Microsoft Word - FortunesFool.rtf (23 page)

"Clarice," he repeated, running his thumb lightly back and forth over her quivering lower lip. "You remember our deal, right?"

She nodded, staring into his eyes as if mesmerized.

"Good girl." He winked at her, and she smiled in response. Then he reached for the bottle and tipped it back, taking one long swallow before the taste struck him funny. He turned the bottle in his hand to check the label. Definitely not his brand.

But Clarice was pulling at the sleeve of his leather coat, drawing

him away from the bar. The music, which had been a background beat up

until now, morphed into something heavier—something with monks

chanting in Latin over drums and synthesized techno-funk. As they wove

their way through the club, the air grew thicker with the musk of eager

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bodies.

"This way," she said, and guided him through a door. It opened to reveal the top of a staircase that led down into perfect darkness. "Come on, hurry up. She's waiting."

He pulled away from her grip on his sleeve and stopped to look at

her. Even in the dim light, her agitation was obvious. Suddenly,

something about this whole deal smelled wrong.

"Are you coming or not?" she said.

Two weeks since his partner's death and not a single break in the

case. He couldn't blow this—couldn't let anything get in the way. Not

even his better instincts.

Her hand fell on his sleeve again, tugging. He stared at her for

another second. Then he said, "Lead on, sweetheart."

* * * *

Leah lifted her head from where it was firmly lodged between her

knees and tried to smile. Jeff Crandel, Associate Professor of Math and

Good Samaritan, pressed the damp washcloth to the back of her neck and

clucked like a chicken. The beads of sweat on his shiny pate and the way his hands trembled as he supported her back gave away his anxiety.

"Skipped lunch today. Stupid of me." She struggled to her feet, leaning heavily on Jeff's arm. The look of concern on his face made her

smile. What a nice man. A good friend. "I'll be fine."

"Well, if you're sure..." He looked thoroughly unconvinced. "I could call over to the infirmary. Wouldn't take a second."

She shook her head. "What I need is a sandwich and a glass of

milk."

No, what I need is a drink. Several drinks. That always helps.

Well, not really. Not if she were perfectly honest. But getting

wasted on tequila would take the edge off and make her forget for a

while. Maybe long enough for the music and the odors and that dark

man's face to go away. And the memories they invoked. The

memories...
God, they're the worst of it, by far
.

"I'm headed home for dinner and bed," she said. This time her smile was as genuine as she could make it while lying through her teeth.

Ten minutes later, she pulled into a parking space behind a

plumbing truck and stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of her favorite escape. The Gringo was the kind of place that attracted working class

stiffs—a rare thing in a college town brimming with academics and over-

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privileged students. Which made it perfect for Leah on this night or any other. She could lose herself in the stink of cheap beer and try to forget her dissatisfaction with her past, her future, her job and life in general.

She stopped at the bar on her way to a corner booth. "I'll take four shots of tequila, a salt-shaker, a lime and a knife. Put it on my tab."

A few minutes later she was well on her way to being pleasantly

buzzed. Nothing like being a regular in a place where they didn't much

care if you lost a finger while carving up your own fruit.

The unidentifiable noise blaring from the jukebox did nothing to

smother the tune re-looping through her brain, like a calliope on crack.

She'd always been a fan of the Eagles, but after this?
Hotel California
was off her playlist, permanently. At least the odors of Latex and

perfume had dissolved. And the man's face. No more scary-handsome

guy staring at her from inside her own head. Another thing she could do

without on a permanent basis. Because of all the things that sucked in her life? These stupid, pointless visions were the absolute worst. She'd never forgive her grandmother for passing them on to her, along with the

allergy to cats and the gene that attracted difficult, self-absorbed

assholes. Why couldn't she have inherited the dimples? Or the long legs?

No, she had to get the psychic ability. Whoop-de-fuckin'-do.

"Hey there, beautiful lady."

She snorted into the bottom of her fourth shot glass. She'd heard

crappy lines before, but that one was the champ. "Attractive," and maybe even "pretty" in that bland, girl-next-door kind of way that really bit the big one when you were neither a girl nor had any interest in living next door...but beautiful?

"Can I join you?" Apparently the snorting hadn't dissuaded him. He slid into the seat across from her, and she took stock of his age (early-middle), his state of being (not nearly drunk enough to excuse the

arrogant grin), and tried to come up with a polite way of saying buzz off, loser.

"No thanks. I want to be alone."

He squinted at her. "Huh?"

"I said..." She paused and cleared her throat, the better to shout over Joe Walsh's guitar solo as it bounced off the inside of her skull. "I said—

"

Before she could finish the sentence, a husky feminine voice

whispered in her ear, "Don't be shy,
caro
. Come in. It's not like you have a choice." And then deadly laughter, the kind that made every tiny hair 155

D'ARC, GALE, KENT, MARCH

on her body rise up and quiver. The Madre Donnatella's laughter, to be

precise.

Oh, hell no. Not now. Not ever, ever again
.

The man leaned back and stared at her. "Hey lady...you okay? You

come over kinda gray all of a sudden."

"I..." Leah swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. "I need some air."

She slid out of the booth and headed for the door. The man didn't try to stop her. So much for her compelling beauty.

Out on the sidewalk nothing was better. The music had finally

stopped, but what had taken its place was much worse. Bring back the

classic seventies rock, if this was the alternative.

The laughter had faded, replaced by the distant sound of the Madre's

voice. Leah couldn't quite make out the words—just the whisper of

heavily accented English, and then that low, amused tone that made her

grind her teeth together.

I'm not nearly drunk enough to deal with this
. She pressed her hands to her eyes, and there he was—the man, from before, the one in her head.

