Dark Lily: Shadows, Book 4 (8 page)

Both men were tall, large framed and possessed intimidating stares. They didn’t like each other. Their body language told her that quite clearly. Of the two, Crucible’s military stance and deliberately blank expression made him marginally more formidable. But something lurked beneath the surface of Cutter’s genial smile. Something not in line with his floppy hat and the mop of brown curls that fell into a pair of gleaming hazel eyes.

“Who else am I sensing, Crucible?” Ticking a finger, Phoebe motioned the big men aside. “Ah, yes, there they are. One exquisitely beautiful female and yet another male. A director, as you are, Mr. Cutter.”

The woman stepped forward first. She offered her hand and the only genuine smile so far. “I’m Miranda Montgomery,” she said. “Crucible’s assistant.” She gestured to the remaining male. “This is Director Skahr. He wanted to meet you.”

Phoebe took in Skahr’s benign, fiftyish features, his ice-blue eyes, his thinning brown hair streaked with gray. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Ms. Lessard. Phoebe.” There was a slight accent that marked his otherwise uninflected tone.

Scandinavian background. Norwegian once perhaps, but all-American at this point.

As anticipated, Crucible took control. “Now that we’ve dispensed with the formalities,” he said, “tell me why you contacted me.”

“You’ve been watching one of my former lovers.” Phoebe faced him calmly. “Watching him closely, I believe. Senator CJ Best. His late aide James Quinn was in league with Leshad.”

“Your former lover is also in league with Leshad,” Crucible informed her. “We just can’t prove it. You had a child by him.”

Her brows went up. “Word certainly travels.”

“In roundabout ways, yes, it does. I spoke with a young woman named Patrice. She had information to sell. My feeling is that she sold all of that information to Leshad before she contacted me. As you might expect, she’s no longer alive. In tracking back through her connections, however, we stumbled on another woman, one who works at the same blues club as she did. It seems these women were friends. After a night of tippling, Patrice, the dead woman, passed along some of what she knew to her more ethical and less mercenary co-worker. Which is how we know that you and CJ Best had a daughter together.”

Phoebe straightened. “I’m not going to tell you who or where she is. I’m simply going to say that I believe she’s well-protected.”

“Physically or mentally?” Tom Cutter inquired. He had a toothy smile, and he used it on her. “You can tell us that much, surely. If it helps you decide, I’ll add that the name Mitchell Stone has come to our attention. Obviously, since he’s the man you met in the club where our two servers worked.”

Phoebe stared them down. “I’m going to remind you that my mother is dead. Her friend and mentor, Twila Black, is also dead. So is Twila’s sister, Tallulah. My Aunt Helene, who possessed nothing in the way of second sight, was a calling-card murder victim as well. And Twila’s granddaughter, Rosemary Sayer, has vanished. With the help of a good and talented man, I’ll grant you, but still. Nowhere to be found.”

“Leshad’s highly motivated, Phoebe,” Miranda said softly. “And determined. He could find you any time. Find you and force you to talk.”

“No,” Phoebe replied. “That, Leshad won’t do. Can’t do. And, I’m sorry, but blunt for blunt, I don’t trust any of you. Although I’d put Miranda at the bottom of the distrust list.”

“Because she’s a female?” Crucible asked.

Phoebe summoned a smile. “Among other things. Caleb Best’s a snake. I’d hoped for more from him once upon a time, but I was disappointed.
C’est la guerre.
I disappointed my mother, and now I’m afraid I’m going to disappoint you. My baby girl is as safe as she can be. I want you to leave her that way. Leave her alone. If you interfere, you run the risk of leading Leshad straight to her door.”

Cutter adjusted his dipping hat so he could look at her from under the brim. “Are you suggesting that someone on our team might be working for Leshad?”

Phoebe’s lips and only her lips went up. “On the contrary, Director. I’m suggesting that one of you might be Leshad.”

Chapter Ten

It disturbed Gaby to see Baxter die in such a dreadful way. And she’d be forced to live with the knowledge that, to a large extent, she’d induced his death. Still, as Celia had told her time and again, it was often a case of kill or be killed in the swamp. And Baxter’s motives for attacking her and Mitchell had been far from pure.

