Flame Unleashed (Hell to Pay) (3 page)

She dropped off the roof, landing with an audible pop on one foot. A red wave of pain swamped her, and she gripped the edge of the brick to clear her head. Masonry disintegrated under her fingertips.

She pressed her lips together to keep from crying out.

Breathe
.

Another few seconds, and she’d be functional.

With another crunch, her bones knitted back together enough for her to walk. Each step felt better than the last.

Once she reached the French District, she ducked into a dark corner behind a dumpster and pressed her fingers to her forehead. So tired. In the past, she had salvaged botched kills, but tonight was different. She still needed to kill, but the control she had exerted over that biker’s mind took so much energy. Her fatigue would keep the desire to kill in check for a short period of time. The desperation no longer consumed her.

Sick consolation. For now.

Meeting a fellow Indebted had thrown her for a loop. True, some Indebted worked together, but Ruth operated in private, always had. She hated spectators of any kind. Ironic, then, how she’d given the man in the trench coat quite a show.

Like most of her kind, she avoided hunting in the daytime. More potential witnesses. So she would have to endure a miserable day until tomorrow night. Even though time technically meant nothing to her, twenty-four hours from now seemed like years away.

Maybe as a diversion she could indulge in a tiny fantasy about her hero’s sensual lips.

The next morning, she struggled to complete the duties of her mundane job. Helping Barnaby took little effort, yet she almost didn’t pull it off thanks to her inability to focus.

For the past several years, she’d worked as a full-time nurse for the now aging Barnaby, attending to his increasing needs for assistance. As a former Indebted, he understood her urge to slake the knife lust periodically.

As a former Indebted, he represented everything that she wanted.

A normal, mortal life.

The opportunity to experience loving human companionship.

Freedom from the all-consuming need to kill.

She took a deep breath and blew it out. After smoothing her perfectly creased khaki pants, she patted her hair, secured in a bun at the nape of her neck. At least dressing professionally gave her a semblance of normalcy, as it had done for years.

Normal. How laughable. Just another damn disguise, really. At least this outfit kept people at a distance. Calm, conservative, reserved Nurse Ruth. With a stiff exterior appearance, she was less likely to be hurt, and that protection was all that mattered.

From all of the coursework at nursing schools over the decades, she had matriculated more times than she could recollect. For a time, giving solace to the sick provided her satisfaction enough. She even used her calling as a nurse to find the criminals among her patients and dispatch these evil patients to slake the knife’s hunger.

She was pretty sure killing any patients, even bad ones, went against every word of the Florence Nightingale Pledge.

With a sigh, she turned back to her current day’s tasks.

She pulled back the heavy brocade drapery, trying to enjoy the fine furnishings at the luxury Windsor Court Hotel. New Orleans’s waterfront glinted in the morning light. Sunbeams streamed in the picture windows, bringing welcome brightness to the late fall day. Sunny weather normally gave her a sense of peace, but today the light annoyed her, unfocused her, like everything else this morning.

She hated leaving a job undone; it went against her core values. Worst of all, having to attempt another kill increased the potential for attention from her disgusting and terrifying boss, Jerahmeel. It was in her kind’s best interest to avoid attracting his scrutiny whenever possible.

Her hands shook so badly that when she tried to lay out Barnaby’s clothes, she couldn’t make her hands arrange the clothes in a perfect row like she usually did. She couldn’t think straight beneath the wave of desire to drive the blade into a criminal, combined with the fear of Jerahmeel’s attention.

Hopefully she’d get her kill tonight without incident.

An incident. A good way to describe the man in the trench coat with lips meant for sin.

 Recalling his voice and that sensual mouth sent a zip of excitement up her spine as she peered out the window. The thought of that man helped her forget the lingering knife urge.

Then a jolt of dread hit her. He was Indebted. He knew that she was Indebted, too.

The sunshine streaming into the room had turned to a harsh interrogation light. She wanted to close the blinds and hide.

At least that Indebted guy didn’t know all of her secrets, a disastrous prospect.

But he knew enough to expose her guarded existence—an existence she’d worked hard to conceal from everyone.

