Cajun Gothic (Blood Haven) (3 page)

Leather was the new black, with full-body or
strip-steak versions warring with spandex or fishnet.

Personally I liked net. The tease was good.
Especially if metal was involved.

Trina had had certain adornments, strategically
placed. I might have added a few to my own skinny anatomy, given enough time.
But when Uncle Sam was done with me, I’d seen too much metal in too many
bodies.

That didn’t diminish the appeal… in others.

A short young blonde thing sidled up to the bar next
to me. I’d been nursing Stellas, waiting for the tourists to lemming out the
door, the turnover like clockwork; but the hard core had a special entrance,
off to my left… surreptitious with retro beads covering the opening. The hall was
long, ugly, and smelling of piss and sex. They wore it like perfume, spreading
onto the dance floor in bursts. Some couples, but mostly gaggles of chicks
trolling for thrills.

My jeans and tee-shirt reminded me I was here in an
official capacity. Gathering information. The cute young thing next to me
hardly qualified as a valid source, so I turned to her and let my gaze wander
up and down the goods on display.

“I’m buying.”

She wasn’t legal, not even close. But then, I hadn’t
been either.

“Tequila.” She flashed a smile and turned so I could
get a better look. With most of the looky-loos gone, they’d lowered the
lighting to eye strain. The mirror behind the old fashioned teak bar reflected
the weak lumens just enough for me to catch a glimpse of silver nipple hoops
peeking through the gauzy net shirt. Her breasts were bulbous, heavy and ripe.

The bartender set the shot glasses down and shoved a
bowl of lime slices in our general direction. I laid a fifty on the counter.
Stale pretzels and trail mix followed.

We skoaled to each other’s health and tipped the
amber liquid down in a single swallow. I looked to my right. The fifty was gone
but a mostly full bottle had taken its place. I held up two fingers for more
Stellas.

We did the
do you come here often dance
followed
by a little samba as she slid off the stool and gyrated to the beat of music
set to ear bleed volume.

I didn’t care. If I wanted to talk, I’d go to
confession.

She pressed closer, the leather skirt barely
brushing her pubic bone. I doubted there was anything other than skin
underneath. What I
never
doubted was finding out if my guess was right or
not.

She licked plump lips outlined in black, the inner
landscape an artful glossy flesh tone, oddly attractive. Murmuring, “I’m
Morgana,” I thought
of course you are
but got further distracted by the
tongue stud’s clever taunts.

It’s never a good idea to lose track of your
surroundings. Not when what I did for a living made for unattractive sparring
partners and grudges.

We had company. Make that…
I
had company.

It was a she, as tall as or taller than me judging
from where taut nipples stabbed through the thin cotton of my tee.

A shot of fear and longing pulsed in my gut, then
translated into lust. I was sandwiched, in a most pleasant way. The night
suddenly developed endless possibilities and I was very good at math.

Morgana moved toward the dance floor. I followed,
shadowed by the unknown stalker. The air sat heavy on my shoulders, like a
storm brewing, the body bubbled in a dead zone while all around ions charged
and discharged in random patterns.

The chick behind drew my hands back, ratcheting the
shoulder joints until they nearly popped, a knee braced against my thigh,
pinning me in place. Finger tips, like knife edges, needle-stroked and prodded,
my jeans stretched taut.

A whispered, “Come outside.” Not a request. I smiled
at the double entendre and followed the jailbait through the beads and down the
hall, holding my breath against the stink.

The alley was too narrow for vehicles so dumpsters
guarded the entrances, leaving most of it in dank shadow, the center sunken,
like a canal for carnal runoff. One of them backed me against rough brick, my
palms lancing on jagged edges. Warm blood trickled down my wrists. One of them
hissed.

The stranger spun me like a rag doll, bouncing my
skull against the hard surface and I smiled my approval. Blondie took up a
position between us, her head tilted to the side, listening. It was pitch, coal
tar dark, the air reeking of sweat and lust. The blood pounding in my head made
rational thought impossible.

