Beneath the Skin (30 page)

23
ILLUSIONS

March 25-26

WITH NIGHT-WOVEN AND STAR-PIERCED illusion wrapped tight around him, the Morningstar glided through the sky, following the forest green SUV as the
creawdwr
's fetching and flame-haired lover steered the vehicle from the truck stop and onto the interstate.

Heather, the older sister of pliable and more-than-willing Annie.

He'd gleaned more than a little information about Dante from
both
minds.

Wybrcathl
silenced, the Morningstar wheeled higher into the sky. Ice crystals hissed and steamed against his heated skin and beaded like diamonds in his white hair.

Annie's miswired mind had allowed her to see past his illusions. Had left her immune to his Word ... ah, but not to his touch, his suggestions--especially not when she desired both. Without her willingness, he couldn't have planted careful little seeds in her subconscious.

You won't hurt him, right?

Of course not. He will be cherished.

Good. Um ... you ready to go again?

Vicious and urgent in her coupling, Annie had worked hard to punish them both. She'd only half succeeded. Her tears afterward had puzzled him, as did her self-loathing, but even after millennia, he still couldn't claim to truly understand females, mortal or otherwise; a part of their allure.

The Morningstar's wings stroked through the dying night. Breathing in the crisp scent of frost, he reworked his illusion to match the coral sunrise streaking the mountain-peaked horizon.

Annie's knowledge of Dante had been sparse, however. So after she'd returned to her bed and had curled beside her sister, pretending to sleep, the Morningstar had delved into Heather's dreaming mind.

A treasure trove, lovely Heather.

When he finally winged down into New Orleans, the Morningstar would become the father and mentor missing from Dante's life and help this misused and tortured
creawdwr
fulfill his destiny.

CELESTE UNDERWOOD FINISHED HER coffee, barely tasting the Sumatra Mandheling's sweet roasted-caramel flavor, then rinsed the cup out in the sink. She gripped the counter's polished granite edge and stared out the kitchen window. Heavy, gray rain clouds hid the sunrise, stealing color from the horizon except for a lighter shade of gray.

She knew how to work gray, used it often in her job. Indeed, she was required to think in shades of gray instead of absolutes like black or white. And she even enjoyed it.

But Director Britto's call last night had muddied gray into black.

Call your people off S and Wallace. Immediately.

Bill, what's going on? I don't have a problem with letting Wallace or Lyons slip away, but I suspect S has been triggered and used. We absolutely need to bring him in and assess--

Celeste, listen to me, and listen carefully.

All right, Bill.

S is
not
to be brought in. He and Wallace are free to go wherever they damn well please, understand? Surveillance can continue, but it's essential your operatives aren't spotted.

I understand, but what happened? What's changed?

You mean
aside
from a missing house, an enigma of a cave, and a circle of stone-sculpted angels that are, even now, on their way to HQ?

But that's the point. S and Wallace
must
know what happened, how and why those things occurred. Interrogation would--

No. No interrogation. No pursuit. No arrest. Am I clear? Call your people off right now. If you turn up Lyons, make sure he truly becomes an official casualty of the sinkhole/toxic fumes cover story. S and Wallace are no longer your concern.

Ironic choice of words, given that she'd delivered the same orders to the Bureau's ADIC Rutgers. But officially or not, Prejean very much remained Celeste's concern. Especially since her former daughter-in-law might vanish with her granddaughters, her Stephen's girls.

What troubled Celeste even more than the director's command was the fear she thought she'd detected in his voice. Controlled, yes, but still present.

Who had the juice to put the squeeze on the director of the Shadow Branch?

What galled her to no end was the fact that Gillespie and his agents actually had Prejean and Wallace in their gun sights when this goddamned order came down.

Sighing, Celeste pried her fingers away from the sink's counter. She crossed to the center island and finished putting together her lunch on the gold-veined green granite. She had a feeling that today would be an eat-in kind of day.

The curry, tuna, and tomato salad she prepared quickly filled the kitchen with a welcome and spicy odor. A few Ritz crackers and a generous slice of apple pie completed the meal.

