I unwrap myself from her body, get out of bed, and hold my hand out to her. Told you, I’m a gentleman. When she rolls over, her eyes caress me again, starting at my face, and make their way down the length of me. My dick seems very pleased about the attention.
“If you keep looking at me like that, we are not making it downstairs.” I’ve still got my hand held out for her to take.
She places her hand in mine as her gaze makes its way back to my face. “I can’t help it.”
“Believe me, it was not easy getting out of a bed with you in it.” When she’s on her feet, I tilt my head toward the half-open door behind me. “That’s the bathroom, if you’d like to use it.”
She begins to collect her clothes. “Thank you.”
If it’s possible, Dominique looks even more radiant now with her afterglow. I slip a hand around her waist and pull her to me again. “I’ll meet you downstairs,” I whisper before I kiss her, gently this time now that the darkness in me has been satisfied. And before the conversation I do not want to have.
“Okay,” she replies quietly as her lips brush against mine.
Releasing her reluctantly, I grab a pair of shorts from the dresser and head for the door. I stop at the bathroom in the hallway to clean up and pull on the shorts. Downstairs, I get the bag we’d left by the front door then go to the kitchen. I get a couple of plates from the cupboard and two sodas from the refrigerator, then remove the food from the bag. Hattie sent some jambalaya. Good woman. I place napkins and silverware by the plates, probably for looks, because I know I’m not eating with this conversation. If Dominique can, she’s got a stomach made of iron.
I hear her coming down the stairs. A minute later she’s at the door, dressed, but still wearing that freshly fucked look. She looks real good in it.
I pull out a chair for her. “What would you like to talk about?” Might as well get this shit out of the way.
“Are you getting dressed?”
I look down at myself. “I am dressed.”
She rolls her eyes with a grin and takes a seat, then I join her. After she opens the soda and takes a sip, she begins. “What do you think about the murders?”
“Other than they were fucking horrible?” I arch a brow at her. Are you serious? Apparently she is because she’s waiting for my reply. “I don’t think they were what someone wanted them to look like,” I continue. “I think someone was trying to cover something up. Burn it.”
“I agree. But if that’s the case, why do you think they went through all the pomp and circumstance with the Voodoo staging?”
I consider her question. “I think it could be a couple of reasons. First, I believe they like the show and attention. Second, they’re most likely trying to throw you guys off what it’s really about.”
She nods in agreement. “They seemed to know what they were doing with the fires though.”
“I have to agree. They were contained to the immediate area where the victims were located.” The sick fucks. “The time frame between the last two were closer together. Do the police have any clues? There’s obviously a pattern.”
Her features are tense. She is not the same woman who was coming apart in my hands five minutes ago. Her eyes meet mine. “There is. Would you care to give me your opinion on what that is, other than the obvious?”
I don’t want to do this; I really don’t want to do this. “Really? You want my opinion?”
“I do.”
I let out a heavy breath. “Honestly, to me it appeared to be the beginning of the Seven Deadly Sins. I believe what we found was lust, gluttony, and greed.” I cut my eyes to hers. She’s watching me intently taking in my every word.
“I have to agree. With Ash Wednesday coming up, it makes perfect sense,” she replies thoughtfully.
I shrug. “If that’s the case, we’ve got four more coming up, and I for one really hope you catch this sick fuck before that happens.”
This time it’s her turn to breathe deeply. We sit silently for a moment, neither one of us having touched any food. Who could eat with the memory of the gruesome murders hovering over our heads, and the very real possibility of more to come?
“I hate to, um, not eat and run, but I’ve got to get to work.” Dominique smiles, it appears at least some of her discomfort is gone.
“Honestly, I wish I could say the same,” I grumble, because it’s the downtime that makes it all play over and over again like a movie on repeat.
We stand and I follow her to the front door. Once there, she turns to face me. “Thanks for letting me come in.”
I laugh as I slide my hands around her waist and palm the cheeks of her ass, her body pressed perfectly against mine. “Thanks for letting me ravage you.”