Feeling horrified yet oddly detached, she watched from ankle deep water until the big man’s screams subsided. There’d been no rescuing him, though she suspected Mitchell would have done something if Billy and the black funnel cloud hadn’t spun between him and the water.

They were gone now, Billy and his cloud. The smoke had cleared, and the swamp had resumed its usual rhythm.

Gaby stared at the precise spot where the river had turned red for several long seconds after Baxter’s death. She heard the weeds rustle and felt Mitchell grip her arms from behind.

“Are you hurt?”

He wanted to draw her away from the water’s edge, but she shook her head and stayed put. “Those gators won’t be back any time soon. Baxter was a big man.” She released a shaky breath. “That was awful.”

At length, she let him urge her up onto a knoll. “I’m going to kick myself for asking this, Gaby, but did you call those alligators with your mind, or do something way more dangerous and splash around in the river to attract their attention? Feel free to lie.”

“I’m no Dr. Doolittle. I might have tried to get their attention, but Baxter was doing a fairly decent job of that on his own.”

“Bringing us to Billy and the black funnel cloud.”

A laugh—God, she hoped it wasn’t hysteria—tickled her throat. “That’s a great title for a kid’s book, don’t you think?”

“No, I don’t. What the hell was that, Gaby?”

“Am I still free to lie?”

“I saw Billy sitting on a funnel of black smoke, glaring at Baxter. And I swear, he was grinning.”

She watched lightning streak through dark clouds. “You want an explanation I can’t give you. Billy just is. He always has been. He appears when I need him. Sometimes we hang out at the Lily or at Celia’s house, but mostly he comes when he thinks I’m in danger.”

“So you’re saying—you expect me to believe that Billy the doll can think?”

Gaby smiled.

“And thinking you were in danger today, he placed himself and his funnel cloud between us and Baxter.”

She leaned back against him. “I’m more than happy to lie if it’ll make you feel better.”

“Nothing’s going to make me feel better now, except maybe a couple shots of Louisiana moonshine.”

“That can be arranged.”

“Not fast enough for me to retain my sanity. I’m supposed to accept that the shock of seeing a doll sitting on a black cloud sent Baxter stumbling into the water. Up swam a pair of alligators, down went Baxter. A second later, no more cloud, and no more Billy. Only this.” He produced a wilted black calla lily. “At the risk of sounding like a guy whose balls have shrunk to the size of peanuts, how the fuck am I supposed to rationalize that scenario?”

Gaby could be patient when the occasion warranted. Taking him by the hands, she led him away from the river. “That’s the thing, Mitchell. You don’t rationalize it. You can’t. You simply say to yourself, yes, that’s what happened. I’m sane, and I saw it. Then you put it in a pocket in your mind and you move on.”

“Honey, your brain must be all pockets by now. Mine’s half there, and I haven’t even been on this island for twenty-four hours.”

“It’s an acquired talent. You learn how to deal because you have to.” She let her eyes slide to the dead man, still lying in the weeds near his van. “So what happens now? Leshad will send more men like Stubbins and Baxter. Money buys endless streams of them. You can’t stay on Bokur forever, and I’m not prepared to use it as a fortress and hope that between my senses, Billy’s appearances and however many ghosts choose to throw in with me, that we can kill off all of Leshad’s trigger men. I’d be no better than Leshad if I did that anyway. So what’s the answer?”

For the first time since the gators had taken Baxter down, a diamond-sharp gleam appeared in Mitchell’s eyes. “The answer’s in my college football playbooks.”

Irritation rose. “You want to call for a fair catch?”

“No.” He kissed her, firm and resolute. “We lead with the theory that the best defense is a good offense. Pack your things, honey. Right after we take Baxter’s unfortunate decoy to our makeshift police morgue, we’re going to New Orleans.”

* * * * *

It was a crazy idea. But Gaby thought it might be brazen enough to work. Or at least shake Leshad up. Mitchell had money, and because of it numerous connections, some of them in political circles.

The man Baxter had killed to lure them in was Louis Menno, a transient worker from Mississippi. Mitchell contacted his brother, his only family, but left Fred to file the official report.

