Authors: Adrian Phoenix
As he stepped onto the sidewalk, Barry caught a shower of blue sparks from the corner of his eye. A glimpse quickly followed by an electric crackle and the thunderstorm scent of ozone.
All the parking lot lights went out.
The tide of darkness and shadows lapping at the edge of the sidewalk spilled over into the parking lot.
Barry’s pulse jumped in his throat. His fingers clenched around the handle of his briefcase. What the hell? Had to be some kind of massive surge or power failure or maybe a late-night squirrel having a fatal encounter with a transformer or . . .
From the heart of darkness flooding the yard and swirling around the Prius, Barry heard a soft, leathery rustle, as of wings. Big ones. Twin golden stars pricked the blackness, the gleam of glowing eyes. He froze, heart kicking against his chest, primal instincts whispering,
Drop and curl up and maybe it will pass you by
.
But Barry had a feeling it was much too late for that.
The darkness spoke in a deep rumble, like distant thunder, “I have a question for you, one I shall ask only once: Where is Heather Wallace?”
Barry’s legs gave out and he dropped to his knees.
N
EW
O
RLEANS
C
LUB
H
ELL
V
ON TOSSED THE LAST
bruised and battered intruder—a dude with
GQ
cheekbones wearing a sleek European suit—onto the pile of black garbage bags heaped up in the gutter in front of the pizza place next door. One of which split open, its decaying contents spilling out in a stinking sludge of garlic, spoiled sausage, coffee grounds, and rotting lettuce.
Gasping for air, Cheekbones staggered up to his feet and began brushing frantically at his suit.
“Haul ass,” Von suggested in a low growl.
Cheekbones looked around and, realizing he was alone, set off in a stumbling run down the narrow street. Something white fell from his pocket, floating to the street, a pale leaf.
“What’s that?” Merri asked.
“Dunno.”
Von stepped off the curb, walked out into the street, and picked up a folded sheet of paper—thick paper, like an artist
would use. A sketch, maybe. A dark, vanilla-spiced tobacco odor permeated the paper, an odor that reminded him of the cigarettes that Vincent seemed to chain-smoke. Although he didn’t see the Magazine Street lord often, every time they had crossed paths, Vincent had been puffing away on one of the Pink Elephants he favored.
And Vincent was an artist.
Straightening, Von unfolded the paper. And realized with a sharp pang as he stared at the oh-so-familiar face it revealed, that the Magazine Street lord was not only an artist, but a damned good one.
The sketch also revealed why Mauvais’s crew had broken into the club—they believed Dante and Vincent friendly enough to play artist and model.
Dante in charcoal—his eyes closed, jaw tight, caught in the act of wiping a dark trickle of blood from his nose with a hoodie sleeve, moonlight glinting from the ring in his collar.
A simple drawing, not yet completed, or so it looked to Von, but somehow Vincent had managed to capture not only Dante’s beauty, tension, and pain in bold strokes of gray and black, but had symbolized in that casual swipe of a hoodie sleeve the quiet will that kept Dante on his feet, kept him moving, kept him fighting.
At the bottom of the sketch, printed in charcoal letters:
Secrets
.
Von reached for Dante. <
Keep fighting and stay stubborn, you sonuvabitch, or I’ll kick your ass when I find you. Kick your ass into tomorrow
.>
But all Von received was more silence prickling with barbed-wire pain.
“Is that Dante?” Merri asked as she joined him out in the street, her scent electric with interest. She’d only seen Dante in photos, Von realized, had never met him.
“Yup,” Von replied, his voice rough. He quickly folded up the sketch, then slipped it into his jacket pocket. “Vincent’s work.”
“You never mentioned he was an artist.”
“Never mentioned a lot of things.”
“True,” Merri said without rancor. “The sketch—is that normal? I mean, does Dante often get nosebleeds during what I’m guessing to be a killer headache?”
Von hesitated for a moment, then said, “Normal for Dante, yeah.”
“Christ. Sorry to hear that.”
Returning to the sidewalk, Merri paused in front of the club’s battered green shutter-style doors and lit up one of her clove cigarettes. They were alone. Silver was inside, salvaging what he could from his room and keeping an eye on Thibodaux.
“So spill, nomad. Let’s hear what you didn’t want to say inside about your artist friend.”