She lays her hands on my chest, and the feeling is both grounding and soothing. “If I’d known that was the greeting I’d get, I might have come sooner.”
I cock a brow at her, my dick waking up once more. “You can always come later.”
She smiles slyly at me. “Maybe I will.”
I lower my face to hers once more and kiss her long and slow, enjoying it and taking my time, needing it to last the long hours ahead of me that I’m sure are going to be filled with the memories of hell. “I’ll walk you to your car and get your number,” I tell her with my forehead resting against hers, not wanting to let her leave.
“Okay, Mr. Beauchamp. I must say your manners are impeccable.”
“I am a southern gentleman, Miss Chavelle. We ravage, but we ravage properly.”
The sound of her lyrical laughter when she opens the front door fills the hallway of my big empty house. But stops abruptly once we step outside.
Painted on the hood of her car is a pentagram. In bright red.
Five
Found
On the drive to Ignatius’ home, a sense of nostalgia had settled over me, a feeling of old-world Louisiana in all its historical glory. The old oaks bent in grand welcoming, draped in their finest Spanish moss and bedecked in centuries of gnarled limbs. Here in the bayou, the past still whispers in the humid breezes, and watches half-hidden behind the gardenia bushes. The ghosts are not partial to the day or to the night, the residents share the homes with all who had ever dwelled there. The air itself seems to press in on you, taking you within its embrace as the sun places a delicate kiss on your cheek. You can almost hear the clomps of horses’ hooves blended with the sounds of the cicadas and the groans of the bullfrogs, the swamp’s symphony. It’s almost as if you can sense a veil that hints to you from just beyond the weeping willows that hides all the secrets of the past still playing on and on.
The Beauchamp manor is a testament to the glory Louisiana was, and Ignatius is its pride. The master of the plantation. His destiny. It’s almost surprising Ignatius still lives there. It would be, if it were any place else. This is New Orleans, however, and we do things our own way. Always have, always will.
I’ve never been a believer in luck. I’m not a real big fan of fate either. Destiny, however, is as much a part of anyone as the color of their eyes and the sound of their voice. You can’t escape it.
But this, this is something else entirely.
There is a pentagram painted on the hood of my car, and I’d bet it’s a pretty safe assumption it’s related to the crimes. Honestly, the pentagram normally wouldn’t surprise me, not really, this is New Orleans, and I am a direct descendent to Marie Laveau. I grew up amongst all things supernatural. The fact I’m the lead detective in charge of the supernatural elements of some of the most horrific crimes New Orleans has ever seen is what makes this particular situation scary as hell.
“Jesus Christ, Dominique,” Ignatius growls as he steps in front of me on the front portico of his ancient mansion, his large frame blocking me from whatever may be lurking in the shadows. “Get back in the house. The sick fuck could still be out here.”
“I’m a detective.” I try to push him out of my way, because I do have responsibilities. “It’s my job to in
vestigate crimes, Ignatius.”
He doesn’t even bother looking at me, he just speaks to me over his shoulder. “I don’t care if you’re part of NCIS. You are not going outside, not until the cops arrive.”
I give another shove to his broad bare back, futile as it may be. “I am the cops. Get out of my way.” He’s immovable, and tall. Really tall.
“Calling the precinct is what you should be doing instead of arguing with me.” His tone is rough and tight, just like the thick tense muscles running down his back.
He’s right. The shock that slammed into me when we first opened the door, right on the tail of the mind-blowing sex we’d had, knocked me on my ass. I was on a rollercoaster of emotions. However, I had no idea the final destination would be raw fear and feelings of violation. I’m shaking. I’m not certain if it’s from shock, rage, or humiliation, the three of them together are a lethal cocktail of messy mistakes and emotional breakdowns. Not good, not good at all.
I decide to listen to Ignatius, rationalizing that the perpetrator could very well still be close, and Ignatius obviously isn’t going to let me stay outside alone. Therefore, I’m putting him in danger along with myself. At least that’s what logic tells me.