Morgan returned by early evening. After a smooth ride downriver, which Mitchell didn’t seem to enjoy, they drove to New Orleans. He took her straight to Bywater, where his grandfather’s mansion sat like an aging Southern belle, with columns peeling and a verandah so saggy even a ghost might fall through.

“The old man didn’t believe in upgrading anything he deemed to be in working order.” Mitchell used his shoulder and hip to force the front door open. “He stayed in this moldering mausoleum until the night he was stretchered out stone-cold dead. Two caregivers, a husband and wife, lived upstairs. They were almost as old as he was. They were the only domestic staff he employed. He kept his own books, did his own taxes and didn’t trust a single damn person on his board of directors.”

Gaby peered into shadows thicker than the night mist that crawled through the tangled gardens outside. “Your grandfather’s mansion has dry rot.” She dropped the overnight bag from her shoulder to the dusty tiled floor. “It also has ghosts.”

“Could have lived without that information,” Mitchell muttered. Tossing his pack aside, he shoved the door closed and locked it.

She ran her fingers over a mahogany table that would have been beautiful back in the 1950s. “You do know that denial of a thing only works for so long, right?”

He searched for something to supplement the stingy forty watt light bulb that burned in the sconce above the door. “Let me work the concept a bit longer before you start giving me names and colorful life histories.”

Chuckling, she explored the shadowed recesses. “Don’t worry, we left the truly colorful histories back on Bokur. Did you know that one of Celia’s ancestors was related to Jean Lafitte? An illegitimate daughter, according to Celia. She’s very proud of her pirate heritage. Did your grandfather have any children besides your father?”

“I doubt it.” Mitchell continued to hunt. “The old man’s ledgers were his mistresses.” He flipped a switch. When nothing happened, he gave the wall a whack. “You tell me, Gaby, why the hell any ghost in its right mind would want to haunt this tawdry hellhole.”

“Because this hellhole, tawdry as it appears on the surface, has excellent bones. Faded beauty can be restored.” Joining him, she touched the stubborn light switch and smiled as another sconce flickered to life. “We don’t have to stay here. I’m open to hotels or even a blues club storeroom where poltergeists play if that suits you better.”

He picked up her bag and his pack. “Before I answer that, tell me, is my grandfather one of the ghosts haunting this place?”

“No.”

“Then we’re good. This house has a solid security system. My storeroom doesn’t.”

“I don’t want to spend my time in New Orleans hiding out.”

He looked upward as thunder from the river reached them. “Not the plan. But when I go to bed, I want to sleep and know I’m not likely to be murdered while I’m doing it. Unless the resident ghosts are homicidal, this place’ll give us that.”

It will give you that
, Gaby thought. But she said nothing, merely motioned for him to lead the way up what, a century ago, would have been a magnificent central staircase.

He took her to a guestroom with a rolled-up mattress, dark rattan furniture and a 1920s French colonial vibe that managed to feel very
magie noire
. At some point, someone had practiced a benign form of voodoo in this space.

“There’s a bathroom.” He set their belongings down. “It’s got water, probably tepid, and a claw-foot tub. I’ll go back out and get us something for dinner.”

“Buy wine,” she said, looking past him into the dimly lit bathroom.

“Got a whole cellar full downstairs.”

“Well, then.” She strolled over to where he stood, hooked her fingers in his belt loop and pulled him forward. “I guess that just leaves this.”

And before any doubts could creep in, she brought his mouth down onto hers.

The taste of him poured through her like warm honey. No question, Mitchell was up for it. He went rock hard in an instant.

Rain began to strike the windows like needles. That would do it for the ground fog. Gaby saw snatches of that fog, and indeed the whole city, in her mind. Lightning flickered over the Mississippi. It illuminated the Vieux Carré and the famous New Orleans cemeteries. It illuminated St. Louis No. 1…

Dragging her lips free, she blinked. “Whoa. That was weird.”

“Not the reaction I usually get,” Mitchell said with a slight frown.

“Don’t move.” She curled her fingers around the front of his shirt. “I saw a cemetery in my head—St. Louis No. 1—just for a second, while I was kissing you.”

“There’s a vision you wouldn’t have every day. Does it mean I’m dead?”

