The Dead Tell (Magical Temptations Collection) (5 page)

“
Point, babe. The point is, I don’t care. If you see them, if you get knocked on the head and don’t suddenly see them, fine. That’s you.” He rolled again so she was partially under him. “What I
do
care about is you hiding this from me. I care that it can hurt you. I see that. Saw that this morning. Yesterday morning. When-the-hell-ever. Don’t like seeing you hurt. Or worried. Or scared.

“
So get this now. I’m not leaving things as they were. You want to say we’re just friends, I’ll give you that, even though we both know it’s a lie. I like sleeping beside you, though God knows I can count on one hand the number of times that’s happened. I like knowing you’re safe, so frankly, I don’t want to do things your way anymore. I want us to try for more. I’m here with you or you’re at my place, we talk about our days, what we plan for the next, something funny that happened, something horrible that happened, though that last’ll probably be me more than you. We’re going to see where this goes with us. We’ve got something and I’m not sitting back and waiting, wondering when you’re going admit that anymore.”

A brow arched.

“
You got something to add?”

She opened her mouth, then shut it, took a deep breath and opened it again.
“I’ve a lot to add, but it’s not nice.”

He stared at her.

“Mike, I’m complicated. Sometimes I just want to be left alone.”

“I got you
’re complicated a long time ago.” He shook his head at her. “I’ll give you space, but baby, last thing you need is alone. You’ve been alone far too much in your life. You need someone you can count on.”

“Y
ou think that’s you?”

“I know it’s me.”

A small grin played at one corner of her mouth. “I’ll think about it. But I’m not easy to get along with.”

“
Think I got that, babe. You give stubborn a whole new definition.”

“
And I’ve got walls for reasons.”

“
Got that too.”

“
I don’t like that you just come and tell me we’re doing this.”

“
You came too.”

She huffed out a breath.
“That is not what I meant. I swear sex’s all you think about.”

“
You’re naked in bed with me, just came hard, of course I’m thinking of sex. I can multi-task, which is why we’re talking now.”

“
Mike. I don’t like being told what to do.”

He stared into her eyes.
“Got that as well. Here’s the thing. I’ve given you plenty of time. Not going to let you throw away what’s between us, and it’s damned good. Not gonna let you not let us try for more because you’re scared. I’ve watched and waited.”

“What if I need more time?”

“Babe, you don’t need more time, you need someone to live life with. You realize you call me when Sammy annoys you? Or text me? You send me jokes, that I admit are not always funny.”

“You’re my friend,” she said on a frown.

“I am, always will be and you’re mine, but we’re also a helluva lot more.” Then he frowned. “You send those texts and jokes to anyone else?”

“The boys,” she said. “Why?”

The boys was what Sammy and Paige called the Riggio brothers. He grunted.

“Not as many as I send you and I don’t call them just…”

“Just?”

“Just because,” she admitted.

He grinned. “When I don’t see you, I miss you. When shit happens in your life, you
let me in
. So now we do it this way. Don’t like that, too bad.”

“You can be a total jerk!”
she thumped his shoulder.

He waited, but she didn’t say anything else. “And?”

“I don’t know, I’ll think of something.”

“I’m sure you will.
You had your chance to step it up. And I waited. Tired of waiting.” He pressed a quick kiss to her lips and climbed from the bed, pulling her with him. “Come on, shower.”

He heard her huff and grinned.

“
You said all I think about is sex, now I’m thinking of a shower and since I already said I’m multi tasking, we’ll just do both, babe.”

She grinned at him.
“You weren’t always this bossy.”

“
You bring out the best in me.”

This time a laugh danced out.
“Or something.”

“
I’ll show you something,” he said, grabbing towels as he turned on the water.

“
That is a hope.”

Two days later

He paced.
What to do? What did he do?

This time was different. The lighting hadn
’t been right on the last take. Not right at all.

He
’d spent so fucking long on the entire setup. It should have been right, should have been great. Should have been
perfect
.

Perfection was not what it was.

A mockery.

He wanted the dark and the light, the shadows to tell the story. Instead, it was blurred.
The image too dark on top of it all.

M
aybe he should go back to digital in the cemeteries. Leave the gothic look to indoor. Or...

Or maybe he
’d just relocate. God knew there were plenty of places to work his art in the area. He wanted New Orleans, though. This place was what was he
needed
. He knew it. She was here. He knew that too.

He’d looked for her for years, and then one day, there she was in a bakery here in New Orleans.

