Revelations: Book One of the Lalassu (7 page)

Chapter Twelve

It was almost one in the morning before “Jewels of the Night” surrendered the stage after four different performances. Michael spent most of the evening trying to understand why he was there and figure out his next move. He tested the compulsion, easing toward the exit or the backstage entrance. Each time, a physical tug pulled him back toward his seat. Whatever was guiding him wanted him to wait. The same sensation had dictated his actions when he’d first approached Joe, keeping him at the station until the shift changed to make sure he spoke to the right person.

Onyx was clearly the right person this time, but the more he’d watched, the less he was convinced this was another rescue. Maybe she could help him with Bernie and Expanding Horizons. He couldn’t see how, but that didn’t mean it was impossible. He fiddled with his beer, still his first. With Joe, he’d initially pretended to be a witness reporting a crime, but he couldn’t think of a plausible excuse to talk to her. The dancers probably tried to avoid interacting with the audience outside performances. There would be security set up specifically to deter overeager patrons. He’d like to avoid sounding like some kind of psychotic stalker, so maybe he could follow her and meet her in a neutral location.
Because following her is somehow less stalker-ish?
Nothing presented itself, and the compulsion began to feel as if it was trying to physically drag him across the club’s floor.

A young woman circling through the crowd at the bar caught his attention, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, her dark hair pulled loosely back into a ponytail. Without the elaborate makeup and costume, the patrons didn’t seem to connect her with her stage persona, but Michael recognized her instantly. Marveling at the audience’s blindness, he took another long swallow of beer to gain time to think. She would be used to men approaching her and probably knew a wide variety of dismissals. He needed a plan.

As she settled at the bar, her dark smoky eyes met his. She held his gaze, making it quite clear that she wasn’t simply surveying the room. A smile quirked her full lips and she nodded her head to the empty seat beside her in an unmistakable invitation.

His feet were moving before his brain caught up to the situation.
So much for having a plan first
. He eased himself carefully through the crowd, avoiding physical contact as much as possible before finally dropping into the seat beside her. “That was some fairly impressive dancing up there,” he began. If he could manage to keep up a casual conversation, maybe inspiration would strike. Now that he was close, he could sense her lazy sensuality and curiosity. He opened his mind further and caught faint washes of sadness and worry. She wasn’t as carefree as she’d like to appear.

She flipped her inky hair back over her shoulder as she looked him up and down. “You would know—you sat through each show. See something you like?”

His mouth went dry again as she smiled an invitation. “Actually, I hoped to speak with you.”

“About what?” She turned her seat around and leaned back on the stool, resting her elbows on the bar behind her so her breasts thrust forward. He couldn’t resist a quick glance but kept his attention on her face. Any sense of compulsion vanished: this was the moment he’d been sent here for. He had no reason for his certainty, but this woman would lead him to a way to help Bernie. He only had to convince her that he wasn’t crazy and that she needed to help him, all without betraying his secret.
How hard could it be?

“Professor?” she prompted, and he felt the first stings of irritation from her.

“To start, I wanted to return this.” He dug into his pocket and handed her the tube of lipstick she’d dropped at the police station. He winced inwardly—this was not moving away from psychotic-stalker territory.

She accepted the tube. “Hell of an excuse, Professor. Is that all you wanted?”

“To be honest, I’m not sure why, but I felt like I needed to meet you, speak with you.” His mouth clearly had not gotten the memo about waiting until his brain came up with something reasonable.
Ding, ding. Sitting through the whole show, returning the lipstick, lame excuse to talk. I have officially hit the psychotic-stalker trifecta. She’s probably preparing to call security right now.

To his surprise, she only laughed. “You want to talk? Don’t waste any more time then. Let’s get out of here.”

Michael blinked, and his lips parted as his jaw dropped. This was both easier and faster than he’d expected.

“Onyx…” the bartender rumbled.

“Relax, Raoul. I’m in my civvies. The fraternizing rules don’t apply.” She picked up her purse. “You coming, Professor?”

Like a little puppy dog.
Well, more like a gorgeous six-foot-two puppy dog.
Dani was still riding high from the performance and thrilled by her accurate instincts. He was nervous, but in an endearing, eager-to-please kind of way. Not a threat. The Huntress within stirred, sensing the raw attraction, but Dani easily sealed it back up where it coiled into sated sleep. Outside the back, they stepped into the alley behind the club. The garbage bins stank slightly of old alcohol, but otherwise it was relatively clean… and private.

A faint worry crossed her mind, threatening to spoil her fun: could the Huntress be starting to lure men from a distance? And so soon after a successful Hunt? She couldn’t remember dropping the lipstick, but he’d sat through an entire show to give it back to her—not even Canadians were that nice. He could be a plant from whatever group kidnapped Vincent and Eric. The phone call should have disappeared from any call record, thanks to the elite anti-tracking software installed on it. But that didn’t mean there weren’t other ways to track her down. Just because he was innocent didn’t mean he wasn’t being used.

She hoped he wasn’t part of a trap—he was even more attractive up close. Underneath the baggy sweater and discount jeans was a ripcord body begging for proper display. He kept his eyes on her face rather than darting down to her breasts. And he smelled like apples, vanilla, and cedar smoke—enough to make a girl hungry for pie baked in a wood-burning stove.