Pinioning my arms above my head, the tall Goth chick
growled, “Don’t move.” I couldn’t if I wanted to. Blondie was unzipping the
jeans and lifting the tee-shirt, freeing my cock. Cool fingers stroked the
length but I barely noticed, my eyes locked in mortal combat with the warrior
woman. Black soul-less orbs bored into my psyche, stripping me and laying waste
to my inhibitions.

She lifted the girl and seated her with my cock
tickling the moist entrance, the folds thick and yielding. Morgana crooned to
Goth chick’s sibilant mutterings, a language tickling memory, could it be…?

Gripping the girl’s hips, the woman bared fangs,
then rammed Blondie’s slick cunt viciously down, nearly dropping me to my
knees.

Oh sweet Jesus, it hurt, it hurt so good.

Wake up, wake up.

She nodded yes. I didn’t remember asking.

Numb, frozen. Up, down, in, out…
slow slow slow, pain, not mine, not yet.

Lowering my hands, I peeled the netting away, the
pale metal rings strobing in the weak ambient light. Dropping my head, I licked
the exquisite chill, seizing a ring and pulling gently at first, then with
sharp wicked tugs…

Don’t leave me.

Wake me up.

Oh God, I can’t wake up.

She arched, her throat exposed, sticky. Who is she?
Morgana. Her name’s Morgana. Sweet heat, coppery, acrid scents bit my nostrils.

Can’t wake up.

Claws raked my neck, the blonde’s heavy breasts
nestled solidly into my chest. My hips took over the rhythm, thrusting,
unfeeling, flesh shredding against the unforgiving brick.

Dead, dead inside. Wake up. Can’t
wake up.

Distended, pulsing lava hot, the vein begged…
please.
Me. Let it be me.

Nu vrei asta?

Yes, yes, a thousand times yes.

Searing pain, the orgasm hit like a freight train,
my mouth yawned in an ‘O’ of terror and pleasure, the vein pulsing with each
draw, lips and tongue sucking hard.

Oh dear God. Wake me up!

Empty me, take it all…

Wake up.

Wake up.

Can’t wake up.

CHAPTER THREE

Dawn

The East River flowed past with oily splendor. I
don’t remember how I got there.

Sirens screamed in the distance.

They were coming this way. Curious, I turned away
from the depths beckoning me, aching in a way I couldn’t explain. Weak. Sated.
I touched my neck. It was sore but… whole.

The sky to the east lightened imperceptibly, the
pearls of light on the other side of the river still solid and real… my world.

Without knowing why, I paced back toward the cluster
of buildings, instinct and the smell of fear and longing pulling me forward.
More sirens, the burp of a cop car, tires skidding on hot pavement.

The tape was already up, the alley sealed, uniforms
swarming the area. I was invisible at the far end. I needed to get closer.

Fumbling for my ID card, I ducked under the tape and
approached cautiously. No one seemed to care.

The body lay crumpled next to a dumpster, her skirt
hiked to her waist, loose netting torn, breasts obscene in repose, the silver flashing
red, blue, red, blue. A small pool of blood cradled her face, pale, no longer
lushly full-cheeked. Two puncture wounds in her neck. My DNA coating her cunt.

I backed away and dug my cell out of my pocket.
Staggering down the street, I made the call.

“Talon? It’s Micah. I’m in trouble.”

I sketched details as fast as I could while Talon
considered what I’d told him. I needed proof, otherwise he’d hang me out to
dry.

But I knew, KNEW, I was right this time. Right about
Trina. Right about the shadows I’d only sensed, hovering at the edges of my
vision. Blood ran fast and hard, pounding through my veins, relentless.

“Go home, boy.”

“But…”

He hung up.

