Otherworldly Bad Boys: Three Complete Novels (75 page)

“Seriously?” said Airenne.

“I’m going to try to find Vigil again. Last night, he rescued some trashy girl from the docks. So I’m going to be a trashy girl on the docks and hope he finds me.”

She made a concerned face. “What if he doesn’t? What if something bad happens to you? That neighborhood isn’t safe, you know. Especially not dressed like that.”

I looked down at my tight jeans and halter top. I thought I looked pretty hot. But I was showing a little bit more skin than I usually did. And the shirt required that I not wear a bra, which was kind of pushing it for my 36Cs. I had bandaids over my nipples, and that was it. I was kind of… floppy, I guessed. But the bandaids seemed to be keeping me from having cone-boob. “I’ll be fine.”

“I don’t know. If you’re not back by midnight, I’m going to start worrying,” she said.

“Two o’clock,” I said.

“One,” she countered. “If you’re not back by two, I’m calling the police.”

I laughed. “Thanks.” Airenne wasn’t bad. I didn’t have anything in common with her, but she was a decent person, and I appreciated that about her.

“Seriously, check in with me,” she said. “If something happened to you, I could not handle the rent alone.”

I laughed again.

“For real,” she said, but she was grinning too.

I dug around in my makeup bag for my eye pencil. “What are you getting into tonight?”

“I’m doing a piece on Veronica Waite,” she told me. “It’s kind of a tribute thing. There’s going to be a big benefit that will raise money for her trust. Anyway, I’m just doing research on her youth and stuff, because no one talks about that.”

“Veronica Waite. I know I’ve heard that name before,” I said.

“She was a Broadway star,” said Airenne. “They called her Veronica Legs, because she had long, long legs, and she always wore short skirts.”

“Oh, right,” I said. “She was Christine in
The Phantom of the Opera
. For like years and years, right?” I probably only remembered that because this mysterious Phantom guy meant that I had
Phantom of the Opera
on the brain.

“That’s her.” She grinned. “She was also Callum Rutherford’s mother.”

I groaned. “That’s why you’re so into this.”

“I’m going to meet him,” she said. “Maybe even at the benefit. He’ll want to give me a quote for a story about his mother, don’t you think?”

I shrugged. “I guess.” Honestly, I wasn’t sure if he’d want to talk about his mother at all. The woman had been killed violently, and they’d never caught her killer. Callum’s father had been killed at the same time, if I remembered correctly. Of course, he’d been so young at the time that he probably didn’t even remember them.

Still. I didn’t like talking about my dead grandparents. It hurt too much.

Airenne wandered into the bathroom and began rummaging through my makeup bag. “I didn’t even know you owned this much makeup.”

“I used to have to wear it for work,” I said.

“Where did you work?”

I shrugged again. “Nowhere special.”

“I’ve never heard of a job requiring makeup.”

“They didn’t require it exactly. It was definitely expected, though.” I snatched the bag back. “I gotta get going.” Why had I brought that up? I didn’t want to talk about my past. Especially not with Airenne. She’d never understand.

I stuck to the back of the smoky room, hugging the corners. Technically, no one was supposed to smoke cigarettes inside any bar or restaurant anymore, but some of the dives out by the docks didn’t pay much attention to any of the laws. It burned my eyes and invaded my lungs, and I knew the smell would cling to me until I took a shower and washed it out.

In front of me, there were two pool tables and a smattering of small tables. The lights were suspended from the ceiling, low and yellow.

I knew that I was supposed to be standing outside on a corner, bait for Vigil. But I’d seen Hayden Barclay come into this bar, and I hadn’t been able to stop myself from following him.

After all, Barclay was the real story. Vigil was something that had happened to me by chance. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. Confused, I guess. I didn’t know how to write a story about a man that I found so attractive.

Okay, attractive wasn’t exactly the right word.

I thought Vigil was liquid sex.

But he was crazy. He was obviously mentally disturbed, running around in that costume, saving girls. He wasn’t the kind of man I should get involved with.

And it would be easier not to be involved with him if I wasn’t writing stories about him all the time.

If I could bust Barclay as the killer who was dismembering women, it would overshadow the story of Vigil. No one would care about that. They’d care about the fact I’d brought a killer to justice.

Barclay was more important to me than Vigil. That was that.

But I was staying back, out of sight, because I didn’t want him to see me. He probably wouldn’t recognize me. It had been a long time since I’d seen him, and he’d never paid a particular amount of attention to me. Still, I didn’t want to risk the idea that he might remember who I was. Even worse, he might connect me to Darlene.

And since he’d
killed
Darlene…

Well, I was pretty sure it wouldn’t be a great idea.

Barclay was sitting at a table with several other men. They all wore dark suits. They sipped whiskey and smoke cigars. Every once and a while, there was a burst of laughter from the table, but I wasn’t close enough to hear what they were saying.

Barclay was the heir apparent to the Barclay crime family. They’d been working the streets of Aurora since the 1920s, when they used to run their own homemade moonshine. Now days, they’d upgraded to more sinister products. The Barclay family supplied half the eastern seaboard with cocaine and heroin. The face they presented to the world was that they owned a chain of pizza joints, but it was a front, and everyone knew it.

I watched Barclay. When I’d met him, three years ago, his father had still been alive, and he’d only been a rich and young. He hadn’t had any responsibilities to the family yet.

Even now, he was attractive. He had fine features—delicate, elfin. And he had bright blue eyes that stood out in sharp contrast to his dark coloring.