Dark eyes peered out from under a shock of black hair, and his swarthy

jaw clenched as tightly as her own.

She staggered on the sidewalk, then pulled her hands away from her

face. "That's it," she said. "That's all. You can stop any time now."

Whom was she talking to? The Madre or the dark man? Or someone else

altogether? Because she could hear two voices now, both of them female.

One lighter and sweeter in tone, speaking in unaccented English.

Pleading, in fact...saying over and over again, "Please...please, no.

Don't."

When Leah concentrated, she caught the impression of red hair and

freckles on pale skin, and the black, shiny surface of latex. Of course—

that's what all the Madre's acolytes wore. And what else did she sense?

Something less concrete, but no less real.

Oh, yeah. There it was, plain as the light of day, or at least the glow

of the streetlight above her head. The emotion she always associated with her memories of the Madre.

Fear.

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The little redhead was scared.

He could tell from the sheen of sweat that covered her face, visible

even in the murky light at the very end of the hallway that stretched from the bottom of the stairs, and by the way her body trembled so hard it

seemed to vibrate. Her obvious fear should've made him nervous—

should've put him on full alert. But mostly it made Marcus want to step

between her and whatever was on the other side of the heavy oak door

with the shuttered window. The door they were facing. The door upon

which the redhead had knocked some thirty seconds before.

"Try again, sweetheart."

"Shh." She wrung her hands together and shifted her weight from one foot to the other. After another few seconds, she lifted her fist. Just before she made contact with the door, the shutter on the window slid

open with a loud click.

Silence. Then a voice—feminine, but pitched deep and...was that an

Italian accent? "
Sí
? What do you want?"

"It's me, Clarice," the redhead said. "The man is with me."

The man? Was he expected?

There was a pause, and then the rattle and thunk of bolts being

thrown back. The door opened slowly, like something out of an old

horror movie. Clarice darted ahead into the room and disappeared

somewhere to the left. Marcus stepped forward, but stopped just outside

the doorway.

"Don't be shy,
caro
. Come in," the unseen woman said. "It's not like you have a choice."

Still he hesitated. "Who are you?"

"Come inside and see," the voice said. Still deep and exotic, but now almost breathless.

He craned his neck to peer around the door, but only caught a

glimpse of brick walls, a cement floor, and a massive fireplace. The

space was lit by the flames burning there, as well as the dozens of

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candles arranged on the mantle and at various spots around the room.

The flickering light made a warm, almost inviting atmosphere. He felt

himself relax, if only a little.

The scent of Clarice's perfume mingled with wood-smoke as he

stepped over the threshold. He expected the door to slam behind him like a special effect out of Dracula's castle, but it remained standing open. He turned to his right and—Christ almighty. He fell back a step out of sheer surprise. Was this the Madre Donnatella, reclusive owner of Hotel

California?

Maybe forty years old, and tiny. Smaller than Clarice by four inches

and a good thirty pounds. Black hair that fell straight to her waist, a

maroon slash for a mouth, and a body arrayed entirely in a gauzy gown

in the same shade of used blood. But it was her eyes that caught his

attention, glowing in the dimly-lit room like a pair of moons. And then

the woman tilted her face toward him, and he realized she was blind.

"
Buonosera
," she said. "I am Donnatella DeTagliera." Her accent made the name sound like a gyspy tune sung off-key. She smiled at him,

and he half-expected to see fangs.

The music from the main room throbbed through the floor, the bass-

line thumping hard in his chest and making it tough to breathe. When he

closed his eyes, the cement under his feet shifted. He licked his lips and tasted the beer the barmaid had served him...and something else. Bitter.

Vaguely medicinal.

Dammit. Fucking idiot. Something in that beer.

He'd been so wrapped up in getting that interview, he'd never seen it

coming. They must've made him for a cop the second he'd walked

through the door.

Whatever the barmaid had slipped in his beer made everything

move at half-time. When he spoke, his tongue felt like a rusty anchor

caught in his mouth. "My name is Marcus Colton."

"
Bravo
, Marcus Colton." Though her smile had faded, he got the impression Donnatella DeTagliera found something about him amusing.

He thought about identifying himself as a detective...but what if he

was wrong? Maybe they didn't know he was a cop. Maybe the barmaid

had drugged him all on her own, for her own reasons. He stopped to

blink away the double vision, shaking his head to clear it. "Clarice tells me you might be able to answer some questions for me."

"
Sí
? Questions?"

"About the recent death of a friend of mine. Maybe you heard about

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it? His name was Julian Carlyle."

She made a gesture he read as vague encouragement for him to

continue.

"Last seen alive a block from here. Body found on the other side of town. He'd been mutilated and beaten to death."

Clarice gasped. Marcus glanced at her and saw plain, outright terror

in her eyes.

He pulled a Polaroid of Julian's post-autopsy face from the inner

pocket of his jacket and passed it to the redhead, since giving it to the older woman would be pointless.

Clarice came to stand at his side and took the picture from his hand.

"It's the blond one, Madre," she said, her voice trembling, her eyes cast down. Abject fear in every line of her lovely body. "His cheeks are soft and white, like a child's. The bruises around his eyes are very pretty."

Pretty? What the fuck?

"Ah,
bravo
. The one with the little cry in his voice, so sweet?"

Donnatella said, her accent growing thicker. "Of course."

Marcus stepped toward her, ignoring the growing tightness in his

throat and the way his head felt heavy and stupid. "He was here?"

"
Sí
, he was our guest." She lifted her hand and brushed her fingers against his chest, over the fabric of his shirt. He flinched, his gut

tightening instinctively at her touch. "He was
molto
entertaining, was he not, Clarice?"