Logic is not at the forefront of my mind at the moment.
Crime scenes of burnt buildings, photographs of mutilated women, or what was left after the flames eradicated everything it touched. The women especially. And those damn pentagrams and symbols. They haunt me constantly. These are the things flashing through my mind as I stand on the veranda of what once was one of the area’s most grand estates. Funny how it appears whoever did this did not think twice about coming here.
“I’m calling them,” I find myself forcing out the words through chattering teeth. When did that start?
I’m fumbling around in my purse for my phone as Ignatius slowly turns to peer down at me from over his shoulder, his brows pulled tight in concentration. “Dominique?” he says my name cautiously.
“What?” I snap as I shove my trembling hand deeper into my handbag.
He turns so his front is now facing me. He’s so close, I can feel the heat emanating from his body, but it does nothing to stop the shivers flowing unending through me. I don’t meet his stare; I know what I’ll find. Prodding, searching, probing. I can’t deal with that right now.
He doesn’t say anything further, just bends and scoops me up with an arm under my knees, the other behind my back. His eyes are locked with mine. I can’t escape them.
“What are you doing?” My words come out choppy as my teeth bang together.
“Nothing,” he answers softly as he steps over the threshold and slams the door shut with his foot, ushering us back into his massive domestic museum, a convergence of the past and present.
“This is ridiculous,” the words tremble, “I’m fine. Put me down.” I sound anything but fine, but I cannot admit that a little spray paint had any effect on me.
He walks us into what I’m sure was once the front parlor back in the Beauchamp mansion’s heyday. Today it appears Ignatius uses it as a living room-slash-workout room with a big sectional and recliners in the back of the room, weights and a treadmill in the front by the windows.
Standing at the couch, he bends and lays me down gently. Now that our body contact is broken, cold settles in right down to my bones. There is absolutely no reason for me to feel this way, the temperature is warm and there isn’t a cloud in the sky. My body is still vibrating when he drapes the throw that was folded over the back of the couch over my length.
He rests one hand on the back of the couch and the other at my waist on the edge of the seat. “Get your phone, Dominique, make the call.” His face is so close to mine, I can still smell my scent on him and my body reacts to it – to him – in a primal way. The call, that’s right. My head has cleared enough I don’t have to hunt for my cell phone. I retrieve it from my purse and unlock the screen, ready to dial the precinct. “I’m going to go lock the doors while you tell them what happened.” His gaze is piercing, locking me in place like an anchor in turbulent waters. A jolt of fear quickly flashes through me at the thought of being left alone. Yes, lock the doors, and, No, don’t go, volley back and forth for top placement in my erratic thoughts. Ignatius must see it in my expression because he lowers his face and presses his lips against my forehead and stays like that for a long moment. Warmth and calm slowly seep into me from his tender touch. A long breath escapes me as the tension in my body eases slightly. He turns his face so his cheek replaces his lips, the stubble prickling on my skin brings me back from where the pentagram took me. “Make the call,” his words are practically a whisper, “I’ll be back before you’re done.”
“I’m fine,” I say again. He lifts from me and looks deep into my eyes, maybe to see for himself if I am all right, or if I’m a total psycho. I take a deep breath. “Really, I’m fine.” I lay a hand on top of his and squeeze. Because his presence alone has made me feel better. “Thank you.”
His eyes travel back and forth on mine, searching for the truth. Whatever he sees must have been sufficient, because his body relaxes nominally. “I’ll be right back.” He presses his lips firmly back at the center of my forehead.
A storm of emotions crash inside me, so strong and so fierce, I screw my eyes shut with the force of it. “Okay, I’ll be right here,” I whisper.
When he stands, the loss of his presence is palpable. I watch as he walks quickly across the room to the entry foyer as I call the precinct.
The sergeant picks up on the second ring. “Sergeant Blackman.” Curt and pissed off, as usual.
