Authors: Jeannie Holmes
Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony filled the cloistered confines of the sports car. Alex struggled to retrieve her jacket from where she’d thrown it on the floorboard between
her feet. She finally extracted her cell phone from the tangled leather and groaned when she saw the number on the display. Flipping the phone open, she took a steadying breath before speaking. “Hi, Mom.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Emily Sabian asked by way of greeting.
“Tell you what?”
“About the murders.” The sound of a drawer opening and closing punctuated her statement.
Alex closed her eyes and rested her head against the seat. “I didn’t want to worry you.”
“And letting me find out from Pearlie Marker that my daughter has been investigating murders similar to her father’s was your solution to not worrying me?”
“It wasn’t like that, Mom. How did Pearlie find out, anyway?”
“Her grandson, the one who works for a TV station in Memphis.”
“How did he—”
“I don’t know, Alexandra.”
She heard a zipper being secured, and her mother grunted as though she was moving something heavy. “Mom, what are you doing?”
“Packing. I’m coming to Jefferson.”
Alex felt the blood drain from her face. She glanced at Varik. “Mom, I don’t think your coming to Jefferson is such a good idea right now.”
Varik shook his head in silent agreement.
“Why not?” her mother huffed.
“I’m in the middle of an investigation.”
“Maybe I can help. After all, you
are
the only Enforcer—”
“Varik’s here,” Alex said softly. Silence filled her ear and she checked the display on her phone to be certain the call hadn’t been dropped. “Mom? Are you still there?”
“Yes,” she replied. “It’s just—I thought he retired.”
Alex gave Varik a lopsided half-smile. “Damian reinstated him.”
“I see. Has he been able to help you?”
“Depends on your definition of help.”
Her mother sighed. “I’m coming to Jefferson.”
“No, Mom.”
“Alexandra, I’m coming. End of discussion.”
Anger bubbled within her. Having Varik in Jefferson was stressful enough, but if she had to worry about her mother’s safety as well, she didn’t know if she could handle that much pressure. “You can’t—”
“There’s an evening flight, and I can rent a car once I get to Jackson.”
“Will you listen to me? You can’t come here.”
“Don’t take that tone with me, young lady.”
“I can’t run a murder investigation and find the son of a bitch who shot me
and
babysit you all at the same time!” Alex heard her mother’s sharp intake of breath and realized the moment she said it that she shouldn’t have. “Mom—”
“You were shot?” Panic nibbled at the edges of her mother’s voice. “And you didn’t—”
“The bullet barely grazed me.”
“My baby’s been shot,” her mother groaned.
“Mom, it’s not that bad.”
“Is Varik there? I want to speak with him.”
“Mom, please—”
“Now, Alexandra!”
Alex sighed and handed the phone to Varik.
Varik’s eyes never left her face. “Hello, Emily.”
She could hear her mother’s muffled voice speaking rapidly in French, and she frowned. Her mother knew Alex had never learned to speak Varik’s native language, an advantage her mother had often employed when she wanted to covertly impart instructions or gain information.
Varik nodded.
“Oui.”
“What is she telling you?”
He simply shook his head and continued to listen to her mother. He wasn’t going to tell her anything.
“Damn it, Varik,” she hissed.
He smiled as her mother’s voice rose sharply. “Emily says you shouldn’t curse.”
Alex snarled and slumped in her seat. The movement sent another ripple of pain through her arm, and she gritted her teeth.
“Je m’en occupe.”
Pause.
“Bien sûr.”
Pause.
“Oui. À bientôt.”
Varik closed the phone and handed it to her.
“What did she tell you?” Alex demanded, snatching the phone from his hand.
He turned in his seat and reached for the ignition key. “She asked me to keep you out of trouble.”
“Sounded like more than just a simple request to me,” she muttered, as he guided the car into traffic and they continued on their way.
“Keeping you out of trouble is anything
but
a simple request.”
Alex grunted and turned her attention to the passing cityscape. Her mother was coming to Jefferson. They hadn’t seen each other since she moved from Louisville, had barely spoken outside of holidays and birthdays, and even those conversations had been strained.