He opened
his wallet and pulled out the braided bracelet she’d woven together so many years ago. The colors used to be blue and yellow, but now they were more gray and gray.

He
’d kept it. He’d always kept it.

He wondered
through the years if she sensed him. He wasn’t sure, he hoped she did. He’d always wondered, but had always believed they would find their way back together. He knew. He’d always known it.

He tucked the knotted yarn back into the back of his wallet and looked towards the door.
How to shoot this one?

The bellow
s or the digital? He loved his Nikon.

If he used one of the city
’s cemeteries, he’d have to go digital. He couldn’t afford any more screw-ups like a couple of days ago. He needed to find another location though, an old abandoned cemetery. One out from town, but not too far.

More p
lanning, but that was okay. Donaldsonville. There were plenty of backwoods country cemeteries around. He wanted the perfect backdrop though. He needed another fallen angel. Or an angel at all, he supposed, would work. He’d have to scout them out. Or find a book that plotted them out. Do some internet research. There were plenty of people into funerary art.

A beautiful art, dark, yes
, but there were plenty who not only enjoyed the macabre, but craved it. He gave them that. Gave them the dark beauty. Gave them art worthy of Poe. Not everyone appreciated the dark. The art of death.

People should, they really
, really should, but most didn’t. Most stayed away from the dark, from reminders of death. Fear was a strange thing in the way it drove people.

Personally, he fi
gured people should study death more often. Learn to appreciate it. If they did, the fear would dissipate. Fear, once conquered was simply another aspect of, well, life.

Death, after all
, was inevitable—had been since the dawn of time.

He glanced at all the wall.

His wall of art. The art of his creations, his dolls.

So many pretties.
So many he’d tried to immortalize. He’d achieved more with the digital images, than he had with the bellows. And God knew photo manipulation with any computer wasn’t that difficult. He could distress the edges.

But it wasn
’t the same.

The antique look was what he wanted. Distressed, old. Silver image
s that were lasting. People said digital images lasted, but take out a satellite, servers could be corrupted, hard drives crashed, images could be erased.

But these, these ha
rd images, laced onto slides with chemicals, these called to him. Tempted him for more, for better. Teased him and his muse and there was a reason. Hundreds of years after the first ones were taken, those images were still here. Not that digital didn’t have its place. Most of the time, images could be retrieved so easily. They could be manipulated, unlike, the silver ones. One shot. He’d had one shot with the bellows.

Some of t
hose had not worked out.

He traced his fingers along the edges of the glass.
Expensive hobby. Beautiful hobby.

N
ext time he would not be rushed. He’d go out, find a place he liked in the middle of the damned bayou if he had to, and then, then he’d make it
perfect
. Make it so no one found her. At least not right away.

Because he knew they
’d already found the other one.

He
’d known his time was short . He’d heard the two men talking as they climbed over the wall and realized they were cops. He’d hidden and waited until he couldn’t wait any longer. They would find him and he knew more would be arriving and more people meant he’d have a hard time getting away, getting his equipment away. He’d had to hide it in the mausoleum he’d hidden it in several days ago when he’d taken his stuff there so it would be ready. It was one thing to see a man go in several days in a row. Another to see the same man make several trips into the same cemetery on the same day. The same day a woman was murdered.

He
’d taken his stuff a day earlier after scouting out where he wanted to hide it. The old mausoleum with an easily picked lock wasn’t easy to locate but he had. Then he’d gone back several days later and dumped his things. Finally, he’d taken his creation, his doll, making sure everything was perfect.

But before that, he
’d waited. Waited and watched until her.

Her and then
he’d known.

She was exactly what his muse needed.

He took her.

He grinned.

And had fun with her.

He gla
nced over to the door hearing the muffled cries from within.

He was having fun with this one too.

He liked them awake and cohere
nt enough to fight him, but not so much that they drowned out the muse. He wanted art.

The images
on the wall created a collage. Eyes, eyes opened and narrowed in terror. Mouths turned down, tear tracks on pale cheeks.

All in black and white.

Color took som
ething away. Though there were colored images as well. He just preferred the images to be black and white. He could always add color later. Just a splash. Just a dash. A blue bruise on a cheekbone. Violet in an iris, or a dash green. Red.

Red was his favorite. Gave the images life they might not otherwise have had.
Red...

The
rouged skin of ligature marks. The skin marred otherwise perfection.

