Shades of Gray: A Jude Magdalyn Novel (3 page)

Hart held me in front of his body like a shield and I got my first look at the new dancers joining the fight. If the evening hadn’t already taken more turns than a drunken man’s road, seeing the gorgeous man from outside the Cat’s Meow aiming a loaded crossbow at me would have been the cap on possibly the worst night of my life. It didn’t help when I noticed more archers on either side of him, and to the far left - a woman old enough to be my grandmother - with a ball of fire in her hand.

Apparently, I’d been wrong. The night could get more messed up.

“Release the girl, and I’ll allow you to walk away tonight, Hart.”

Hart laughed and it was the sort to make small children cry and flowers die. Well, maybe not, but it wasn’t pleasant.

“What makes you think such an outcome is possible, Williams? Would you shoot the girl if I refused to release her?” he shouted at the archer.

I was getting irritated at being jerked around and being called “girl”, but figured in this moment discretion was the better part of valor. Williams, as my would-be rescuer answered to, smiled coldly. “You’ve forgotten to guard your back, Hart. One would think you would have learned such a lesson over two hundred years ago.”

The woman, who’d been silent until now, spoke from behind Hart and to the left. “They have us surrounded. Leave the girl for later. You cannot complete your plan if you are a pile of ash.”

At that particular moment the woman with the ball of fire closed her hand. Instantly, my left palm began to burn. Hart and I let out a yell as my hand seared through the fabric of his pants. In a panic, he hurled me away from him, sending me sprawling on the ground between the two groups. I turned over and scuttled backward, crablike. Elegant, no, but it kept Hart in my sight which was good enough for me.

The fiery burning in my hand was gone as suddenly as it had come and when I raised my hand to check for blisters, I blinked. Nothing but smooth skin. I shook my head and looked away from Hart long enough to catch the older woman’s eye. “How did you, I—.”

“Questions best kept for later, Jude Magdalyn Henries. One event at a time.”

Apparently everybody knew my name, even though I was learning the players in bits and pieces. Nodding slowly, I turned my eyes back to Hart and pushed to my feet. I walked backward until I felt a hand grip my left. I didn’t have to look to know it was Williams. I couldn’t explain it but I was out of the crossfire and safe as I could be at the moment. Good for me.

Hart seethed. His female companion all but dragged him back to St. Peter, through the row of men at their backs while their guard had died. The row of men, I assumed they belonged to Williams, let them pass, but didn’t take their eyes off them. Neither did I, yet it still seemed like the pair vanished between one breath and the next.

The group breathed out a collective sigh and I heard a voice whisper a quick Hail Mary. Slowly, the sounds of the Quarter filtered back in and I remembered to take a breath of my own. Or what would have been a breath if Williams hadn’t chosen that moment to speak and my breath became a squeak.

“I assume you have questions. Let’s see to your friend. Gillian and I will do our best to answer them.”

I turned my head to stare at him. Up close, he was even more mouthwatering, but strangely enough, it wasn’t the foremost thought on my mind. “Oh, you can bet your ass I’ve got questions. And somebody sure as hell better have answers.”

Chapter Three

The cup I poured the
stiff black coffee into was white, a voodoo doll silhouetted on it with the words “Even if the marriage wasn’t magic, the divorce can be” emblazoned below it. A client had given it to me for Christmas and I got such a kick out of it I used it for an instant pick-me-up whenever I felt stressed or annoyed. It usually worked.

Taking care of Izzy hadn’t been as easy as Williams made it out to be. It had been a downright pain in the ass. It was a good thing I loved her or I would have been seriously pissed. I’d seen the exact same things, had actually had said things touching me, or being shot at me, or exploding out of my hand, and I was perfectly fine. Which, I guess, was a sign something was really wrong with me. Either way, I wasn’t having hysterics.

It took half a bottle of Cuervo and a few mumbled words from the fire-wielding woman, Gillian, before Izzy fell asleep or passed out. Honestly? I didn’t care which. I was assured when she woke in the morning she’d remember everything she’d seen as nothing more than the result of large quantities of alcohol. Lucky her.

The Frenchmen District was still alive and kicking when we climbed the stairs to my third floor studio. Any other night, I would have stopped in at one of the clubs along the way, thrown back a few and listened to the jazz being played. Instead, I was cramming way too many people into a small space.