Her mother believed she should’ve stayed in Louisville and worked on her relationship with Varik. Alex’s hand drifted to the scar on her neck. What was there to work on? Their relationship had been destroyed. She closed her eyes and gave herself over to the memory.
She stood in the tiny kitchen, staring at the tiled floor that’d been scrubbed clean of any traces of her blood. The scent of bleach was still strong and made her nose burn.
The ring he’d given her glittered on her finger as she’d raised her hand. They’d been engaged for only two months. She hadn’t had time to make any plans or pick out a dress. She slipped the ring off her finger, laid it on the kitchen counter next to the coffeepot, and walked away.
Now, six years later, he’d walked back into her life. Resting her head against the seat back, she inhaled deeply, and Varik’s natural scent of sandalwood and cinnamon combined with her own of jasmine and vanilla to create an intoxicating mixture that stirred her soul.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Varik said. “You awake?”
Alex didn’t answer and kept her eyes closed, feigning sleep. Perhaps if she kept them closed, when she finally opened
them, the nightmare of the past few weeks would’ve dissipated.
She could only hope.
It’d been four years since Claire was taken from him. He paused at the threshold separating the porch from the house’s interior. He still wasn’t accustomed to the sound of a silent home.
Floorboards popped under his weight as he stepped into the dark living room. He closed the door and reached for a light switch.
The soft glow of a floor lamp across the room illuminated a small television resting on top of an overflowing bookcase. His battered recliner with its equally shabby side table faced the television. The room was a jumbled mess of papers, books, empty plates and glasses, and a row of boxes stacked along the wall beside the door leading to the kitchen. The boxes contained what remained of Claire’s clothing and personal items. He’d packed them up months ago but didn’t have the heart to get rid of them. He couldn’t bear the idea of parting with them, of parting with her.
Only one section of the room was free of clutter—the area next to the boxes containing a small mosaic-tiled table he and Claire had purchased on their honeymoon in Mexico. On the table was a silver tray that held Claire’s gold wedding band and diamond engagement ring, her hairbrush, and a bottle of her favorite perfume. The room’s walls were bare except for the enlarged
portrait of Claire in her wedding dress that hung over the table.
He paused in front of the table and photo. He kissed his fingertips and transferred the kiss to her lips. “Hi, sweetheart. I’m home.”
The ornate golden frame made the blond highlights in her hair sparkle. Her brown eyes held all the warmth and excitement he remembered from their wedding day. She wasn’t smiling, but she wore a serene, dreamy expression, like that of a lover waiting for her first kiss. An elaborate tattoo of a vine-covered cross was visible on her elegant neck. The white veil trailing over her bare shoulders stood in stark contrast to the dark tan of her skin.
He inhaled deeply, recalling the smell of cocoa butter and suntan lotion. Claire had taken great pride in maintaining her summer glow all year. He teased her about her mid-winter trips to the tanning beds, but he’d loved her skin. He’d loved everything about her, except her job.
“Goddamn vamps.” He frowned and looked away. “I never understood why you wanted to work at that blood bar.”
Claire had worked as a waitress and part-time donor at a blood bar in Natchez. She claimed the tips she received were worth the drive, but he’d hated her being on the road late at night. If only she’d listened. If only he’d been more insistent. If only—
Something heavy crashed to earth in the rear of the house. He sighed and glanced at the portrait before setting
out to investigate the source of the noise. He didn’t have to go farther than the kitchen.
A bracket holding up one end of a wooden shelf above the back door had given way. A set of antique cast-iron trivets that had been Claire’s lay scattered on the tile floor. He picked up the trivets and set them on the counter. Beneath the remains of the shelf, two of the tiles now sported large cracks.
He saw movement from the corner of his eye. A shadow darted from the hallway that led to the bedrooms, slipped behind the refrigerator, and into the living room. “Damn it,” he muttered, retracing his steps into the other room. “I don’t have time for games, Claire.”
The shadow hovered beside the boxes before passing over the table and disappearing behind the portrait. Claire’s eyes, full of heat and accusations, stared at him from the photo.
“I’m going to take care of it.” He stood before her and stroked the broken halo of her hair. “Don’t worry. I made a promise, sweetheart. I won’t rest until those bastards have paid for what they did.”