Lucien’s old-school Chevy van with its blacked-out side and back windows was parked at the curb, so Von rested his back against it. He folded his arms over his chest, bomber jacket creaking. “Vincent ain’t my friend.”
“I’m hearing history . . .”
“Just the usual. Two cocky bastards. One town. Yada, yada. Not to mention that Vincent was playing two sides—namely, Dante and goddamned Guy Mauvais—against the middle.”
“The Lord of New Orleans?” Merri questioned, frowning. “He’s the mofo who ordered the house you all lived in torched, killing your friend in the fire, right?”
“Simone, her name was Simone,” Von said, voice harsher than he’d intended. “And, yeah, Mauvais was the one. He also had Dante grabbed and held long enough to ensure he couldn’t do a damned thing about it.” He shook his head, throat too tight for words.
But we felt her burn. Felt the fire devour her. Heard her screams
.
“Shit,” Merri said. “Then what happened?”
“Lake Pontchartrain.”
“Tell me,” she said softly.
“Is your nosiness natural or something the SB trained into you?”
Merri snorted. “I’m a born snoop, nomad. Get used to it.”
“Nosy
and
full of sass,” Von observed, grinning. “I like that in a woman.”
Merri laughed, shook her head. “Shee-it. Look, no need to play the old flirtation distraction game with me. If you don’t want to tell me about what happened at Lake Pontchartrain, no problem.”
“Ooo. Minus points for being touchy. But”—Von unfolded his arms and held up a
just-be-patient
hand when she scowled, brows knitting over her velvet-brown eyes—“I don’t mind telling you what went down.”
Von drew in a deep breath, one laced with smoke fragrant with spice and cloves and tobacco, then released it and started talking. Some things he kept to himself, like Dante’s
creawdwr
abilities and how he turned a ticking time bomb of a yacht into a living, breathing leviathan—or mostly, anyway.
And what he did to Trey.
Dante holds Trey’s face—a face that now flickers and shifts, a face that seems composed of blue neon ones and zeros—between his blue-flamed hands. Trey’s dreads, transformed into gleaming and twisted bundles of wire, snake into the burning air
. . .
But he told Merri the rest in a low, flat voice—Vincent informing Dante that Mauvais would be meeting the arsonists responsible for the fire and Simone’s death at a wharf on Lake Pontchartrain and picking them up; Dante’s determination to avenge Simone, to give her brother Trey a reason to keep breathing; the nearly empty yacht, minus Mauvais, a decoy; the explosion.
“After all the shit that went down on Lake Pontchartrain,” Von concluded, sweeping his gaze along the busy street, “Vincent probably figured someone—Mauvais or Dante—would be coming to rip him and his entire household new ones for being treacherous SOBs, so I’d bet my left rim he went into hiding.”
“So was he?” Merri asked, dark eyes glinting. “A treacherous SOB?”
“Well, now, that depends on who you ask,” Von replied, smoothing his thumb and index finger along his mustache. “Vincent was definitely betraying Mauvais when he gave us the info he did; but since the info was false and it led to a trap, he screwed us as well—even if it was an unintentional screwing.”
“If Vincent was the guy whose web-runner you planned to borrow, then that unintentional screwing isn’t over yet,” Merri said softly.
“The screwing that just keeps on giving and giving,” Von agreed. He trailed a hand through his unbound hair; Jack seemed to be lacking in hair ties, but not gator print shirts, go figure. “I think my search plan just got flushed down the toilet.”
So far they had only one piece of the puzzle leading to Heather’s whereabouts and that had come from Heather herself: Strickland. Lucien had questioned a fed in Portland and learned that James Wallace had been unaware that the Bureau had been using him as a means to Heather.
Unfortunately, that had been all that particular fed had known. He’d been left out of the loop as far as any details of FBI hush-hush operations went, but he’d known who would know, and now Lucien was in Washington, D.C., paying a visit to a fed who was in that oh-so-exclusive hush-hush loop.
Von felt a grim satisfaction as he imagined how that meeting might go down.
Basic web searches run by himself, Jack, Silver—hell, even Merri and Thibodaux—hadn’t revealed all that much. Or at least hadn’t revealed much that would lead them to Heather. Turned out that Strickland was a popular name for funeral homes and Chevrolet dealerships. Who knew?
What they’d needed was a web-runner. Someone who could search deep and fast. Someone they could trust. Or someone who owed them big-time. So he’d figured he’d pay Vincent
a little visit while Merri and her partner checked the club for clues to the identity of Dante’s abductor or location.