There was an air about him. He was cocksure. Arrogant. He had one of those self-satisfied smiles.

He was wearing it right now, leaning back in his chair, sipping at his whiskey.

But I knew he was guilty. I knew because of the things that Darlene had told me.

She’d come to me to hide from him.

I’d let her go. She’d come to me for help, and when she hadn’t lived up to my expectations, I’d kicked her to the curb.

I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have been so afraid that Darlene would drag my old life into my new one. I shouldn’t have been afraid that all my new friends would find out about her—my old friend.

If I’d had any idea that she would be dead within two weeks of leaving me, I never would have made her go.

I swear I wouldn’t.

Barclay got up from the table. His gaze swept the room, moving right over me.

My heart leapt into my throat. Had he seen me? Had he recognized me?

But he just smoothed his suit and made his way to the back.

I waited for a moment.

Then I followed him.

Barclay had gone down a hallway underneath a sign that said, “Restrooms.” He was probably using the bathroom, either for normal reasons or to snort drugs or something. I was probably wasting my time.

I ducked into the hallway anyhow.

There was a door at the end. It was closing. I felt a hint of the night breeze fluttering back to me through the door. That door led outside.

I hurried down the hallway, past the bathrooms.

Carefully, slowly, I eased open the back door.

There was no one outside the building.

Had I missed Barclay?

Or hadn’t he gone out this door? Maybe he was in the restroom, and someone else had gone through this door.

I looked back over my shoulder at the hallway. The door to the women’s restroom opened, and a woman with a big, gold purse came out. She looked me up and down.

I pushed the door open the rest of the way and stepped outside.

I was in an alley. A dumpster stood next to me, and I could smell the co-mingling of putrid scents on the breeze. There was nothing much else there. The steps to a fire escape to my left.

I looked up at them, noting that they didn’t extend up the entire side of the building.

And someone grabbed me.

A hand went over my mouth.

An arm wrapped around my torso, pulling me tight against a bony body. I could smell whiskey and cigar smoke.

A voice rasped in my ear. “Aren’t you a pretty thing?”

CHAPTER FOUR

Oh god, oh god
. Someone had grabbed me in an alley. I struggled. I drove my elbow back into the rib cage of my captor.

He grunted, and his grip on me loosened.

My heart thudded in my chest. I pried his hand off of my midsection.

He scrabbled to get hold of me again.

I bit down on the hand that covered my mouth.

“Bitch,” he cried.

And I was free. My breath came in shallow gasps. I screamed, taking off down the alley.

I tripped.

I don’t know what snagged my foot, but one second I was sprinting, and the next I was on the pavement.

I pushed myself to my feet, still breathing like a locomotive.

He was there.

He grasped me by the wrist, turning me so that I faced him. He wore a black silk suit, complete with a long, flowing cape. On his face, he wore a white theater mask.

The Phantom. He was real. He wasn’t the figment of some woman’s imagination.

He brandished a small knife. The blade winked cruelly. “Don’t run, pretty thing. Don’t scream. Or I’ll cut you.”

I looked from the knife to me, gauging the distance between us. I could feel my pulse pounding against my temple. He could do it. If I tried to run, he could dart forward and stab me. Depending on how well he managed it, he could hurt me pretty badly, even kill me.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“You to cooperate,” he said.

I raised my hands, palms up. “I’m cooperating. How about you put that knife down?”

He shook his head. “You don’t tell
me
what to do.”

I realized that I was shaking from fear. He was really getting to me.

“On the ground.” He gestured with the knife. “Face down.”

I debated. If I didn’t do what he asked, he might stab me. On the other hand, once I was on the ground, he’d be able to tie me up or hit me over the head or otherwise subdue me. I’d be playing into his hands. And I didn’t know what this guy wanted to do with me, but I had a feeling it wasn’t good. Maybe he was the killer. Maybe Hayden Barclay was innocent somehow, or…

I cocked my head to one side. “It’s you. You’re Barclay.”

The Phantom let out a low growl and lunged for me, slashing with his knife.

I jumped backwards, but not fast enough.

The knife bit into my bare midriff. The pain shocked me. I screamed.

“
Don’t
scream,” said the Phantom, slashing with the knife again.

Now that I’d seen it, it was obvious. Of course he was Barclay. I recognized his chilly blue eyes, his finely detailed lips and chin.

I tried to evade the knife, but it cut me again.

I clutched my bleeding belly, stepping backwards.

He came after me, raising the knife. It glinted in the streetlights.

I screamed again.

And a black blur swung down from one of the buildings, colliding with The Phantom.

Vigil.

He’d shown up to save me after all.

The two masked men tumbled together in a heap.

Vigil snatched the knife from The Phantom and threw it. It clattered against the sidewalk.

“You again!” said The Phantom. He scrambled to his feet, curling his lip.

Vigil got up as well. “I told you to leave the girls alone, didn’t I?”

“You can’t stop me,” said The Phantom. “No one can stop me.”

“I am stopping you,” said Vigil, folding his arms over his chest.

The Phantom giggled—a high-pitched, insane sound. “No one can stop me.” He scrambled down the alley, his cape furling out behind him.

I expected Vigil to pursue him, but he turned to me instead.

“Cecily,” he said. “I thought I told you to stay out of this neighborhood.”

I shrugged. “Well, my editor wanted another story about you, and I don’t have your phone number.”