Perhaps even herself. All those years of hiding had become second nature.

Who the hell was she anymore?

Barnaby shuffled out of the bathroom, his thin frame engulfed by the hotel’s Turkish cotton robe. His kind smile creased hundreds of lines on his careworn face. A remaining few strands of hair straggled out from his bald head.

“Penny for your thoughts, my dear?” her boss asked.

“Just woolgathering,” she said.

“Did you complete your assignment last night?”

Although his voice wavered, those pale blue eyes shone with sharp intelligence. His centuries-old strength and energy had waned, but his mind was as keen as when he rubbed elbows with Elizabeth, the last of the Tudors.

Ruth would never lie to him. She loved Barnaby, her mentor and her friend. He knew precisely what her job entailed, since he’d been an Indebted for hundreds of years until he broke his contract to be with his wife. He rarely mentioned that period of time forty years ago when he changed to mortal, but it had to have been momentous. No one broke his or her contract, right?

Not exactly. Barnaby did it, and his friends Peter and Dante attained their freedom, too. All right, so it must be possible to escape this hell, but how? By what rules? Damn it, she had no guidance, no idea of how to try to attempt her own liberation.

Breaking their contracts nearly cost those men their lives, but they’d succeeded. All three men had achieved the Meaningful Kill. Jealousy churned in her gut.

Maybe there was hope for her. Or maybe not, with Jerahmeel keeping closer tabs on his employees nowadays.

“No, I didn’t get a kill.” Damn it, she snapped at the one person she’d come to love and respect over the years. The man closest to a father and a friend.

Mean acid melted to muddy shame inside of her.

While she wouldn’t lie, she refused to trouble Barnaby with her concerns. Ruth hadn’t been a burden to anyone since 1864. She wouldn’t start now.

“Couldn’t find an appropriate candidate?”

She shrugged with a nonchalance that even she didn’t believe. “It’s okay. I’ll find someone this evening.”

“Of course you will, my dear.” When he patted her on the arm, the bones in his hands stood out stark beneath his thin skin.

“Barnaby, how did you get the Meaningful Kill?” she blurted out. Hot guilt crawled over her chest. “I’m sorry. I realize that you can’t tell me. Forget that I asked.”

Staring at her for so long it made her squirm, Barnaby finally sighed. Anyone who knew him for a minute could see how he’d loved his wife, Jane. Sadly, her life had been cut short by illness, and Barnaby had carried on alone for the past twenty years.

He answered, his voice gravelly. “My dear, I would tell you if I could. Forsooth, I want for you to escape your Indebted contract. But I am bound by Jerahmeel’s rules never to speak of it.”

“You helped Peter and Dante.”

“Not directly, and certainly not by telling them how I did it. To be fair, as I witnessed their changes and my own, I realized that the solution to the Meaningful Kill is different for each Indebted.”

She brushed nonexistent wrinkles from Barnaby’s clothes on the bed. “That doesn’t help me, does it?”

His mouth pulled into a wry smile. “This existence wears on you, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t want to burden you ...”

“Nonsense. I think of you as the daughter I never had, Ruth.” He coughed for a few moments until he caught his breath. “I so want you to have a good life, my dear.”

“My life is good, working for you.”

“But not good, right?”

“It’s not ... what I would have wanted.”

Emptiness weighted her shoulders every day—a black tunnel of death and murder with no end in sight. No one would want such a reality.

“No, I want you to have your own life, on your own terms. With someone who loves you, er, differently than I do.” His grin folded his eyes into numerous wrinkles.

She ran a hand over her neck until she caught herself. “It’s not in the stars. I had my family, years ago, and I ruined everything. But yes, it would be nice to live a life without the need to kill always pressing me.”

“I understand.”

Folding the remainder of his clothes, she laid them in a perfect, neat row. A useless exercise, considering he would wear these garments soon, but the precise activity and attention to detail calmed her. “Of course you do. And you did this job longer than anyone I know. What right do I have to complain?”

“You have every right, my dear. We all do.” He cocked his head to the side. “But you are destined for great things one day. When the opportunity arises, you’ll find your own path.”