“I’m not a professor,” he said, stopping a few feet from the club’s door.

“Oh?” Dani’s smile widened. The temptation to tease him and break his serious expression was more than she intended to resist.

“You called me a professor. I’m not. I’ve never taught anywhere.”

“Then why don’t you tell me your name? Or should I make something up?” she drawled.

“Michael Brooks. I’m a childhood developmental therapist.” He awkwardly hitched his man-bag back up onto his shoulder. She could see him clearly enough, but the alley would be dark enough to hide her from him. He made no move toward the brighter street, reigniting her suspicions.

“That’s one I haven’t heard before, Mike.” Bankers, lawyers, business people, those she was used to.

“Michael,” he corrected. “I’m guessing Onyx isn’t your real name.”

“As in the one on my birth certificate? Good guess.” She took a deep breath, but still couldn’t scent any deception from him.

“Are you going to make me ask?” He smiled, his sense of humor peeking out past his nerves. He smelled clean, his eagerness tickling the inside of her nose. From the way he wasn’t intimidated by her usual off-putting tactics, he was determined, too.

Points to the Professor.
“You can call me Dani.”

“No last name?”

“Not like we’re looking to register, Mike.” She used the nickname to keep him off-balance, hoping to trick him into revealing what he was after. She kept her voice casual but her body tensed for action. “What made you come all the way out here?”

“Obvious I don’t belong, huh?”

“You’re different from the usual crowd here. They split into two camps: people who get it, and people who think we’re just another strip club.” She shrugged to hide the seething irritation the latter invoked. Burlesque was more than wiggling around to music and dropping clothes. It was a nuanced art form that demanded a certain respect from the audience.

“Didn’t you ever wish you could do something else?” he asked.

“Like what?” She gave him the opening to proposition her. He liked her, she could smell the arousal he was doing his best to hide. If the kidnapping hadn’t happened, she would have guessed he was just shy. At another time in her life, it would have been pleasant to spend time with him, especially with the Huntress coiled into silence. She could have enjoyed the illusion of being an all-American girl for a little while. But now she couldn’t take anything at face value. She wished she could allow herself the time to indulge in the fantasy.

The Professor was reading from a different playbook, however. “Like a waitress, or a teacher, or, I don’t know, something respectable. Where you don’t have to feel bad about yourself after.”

“Excuse me? Who the fuck said I felt bad about myself?” Her spine stiffened like a bristling cat’s tail.

“Don’t you? I sensed—” He broke off with a sudden spike of alarm. Dani’s suspicions deepened. He seemed honestly bewildered by his blunder, though. His naïveté might have softened the wrath of another woman.

“Listen, Professor.” Her fingers curled into fists at her side. “If you’re trying to save me, you can take your moral high horse and stuff it next to the stick up your ass. I like my life. I chose it, and I am damned good at it.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you.” He held up his gloved hands. Dani glared at them.
Does he think this whole place is so filthy he needs to protect himself from contamination?

“No, you assumed I was some poor, broken soul needing rescue. If that’s what you want, there’s a ten-dollar club down the street. I’m sure some runaway will be thrilled to be your project. I’m not a stripper. I am a burlesque performer. I create a performance that mixes dance, comedy, and sex. I work four nights a week and make more money than any three minimum-wage slaves put together. I am not a victim.” She turned away, ghosts of old judgments rising up to point accusing fingers. Cursing herself, she reminded herself that she had her own rescue to do.

“I’m sorry.” Heartfelt and sincere, not a hint of condemnation or disgust. “Can we start again? I’m Michael.”

She managed a smile. His eager-to-help buzz should have made him seem younger, but instead only made him seem out of place, like a man from the Victorian Age, before the loss of innocence. “Dani. What brings you here, Mike?”

“I was looking for you. I’m not sure why. But I’d like to have the time to figure it out.”

Flowers, jewelry, chocolate—none of them could have struck so quickly to the heart of what she wanted but could never have: someone who wanted to see past Onyx, see past all her barriers and find out what was underneath. She reached out and ran her fingers lightly along his chiseled cheekbones. “Honestly, Professor, I’d like that, too. But I don’t think it’s meant to be.”

His hazel eyes widened, and he straightened. “Your brothers—that’s why you were at the police station.”

Dani grabbed Michael by the collar and yanked him deeper into the alley shadows, out of sight of the street. She kept her voice Southern-sweet. “And what would you know about my brothers?”

“They’ve been taken. It must be why I was led to you.” He sounded excited, and there was no fear in his scent. He was oblivious to her not-so-subtle warning cues.

“Led to me?”

“You probably wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” He offered an apologetic smile.

Until she hoisted him into the air and growled. “Try me.”

Michael’s hands jerked up and grabbed at hers as his feet dangled several inches above the ground. Now his fear swelled to cover everything else as she held him effortlessly. This time, she wasn’t letting her prey get away.

“
Lalassu
,” he managed to blurt out past her grip.

Her fingers loosened from the shock, allowing him a bit more oxygen. That was a word no one spoke, the secret word that identified a fellow member of the loose underground society of gifted individuals—and the Professor was definitely not one of them.

“Where did you hear that word?” Her eyes ached as they burned, blazing with the red rings of the Huntress. Those flaming circles had been the last vision of many would-be attackers over the years.

“You told me,” he whispered.