Those were from some of hi
s earlier works in Texas. Though they were real, adding an air of pragmatism to his pieces, well, they were not what he wanted to be known for

He wanted more.

Wanted to see the brutal violence in otherwise perfect beauty. So, he was rather fond of his last images. Granted the bellows wasn’t working as he’d planned, but he’d give it a bit more time, try some new locations where he could take his time and see how they turned out.

The digital images were fabulous though. He might tweak the edges of the background in a few, give it some variations. Soften the doll in the foreground and focus on the stone angel.

Which would look better.

H
e’d perfected taking and keeping them enough, there were no longer bruises. There didn’t need to be. He could take them, keep them, play with them and in the end, they wouldn’t have a mark on them.

Almost sad how easy it was.

The challenge in the girls was no longer an issue and though he might miss the rush of overpowering them, he found he enjoyed the end results of his current path more.

They were complacent, yet
… the eyes.

The eyes
of all cultures were purported to be windows to the soul. He knew that, everyone knew that. It wasn’t anything new. Now. Now he took them, kept them, played with them and the only evidence they were fighting him... their eyes.

His gazed scanned the images on his wal
l. Hopeful eyes, fearful eyes, angry eyes, broken eyes.

Perfect feature
s. Perfect faces. But the eyes…

Fire burned in them brightly.

Fear
… terror… hatred… acceptance.

There was just something about watching the progression of the strength leave a woman and yet arise in a different venue.

Some would see the acceptance as a defeat.

He saw it as more.

The greatest strength there was. Not everyone could achieve acceptance of death with such grace and beauty.

Granted, he
’d only used two so far in this way. Well, three if the last one was counted. Something was different with this one. The dosage was off on the succinylcholine. She wasn’t as complacent as the other two. Not that she had enough control of her extremities to do anything, but unlike the others, she could whine, cry, whimper.

She might be beautiful,
perfect for what he had envisioned, but she got on his nerves. He needed another one like the last.

Which meant, h
e’d have to look and find her.

Sighing, he picked up the bottle of wine and poured another glass.
The sweet yet bitter scent wafted up as he twirled the glass.

Would the cops find anything of his? He rather thought not. There were so many homeless in the area,
so many tourists, anyone could have killed the girl.

The problem with that, he knew was that the
cops were not stupid and they’d know the woman wasn’t killed where he’d left her. They’d know that much at least.

O
nce the investigation started, they’d realize her clothing was not merely a costume ordered online, but a vintage piece. There was no order anywhere for the clothing either.

He sc
rounged vintage clothing stores and thrift shops, plenty of those here in New Orleans. Vintage clothing that fit the girl, the perfect dress for the perfect girl, for the perfect last photo...

It was fucking work. It wasn
’t easy.

He raked a hand through his hair as he sat and studied his wall of art and drank his wine.

The wine was almost too sweet, but it was smooth, so he kept getting it.
He hadn’t found one in a while that he’d liked better than this one.

Another whimper came from the young woman in the other room.

Damn.

He hadn
’t found her dress yet either. With her pale skin and coppery curls, she needed color. Lots of color. Maybe a green dress. Something green. He’d have to look. He hadn’t had time yet but he would. He’d go this afternoon to one of the vintage shops in the Quarter. Because he really needed to find the next one.

He looked at the wall again and wondered.

What of her? What of his favorite girl? Did she still see ghosts? She had before, years before, so long before. He didn’t know if she’d ever told anyone else, or just him. Most around here didn’t think twice about ghosts, voodoo, or any other occult even as they sat in mass.

But some, some he knew thought different.
Some saw evil in the strangest places.

Evil was rather like death. Some saw what they wanted, how they wanted.

So if she still saw, still communicated with the dead, he rather thought that would be a strange gift, but others might not.

Whether he would continue to see it that way was unclear to him for now.

And if she did still communicate with the dead, if they hadn’t beaten or drugged it out of her, did she see
his
ghosts? It had been an intriguing thought since he’d had it. Right after his first foray into his art.

He
’d been lying in bed one night and he’d wondered if she knew, if she’d seen what he did. If he created ghosts, then did they travel? It wasn’t like she’d ever explained it to him.

I
f they did travel, if he did create ghosts from his art, then did they find her? Could they talk to her? Did they tell her what he did? How he did it? Did they even know? What if they could talk to her, tell her?

He wasn
’t sure what he thought about that if they did. He knew he wanted to find her, but he wanted his art perfect before he did.

Perfect.

It had to be perfect.