“And you know this information ... how?” Despite herself, she smiled.

“I’ve always had good instincts about life, my dear.”

“Right.” She brushed her hands together. “Well, my path right now involves making you presentable for the day so you don’t lounge around like a society lady all morning.”

He laughed. “Oh, you are good for my soul. Can’t be allowed to be a slugabed.”

Something odd, a tug of emotion from the knowledge that his mortal body would one day fail, turned in her chest as she slipped out of the room.

Before she could close the door, he asked, “Were you able to arrange brunch for Odilon’s arrival?”

“I called down while you were in the shower. The food should be here soon.”

“Very good. I can’t wait to see him again.”

“How long has it been?”

She peeked back in the bedroom. He stood at the bedside, staring up at the ceiling. The robe gapped at his neck, and his collarbones jutted out from beneath his skin. At the sight, her heart twisted. She’d helped many elderly patients in her nursing career but always maintained professional objectivity. With Barnaby, it was like seeing her own father aging right in front of her.

“My, how long indeed?”

He rubbed his freshly shaven chin. Barnaby still took pride in performing his own personal care.

“Let’s see. I met Odilon in 1810, when he threw his lot in with that scurrilous Louisiana privateer, Jean Lafitte. I was on my tour of the New World, always on alert for shrewd investments. There was good money to be had in smuggled goods and supplies for shipbuilding to help the American military leading up to the War of 1812. We worked for Lafitte’s company for a year, but the Indebted kills became too concentrated around New Orleans. I next saw him around 1975, after I transitioned to human, and then again in 1995 after my lovely Jane passed on. Time seems to move too quickly for our kind. I haven’t seen him since Jane’s death. The way time passes for the Indebted, it’s as if only yesterday she left this world without me ...”

At his slumped shoulders and faraway stare, Ruth eased the door shut. Barnaby’s wife had died much too young, a shame considering the immense risk he’d taken to be with her. Had the sacrifice been worth it?

She considered Barnaby’s smile, both sad and joyous.

In the sitting area, she straightened the already neatly arranged furniture. Anything to distract her until room service delivered brunch.

At a knock on the door, Ruth rushed to the door of the suite, expecting to greet the waiter.

A tall man stood at the door.

As his intense stare zoomed in on her face, Ruth’s stomach dropped out from under her.

To be more precise, he didn’t stand, he nearly vibrated, such was the male confidence that radiated in all directions. A lazy smile spread across his sensual lips, which were surrounded by a closely trimmed scruff of dark beard and moustache. If his appearance veered toward handsome, the crooked nose likely from a prior injury pushed his features back to rugged. Even though she’d seen only half of his face last night, she’d recognize that jawline anywhere.

Beneath thick, dark brown eyebrows that slashed color across his forehead, his pale green eyes narrowed. His gaze, the color of backlit bottle glass, smoldered. Sooty lashes shadowed his eyes until his brows shot up.

Now someone else knew her Indebted status and how she used her body to lure in each kill.

How she had failed.

Even though Ruth was fully clothed, she wanted to pull a blanket around herself. Each sweep of this man’s gaze virtually raked her bare.

Pressure mounted—fire against ceramic. She had to escape his scrutiny, or her protective shell would break.

She shivered.

Mon dieu!

If the woman from last night did not stand before him, then this was her prim and proper twin. Today, instead of long waves of blond hair, gleaming auburn tresses had been unjustly confined to a knot at the nape of her elegant neck.

And her figure? Instead of those curves being poured into leather, she filled out plain tan work pants so as to bless the shapeless garments. A deep breath raised her ample breasts to strain the knit fabric of her forest green polo shirt.

Odilon couldn’t help himself. He inhaled along with the woman, instantly in tune with her.

This mystery woman had haunted his thoughts since last night’s encounter. At the demonstration of her strength and speed and her bizarre reaction to the dead man, Odie had realized she was also an Indebted. He, of course, empathized with her plight, trapped in his own macabre existence, compelled to perform murder. Perhaps she, too, had been forced to make a grim choice with a loved one, right before becoming Indebted. That’s normally how it worked. That’s how it had happened for him, at least.