  This is a test, he thought. She wants to see if I can truly surrender control. If I truly trust her.

  As if to verify this speculation, Lou reached behind her. The glint of metal flashed in the moonlight. A knife pulled from a hidden sheath. He recognized his blade in her hand and laughed. He was surprised that she’d known it was there.

  But of course she’d known. Perhaps she knew where every weapon in this room was hidden.

  She leaned over him, her loose hair tickling his face.

  The tip of the knife dragged over his shirt, feather light.

  He considered protesting, weighing his love of this soft, comfortable t-shirt against his desire for whatever might come next. He swallowed his protests as she drew a T through the delicate fabric. One slash from arm to arm. Then one down the front, following the plane of his abdomen.

  She ran a cool hand over his torso and the shirt fell away.

  What precision, he wondered, if she could cut the cotton off his skin but not cut the skin itself.

  But then he saw the blood well up, and felt the light sting. Cool air sliding over his bare chest, she leaned down, her exhalations warm on his skin.

  She dragged a tongue over the cut, rolling her eyes up to meet his.

  He hardened, seeing those full lips bent low.

  “Can we even the score?” he asked, hearing his throat click. “A shirt for a shirt. Pants for pants.”

  He thought he saw a smile quirk the corner of her lips. “No.”

  She fingered the button, undoing it with little more than a snap. Then two cool hands were running down his bare thighs, and over each kneecap, before circling under to the sensitive flesh beneath. His pants hit the floor.

  She took the blade and put it between his lips, blunt edge against his tongue.

  “Bite down,” she said. He did.

  Then she bit down. First on his hip bone, little more than a nip. Then harder on his quad. A little harder still on his inner thigh. Each press of her teeth caused him to throb more.

  When he thought he would cry out and let the knife fall from his lips to the pillow, she would soften. She would kiss instead of bite. She would lick instead of tear.

&nb
sp; Then she took him into her mouth all the way down to the hilt. He moaned, the blade vibrated between his teeth. She reached up and seized the hilt of the blade.

  “If this falls out, I stop,” she said.

  He bit down harder.

  Then she laid his world to waste.

  25

  King heard a rattle outside his window and muted the television. He leaned forward, looking through the balcony door into the dark.

  Someone was on the fire escape. He slipped one hand under his sofa and found the .357 hidden there. Wrapping his hand around the textured handle, he crept across the living room. Sweat cooled on the back of his neck and sprang up on his palms, making the gun feel precarious in his grip. He tucked himself into the corner of the room so he would have a clear shot of whoever appeared.

  A figure emerged at the top of the escape.

  King was ready. He could get an easy shot from here and stop Petrov’s men in their tracks.

  “Oh shit!” A girl squeaked. She toppled from the top of the ladder onto King’s balcony with a crash. Her legs flopped out behind her like an afterthought, taking out one of his balcony chairs.

  She moaned, cursing and clutching her head.

  King opened the balcony door. “Piper?”

  “Shhh!” she hissed, trying to stand but only wobbling on her two unsteady legs. “Don’t let Mel hear you.”

  King checked the time. It was nine. The shop would close in one hour. “She’s still downstairs. Why are you crawling around in the dark? You could’ve broken your neck.”

  “I need your help,” Piper said, taking the outstretched hand he offered. “Undrunk me.”

  “Excuse me?” But then he smelled the alcohol, rolling off her in a putrid wave. “Christ. What did you have?”

  “Three hurricanes?” she asked, as if to confirm it with him.

  “Three?” Two hurricanes would’ve sent King well on his way, and he was quadruple her body mass.

  “I’m supposed to close, and you know if Mel sees me like this, she’s gonna lose her fish.”

  King laughed. “What makes you think I can help you? There’s nothing to do but wait it out.”