I screw my eyes shut again and force my voice to be even and professional. “Sergeant, it’s Detective Chavelle, there’s been an incident.”
“What the fuck do you mean, ‘incident?” The man’s got the bedside manners of a shark.
I sit up. I cannot be in a reclined position for this conversation. “I’m at Ignatius Beauchamp’s home-“
“What in the hell are you doing there?” he barks, cutting me off.
I watch Ignatius move toward the kitchen, most likely to lock the backdoor. “I was discussing the cases with him. He was a first responder at each of the crime scenes-” I clamp my mouth shut to keep from saying something I’ll regret.
“This is an ongoing investigation, Detective,” he growls, and it’s full of accusations.
“With all due respect, Sergeant,” I reply, now seething, “I know that. You would not have called me in if you thought I would damage a case.” I hear him drag in a sharp breath. Screw him. I continue, “However, as I said, there is a situation here. A pentagram was spray-painted on my car in front of his house.”
“What!?”
I can practically see the throbbing vein bulging on his forehead.
I close my eyes and press a finger and thumb onto my eyelids and force my voice to remain steady and my nerves to stay calm. “While we were inside talking, someone came onto Ignatius Beauchamp’s property and spray painted a pentagram on my car.”
“Does he have security cameras?” the sergeant asks tightly.
A light touch on my shoulder makes me jump a foot off the couch. I jerk my head up as I hit the hand away, it’s an automatic reaction.
“Sorry,” Ignatius whispers. Our eyes lock as my heart pounds an erratic beat inside my chest and a sheen of sweat covers my body. “And no, I don’t.”
I take a deep breath to steady myself as Ignatius lays his hand back on my shoulder. This time I don’t push him off. “No, he doesn’t,” I relay the information to the sergeant.
“Goddamn it. I bet this has something to do with the article this morning,” the sergeant replies.
“What article?” I ask. Ignatius’ grip tightens. I raise my eyes to meet his. His brows are pinched together and he looks…angry.
“You don’t know?” The sergeant barks out a disgusted sounding laugh. “Of course you don’t, nobody reads the papers anymore. Your name was printed in the
newspaper this morning as a lead detective in the crimes.”
“WHAT?” I jump to me feet as red hot anger explodes inside me.
“I just found out a short while ago. I thought someone from the precinct notified you.” I can hear the regret in his voice.
I don’t care. This is bad. Really bad.
“Who released my name to the press?” I don’t yell. I don’t scream. I don’t lose my patience.
Inside, I silently fume and scream and punch the sergeant right in his fucking throbbing vein. But on the outside I keep it together because chaos breeds negativity, and I’ve had just about enough of that shit.
“No one was supposed to. Everyone involved is fully aware how dangerous the perp is and would never put one of their own in danger,” he gives me the spiel about anonymity and taking care of our own, and blah, blah, blah. I just roll my eyes. I’d love to hang up on him, but I can’t. Even if I’m from another precinct. From another state, really.
I choose to ignore everything he’s saying because it’s all handbook bullshit anyway. “Apparently, I’m a target, thanks to whoever released my name and wrote that article.”
“I’ll take care of them,” the sergeant states. “I’m sorry, Detective. This should not have happened.”
Those women shouldn’t have been murdered either.
The sergeant sounds genuinely bothered by the whole incident. I appreciate it, I really do. But do I care he’s bothered? No, not really. Because he’s not the one the psycho’s now targeting.
I am.
“There are some squad cars already on the way, and a crime scene investigator. You know your vehicle is the crime scene and we’ll have to bring it in.
Shitshitshit!
“I want a Charger to drive,” I grumble. I sound like a petulant child. Do I care? Not at all.
Some asshole spray-painted all over my car, and probably wants to cut me up for some sick, depraved thing we’ve yet to figure out, and I’m back in a city I couldn’t wait to get out of. I think I have very good reasons to be petty.
Voodoo Burning Page 4