It had taken him the better part of a year, but he’d tracked down those most likely to be responsible for Claire’s murder. He’d gotten the names of all the vamps that’d been in the Natchez blood bar when Claire left work. He’d searched for them. Some were in other states, beyond his reach, but a few were in Jefferson, and he’d done what that Enforcer bitch hadn’t been able to do. He’d found justice for Claire.
He thought of the two vamp bodies awaiting him in
his workshop behind the house. One was the vamp he’d killed earlier. The other was tonight’s project. He glanced at the blood smeared across his clothes. Moving a corpse was dirty work. He was amazed that vamp blood was the same color as human blood. One would think demons bled black acid, but the dark red always surprised him.
He checked his watch. He didn’t have time to start preparing the vamp before tonight’s meeting. The Human Separatist Movement had been trying to find a way to rid Jefferson of the vamps. While he was content to hunt them down one by one, he knew it was impractical. He needed an alibi—or at least a set of scapegoats. Sooner or later, no matter how careful he’d been with potential evidence, that Sabian bitch would figure out who was behind it. Then she’d come looking for him.
And he’d be ready.
The elusive shadow slipped from behind Claire’s portrait and passed over him. A hint of lavender filled the air, surrounded him, and left him feeling giddy and excited. Claire gave him the smell of her perfume only when she was pleased with him.
He smiled up at her photo and was elated to find her smiling back.
Harvey propped his feet on the corner of his desk and cradled the phone between his ear and shoulder. A coffee-stained mug rested on the apex of his large rounded belly. A thin ribbon of blue smoke rose from the cigarette that bobbed on his lips as he spoke.
“Thanks for calling, Jeff. I appreciate it.” He slipped the receiver into its cradle and leaned farther back in his chair.
The news from the coroner’s office wasn’t good. Total number of dead from the shooting at Maggie’s Place was now seven, with six more injured, including Sabian. He had to admit, however, that it could’ve been a lot worse.
He absently rubbed his shoulder where the new Enforcer had grabbed him. He could feel the tenderness of the forming bruise, and it throbbed in time with his heartbeat, but he’d never give those uppity vamps the satisfaction of knowing they’d hurt him.
He’d toyed with the idea of reporting the incident to the Bureau but decided against it. The only witnesses, aside from two of his men, had been Sabian and Lockwood. He was certain Sabian would back up whatever story the other Enforcer concocted, but Lockwood was a wild card. She was the liaison officer. He could never tell which side she was on.
A knock on his door brought him out of his musings. “Yeah,” he called. “What is it?” he asked when Deputy Justin Case slipped into the office.
“All the vehicles from Maggie’s Place that were hit with bullets have been moved to the JPD impound lot,” Deputy Case said.
“Good. I want slugs dug out of each one. I want to know what kind of rifle the shooter was firing, and then I want a list of all registered owners of that model in the county.”
“Yes, sir.”
“State troopers have any luck with finding that truck reported leaving the scene?”
“Nothing yet.”
Harvey took a draw from his cigarette. “Was Sabian’s vehicle brought in?”
Deputy Case shuffled his feet and looked sidelong at the door. “I’m not sure.”
“Green Grand Cherokee.”
Recognition lit the deputy’s face. “Yes, sir. Now I remember. It had the back glass shot out.”
Harvey nodded. “Good.” He drew on his cigarette again, a plan forming in his mind. His gaze flicked to Deputy Case. “Anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“Then why are you still here?”
Deputy Case opened his mouth to respond, thought better of it, and scurried away under Harvey’s steely stare.
Harvey’s thoughts returned to his plan. If he could pull it off, he’d be hailed as a town hero for generations to come. Vamps thought they were so smug, so perfect. They paraded around Jefferson like humans owed them penance. Any break in their holier-than-thou façade was priceless to the Human Separatist Movement.
HSM, unlike some of the other anti-vamp organizations, believed in the complete separation of human and vampire communities, and was willing to exploit any means necessary to accomplish that goal. It employed lawyers and lobbyists to bend the ears of politicians in state and federal government. It established independent schools, usually attached to an HSM-controlled
church, for human children. The group worked within the laws to accomplish what it could, but “by any means necessary” didn’t always stop at the borders of the courthouse or capitol building.