No point to that little visit now.
Von’s jaw tightened. Just a night or two ago, he could’ve put their own web-runner to work on the problem, but Trey’s grief had forced him to do the unthinkable both to himself and to Dante, and now Trey was just fucking gone. Transformed into an instrument of revenge for a sister he could never bring back.
Grief could tear a person apart and remake them into someone unrecognizable, someone cold and obsessed, a stranger. As much as Von ached to make Mauvais pay for Simone’s death too, he never would’ve used Dante like Trey had done, never would’ve risked a friend’s heart and sanity.
Of course, in his right mind, Trey never would’ve either.
Von scrubbed his face with his hands. “Christ.”
“So now what?” Merri asked. “You got a plan B in mind?”
Dropping his hands to his sides, Von sighed. “Looks like waiting to hear from Lucien
is
plan B.” He didn’t like it, but didn’t have any other ideas—brilliant or otherwise. And there was still Holly to deal with too.
A moist breeze laced with the smells of fried beignets, whitewashed tombs from St. Louis No. 1, and Mississippi mud momentarily cleared away the rotting vegetation stink from the garbage bags pyramided in the gutter. A brief respite for which Von was grateful.
“Might as well go back inside and—” He stopped, sentence unfinished as the sidewalk tilted beneath him. He grabbed the van’s side mirror to steady himself—
what the hell?
—then felt Merri’s hard fingers lock around his biceps.
“The stay-awake,” she reminded. “Consequences.”
The club and the street performed a single swooping pirouette, then settled back down. Von exhaled in relief. “If a little dizziness is all—”
“It isn’t,” Merri warned, releasing him. “Trust me. It’s just getting started. You need to be careful.”
Von rubbed a hand over his face. He couldn’t afford to be careful. Couldn’t afford to Sleep. Not when all he felt from Dante was acid-etched pain. Not when Heather was waiting, uncertain if he’d heard her. Not until he’d found them both.
Von walked into the smoke-reeking club and headed up the stairs to the third floor landing, then his room. It was a smelly mess. Furniture, bedding, curtains, and clothing all stank of smoke and mildew, of dried blood. Sprinkler-soaked throw rugs squished beneath his borrowed sneakers.
Retrieving his double shoulder holster from the back of the chair he’d slung it over before hitting the hay—what? Only forty hours ago or so, but it felt like weeks, a lifetime—he checked the Browning tucked inside each holster and was pleased to see them in fine working order.
Shrugging off the brown leather bomber jacket, Von strapped the rig on. Patting the grip of each gun in turn, he whispered, “Missed you.”
The only other belongings Von was able to scavenge from his room were his well-worn leather jacket and his scooter boots—both of which he promptly put on. He was just plain stuck with Jack’s gatorfied T-shirt for the time being. He silently renewed his vow to make the drummer eat the T-shirt, one tiny gator at a time.
With Jack’s sneakers and bomber jacket tucked under his arm, Von strode from his room and out into the hall—just in time to see Thibodaux heading for the stairs.
“Hey,” Von called after him. “Find anything that’ll help us?”
Thibodaux stopped on the landing, turned around. He shook his head. “Nothing that y’all didn’t already know. Sorry, podna.”
Von nodded. “I had a feeling that would be the case. Thanks anyway, man.” He glanced down the hall as Thibodaux’s footsteps faded away. Silver stood at the far end, staring at something on the floor in front of Dante and Heather’s room, mingled anger and despair chiseled into his pale face.
The scene of the crime—or part of it, anyway.
Von joined him, the odors of copper and cordite—blood and bullets—fading beneath Silver’s clean soap-and-cinnamon scent. A dark stain edged out from the bedroom doorway into the waterlogged carpet like a high tide line on a beach. Blood. And lots of it—too much. Von’s heart constricted.
“Annie thinks this is her fault,” Silver murmured. His body thrummed with tension. “I told her it wasn’t, but I don’t think she’s listening.”
“The only one at fault here is her old man,” Von said softly. “She’ll see that once we bring her sister and Dante home.”
Silver grunted, unconvinced.
Von knelt on the wet carpet and touched the maroon high-tide line.
Little brother
. His hand began to shake and, frowning, he clenched it into a fist. More of Merri’s consequences?