I made my way to a subway station and, eyes blind to
everything around me, rode the express clear to Spanish Harlem. I exited and
walked the neighborhoods, quiet now on a Sunday morning, the hookers and pimps
and homies finally calling it. I could safely negotiate the mean streets for a
short time. My favorite bodega was just opening. Juan beckoned me in with a big
smile.

“Hola, Micah. You look like shit, man.”

I smiled. I always looked like shit to my friend… probably
because I only saw him when I was in a world of hurt. Right now I was as close
to terminal as I ever got.

On the flip side, I was strangely exhilarated when I
should have been shitting myself in fear.

Why had she let me go and not the girl? It was like
she sensed something about me. I thought about Trina as I sipped the hot coffee
Juan pressed into my hands. He busied himself while I settled onto an ancient
metal stool behind the counter.

Trina.

Dear God.

It was like a spider web of need, weaving through my
soul, trapping me from the inside out. I ached, the corded vein in my neck
stretched like a rubber band. I fingered the bulge, remembering the intense
pleasure.

“Micah?”

I blushed. I couldn’t help myself.

Wake up. Wake up.

I needed to find her. She was the proof, the answer
I sought. I jotted down notes, descriptions, impressions… the bloodhound in me
on auto-pilot.

I wanted the truth. But it was the lie that lingered
like bloody chum on troubled waters. What I really wanted was something
forbidden, denied to me.

I wanted into her world.

The newsroom was strangely quiet, even for a Sunday
afternoon. I should have just gone home but being alone didn’t appeal.

Finding Talon waiting at the door to the newsroom appealed
even less. He was not surprised to see me.

Fuck the damn desk guy. I’d bet the farm he’d been
given instructions to alert the gendarmes as soon as I set foot in the door.

Before I could get a word out, he barked, “My office,
now.”

I’d been to the woodshed often enough to know this
wasn’t going to be pretty.

An ass-whooping was the least of my problems. Talon
motioned to the chair. I sat.

“That was the fucking stupidest stunt you’ve ever
pulled, Shephard.”

No ‘Micah’. I was thinking it was time to prepare for
my last rites as a private dick when he interrupted that chain of thought.

“And it’s possible you stumbled onto something big.”
He picked up the overflowing file folder and stack of photos I’d left on his
desk the day before and handed it over.

Big. No shit, Dick Tracey.

I might not have said it out loud but he knew and
glared hard enough I wanted to crawl into a hole. I wasn’t exactly awash in
clients, so losing this one wasn’t an option.

I hadn’t given Annie much thought lately. But now
her admonition to keep our clients happy surfaced, too late as usual.
She
was the one who was good at blowing sunshine up a client’s ass. Not me.

Talon interrupted my agitated thoughts. “I need for
you to pursue a lead.” He flipped another folder open and yanked a sticky note
off the top sheet. “I want you to clear your calendar.”

“What—?”

He handed the note over, leaving me to stare,
clueless, at the scribbling.

“Nawlins.” He pronounced it like the southern
gentleman he’d once been. “Upstairs broke the piggybank. It’s mostly loose
change but you’ll have three days, all expenses. Within reason.” He glanced at
his watch. “Your flight leaves Tuesday at two-fifteen. Better get home and pack.”
He handed over the other folder, dismissing me with a glare.

I didn’t know what to say so I just bolted out of
his office, needing to get home to collect my iPad, notebooks, passport and
underwear. Between now and the flight, I’d have enough time to work through the
new information. So far hard facts hadn’t yielded squat. I wanted to go back
and visit with Sasha, though with the edge off, it seemed less compelling than
the day before.

I still didn’t understand why the paper needed to
hire an outside consultant like me to do the snoop-dog routine on a rash of
killings that had all the earmarks of a Hollywood thriller. It had all of the ‘
been
there done that’
vibe that might titillate the tabloids but the Post was
respectable, conservative old school. The only thing that interested them was
power: who had it, who wanted it, and what were they willing to spend to get
it.