Carrying her insulated purple lunch sack into the living room, Celeste rested it on the sofa. She picked up the report Gillespie had e-mailed her late last night. Some of the things it contained disturbed her, to say the least.

Gillespie claimed that Prejean had transformed a child shot in the crossfire into another child entirely. If not for the forwarded statements from witnesses to the event, including field agents, the motel manager, and the child's mother herself corroborating Gillespie's claim, Celeste would've assumed he'd had a six-pack too many.

As it was, she had no idea what to think of the transformation claim or how such a thing could be possible. Perhaps a mass illusion cast by a True Blood? Provided they possessed such an ability.

Should she pass the report on to the director or just sit on it for the time being? After all, S--Prejean--was officially no longer her concern.

Celeste slid the report into her briefcase, then latched it shut. Might be best to study it for a bit first. Look for any discrepancies. In truth, it sounded like the director had other worries on his mind.

Her cell's ringtone--a sophisticated and European trill--ended the silence. The ID named the caller as Purcell. Celeste flipped the cell open and said, "A bit early for you, Richard."

"Yes, ma'am. I'm afraid I have bad news. Sheridan died last night."

Celeste rubbed her forehead.
Of course. When it rains, it goddamned pours.

"Before or after debriefing?"

"During, ma'am. An autopsy was performed right away and his death was due to multiple aneurysms in the brain. Possibly due to traveling with a bullet wound."

"Did Dion get anything useful from him before he died?"

"No, ma'am."

"Dammit," Celeste sighed. "Well, I would leave out the flight bit when you inform Monica Rutgers at the Bureau about the loss of her agent. She's going to be unhappy in any case, but no reason to give her ammunition for her I-told-you-so shotgun."

"Will do."

"And meet me at my office in two hours. We have a few things to discuss."

"Yes, ma'am."

Ending the call, Celeste slipped her cell into the right-hand pocket of her black blazer. She wondered how quickly Purcell could get to New Orleans. Bringing Prejean to Alexandria was out of the question now, but maybe Purcell could make other arrangements. Maybe somewhere closer to where Valerie worked.

An image from a crime scene photo--
the
crime scene--developed behind her eyes, an image she'd forced herself to remember in every heartrending detail.

Sprawled facedown in a pool of his own blood on the gray slate entryway floor, one shoe--a brown tasseled loafer--behind him like he'd stepped out of it, one hand bent underneath his chest, Stephen looks like he never knew what hit him.

But Celeste knew better. Her son's murderer had confessed to a cellmate that Stephen had pleaded for his life and had offered his wallet before the bastard had shot him in the head. Then he'd placed the gun muzzle against Stephen's temple and fired again.

Stephen, her only son, her intelligent, creative boy, snuffed because his wife feared a divorce would cost her more than she cared to part with.

And the cost to arrange a murder? Abundant sexual favors, false promises, and five thousand dollars.

Cheaper than a divorce, true, but a murder trial really racked up the dollar signs.

Celeste would make sure that Purcell had everything he needed to trigger Prejean's programming one more time. Due to Director Britto's concerns, Purcell could no longer kill the vampire after he'd finished Valerie.

Unfortunate, but one couldn't have everything.

Scooping up her lunch bag and briefcase, Celeste left her town house for work.

GILLESPIE DRAINED HIS LAST beer, wishing for a bottle of Black Velvet or Jack Daniel's or even Grey Goose to chase it down. But he had a feeling that no matter how much booze he poured down his throat, he'd never kill enough brain cells to forget the images the security-cam footage had just etched into his mind.

The energy surrounding Prejean shafts into Johanna Moore's body from dozens of different points. Explodes from her eyes. From her nostrils. Her screaming mouth. She separates into strands, wet and glistening. Prejean's energy un-threads Moore. Pulls apart every single element of her flesh.

Unmakes her.

Johanna Moore spills to the tiled floor, her scream ending in a gurgle.

Well, the million-dollar question--where was Dr. Johanna Moore?--had finally been answered. She was still in the Bush Center for Psychological Research. Dead. Her remains most likely in a mop bucket.

Prejean's beautiful face is ecstatic. He closes his eyes and shivers as energy spikes from his body, flames from his hands.