“Probably not. No, don’t move yet. There’s a woman.” The image shot from her head to her heart like a fiery dagger, and she sucked in a quick breath. “Phoebe.”

Mitchell narrowed his eyes. “Phoebe,” he repeated. “In your mind, while we were kissing. I don’t think that qualifies as simply weird.”

She let her brain settle, but held on to his shirt. “I don’t like…” She huffed out a breath. “Can we try that again?”

“Try what? Channeling Phoebe?”

“No.” Tightening her grip, she yanked his head back down. “Try not channeling Phoebe. Or anyone. I want some me time, Mitchell. I deserve it.”

“No argument there,” he murmured, and covered her mouth with his.

Her hunger for him surged, and this time it devoured every thought, every image, every sensation that wasn’t related to Mitchell. Her lungs burned, her breath quickened and her bones threatened to melt.

She felt blissfully off balance, a bit drunk, a bit more drugged, by a kiss that left room for absolutely nothing else.

He explored her mouth with his tongue, teasing and tasting and making her head spin. She arched against him, sliding her arms around his neck so she could press closer.

Everything pulsed and pounded. Her mind, her body, the room. Need was a ball of flame in her chest. Her blood ran hot and fast. Her emotions spiraled into a funnel cloud of color. There was no black smoke or dying lilies. No dolls, no traps, no danger—except to her heart if she wasn’t extremely careful. No cemeteries either, thankfully. No Phoebe. Only Mitchell and a tiny seed of fear that threatened to take root in her belly.

She squashed it with very little effort and savored the feel of Mitchell’s teeth as he scraped them over the tender skin of her neck. Her head fell back, her eyes closed. Her hands were cupping him again, her fingers working feverishly on his fly.

Too much, too fast
, she thought. She wanted him, but maybe not entirely for the right reasons. Not here, not now.

“We need to back this off a little.” Returning his attention to her mouth, Mitchell took her on a last, mind-numbing ride. “Delicious as you are, there’s an element of knee-jerk on both sides that shouldn’t be here.”

Nodding, she breathed out. She wasn’t satisfied or happy, but it helped to know he got it. That she didn’t need to fumble for an explanation.

She took a moment to gather her senses.
Soon
, she thought as her blood cooled,
very soon we’ll get the lust and the crazed hunger and whatever else is sizzling between us out of our systems. And then… Well, and then.

Stepping back, Mitchell winced, zipped up. “On that note of Herculean self-denial, I’ll see what I can do about getting us some takeout.”

Gaby pivoted away from him, exhaled again and regrouped. “You take out. I’ll take a bath.”

“Could be cold,” he warned.

She glanced at him, laughing. “Could be that’s what I want.”

When he spun her around and kissed her again, lust snaked through her belly. She set her hands on his shoulders, smiled and nipped the corners of his mouth. “Gonna finish this right, Mitchell Stone. And when it’s right, we’ll both hear voodoo drums.”

“I’ll take it on faith you mean that in a positive way.” Capturing her chin, he looked into her eyes. “Back in thirty minutes.”

Gaby waited until the door clicked shut before she moved. Feeling restless, frustrated and unnaturally twitchy, she took her overnight bag to the bathroom.

And stepped across the threshold into a nightmare.

* * * * *

“What the hell were you thinking, bringing my baby to this city?”

Phoebe’s heels clicked angrily on the cracked, wet pavement of their Lower Garden District meeting place. The overhang of a derelict boarding house provided little shelter from the precipitation that bit where it struck, especially if what it struck was exposed skin. Lightning glimmered, thunder shook the sidewalk, and Phoebe’s face was a furious mask.

“Do you know how hard I’ve worked to keep everyone’s attention focused on me? I even met with Crucible and two of his bizarro empirical directors. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yeah, I get it, Phoebe. All the players are here, in New Orleans. Good guys, bad guys, you, me, Gaby.”

“Caleb Josiah Best.”

“Got that too. Daddy Dearest wants to make a gift of his little girl to Leshad. I didn’t bring her to New Orleans so she’d wind up in service to a lunatic. We could have stayed on Bokur and accomplished that quite handily.”

She drew a deep, careful breath. “If you think that’s true, Mitchell, you’re underestimating the Bokur Island residents.”