Some people make the mistake of thinking a studio is like a loft apartment. Sometimes it is, but often it isn’t. Loft apartments always seem large, spacious and architectural. My apartment isn’t any of those things. Oh, Lord, it is so not any of those things.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s a nice space. My landlord, bless his perverted little heart, actually does care about the building and the tenants. Before I moved in three years back, he’d actually gone to the trouble of having the hardwood floors refinished, the walls painted and the entire building pretty much firebombed for pests. Katrina hadn’t caused too much damage and as a result, I’d renewed my lease for the last two years. Unless something fabulous fell into my lap, I’d renew it again in a few months. When your rent doesn’t go up more than twenty bucks in three years, you don’t go looking for a better deal. Because you ain’t gonna find one.

As far as layout goes, it’s pretty standard studio: open space, kitchen, bathroom. No closet. No walls. Just space. Although I did get a corner unit, which meant lots of windows. The landlord had upgraded almost everything in the building, which meant my appliances were all new and matching. I had enough counter space for a microwave, a few cookbooks, and some bar stools. My bathroom would put some of the city’s hotels to shame. When I’d asked him one time why he’d gone to all the trouble to make the apartments nice, he’d patted my butt and said, “When you get to be as old as I am, you take joy in giving joy to other people.” He was so cute, and so sincere, I didn’t smack him for the butt pat.

At the moment, the folding screen normally separating the bed and sleeping area from the living room was folded up and leaning against the far wall. I had four strange men on my bed, two on my couch, two guarding the windows and two guarding the door. In addition, I had Gillian and Williams propped on bar stools at my quasi-island. Their cups sat steaming in front of them; neither one made a move to pick them up. I shrugged and settled for hopping up on the stove. I made sure the stove was turned off before doing so. I definitely did not need a burnt ass on top of everything else tonight.

I took a sip of coffee, sighing in relief when it flowed over my tongue. Some people don’t like their coffee screaming hot, and some don’t like it strong. I laugh and call them weak. After a moment of my heels kicking against the oven door and the clock ticking loudly the only sound in the room, I let out a sigh.

“We’re here. I’m waiting. Talk.”

Gillian raised an eyebrow, dark in shocking contrast to the shiny silver of her long enough to sit on hair. It makes a picture but it’s a bitch to maintain, at least it was the one time I let my hair get as long. Gillian’s looked like all she did in the morning was wake up, brush it and it set perfectly all day. I hated women with hair like hers, simply on principle.

“You’re much more abrupt than we imagined you would be.”

I smiled, unable to help it. I’d heard variations of such comments for a number of years. “I’m from New York. It’s bred into us.”

“I hate to disillusion you, but you are no more from New York than I am.” This from Williams, who’d curled his hand around the coffee mug but still hadn’t taken a sip. Apparently I was the only one who liked coffee after midnight. Pity.

I took another sip of the strong brew, longer this time, savoring the rich, bitter flavor and closing my eyes for a moment in appreciation. Opening them, I found Williams staring at me with The Look. I’ll assume people know what I mean when I say The Look. The one men - or women, we’re guilty of it, too - get when they’re thinking about what an attractive member of the opposite sex looks like naked. Preferably stretched out underneath them. Or on top. No accounting for positional preference.

I sighed, crossing my left leg over my right, and braced my right elbow on my knee so I could prop my chin on my hand. I made my eyes very big and wide, and my voice very sweet before speaking. “Williams, two things. One, stop looking at me like you want me naked. Two, unless you’ve magically changed the information on my birth certificate, I was born in upstate New York. So, would you like to retract your previous statement at this time, or wait a few minutes for form’s sake?”

Williams smiled at me, a mirror image of my own just before the sarcasm attained a new level of discomfort. “You mistake my words, Jude Magdalyn. It’s true, you were born in New York. But where you are from, where your family came from, is also the place you returned to over two decades later.”

The coffee was starting to lose its simple joy but I drank steadily, if only for the caffeine jolt. I switched my attention back to Gillian. It’s hard to stare down a person who doesn’t seem to blink. It was weak, he and I knew why I’d shifted my focus, but he didn’t comment on it. Small point for him.

“Would you care to elaborate on why everybody seems to know my name and my history or is this going to be a long night of twenty questions?”

Gillian smiled for the first time, it made her eyes twinkle and took years off her face. For a moment, it was easy to see she’d been beautiful when she was younger. Stop people on the streets and stare beautiful. “We know your name, Jude, because we’ve been waiting for you.”

She seemed to feel this was explanation enough and left me waiting for more. I shifted my gaze back to Williams, who gave me a look of innocence in return. I sipped my coffee and waited some more. Finally, Williams rolled his eyes and heaved a sigh.

“Apparently being mysterious and cryptic is not enough to satisfy you. Although why it should be, I have no idea.” Williams finally lifted the cup, taking a tiny sip before making a face and putting it down. “That is truly horrendous. How can you possible drink it with such a calm face?”

“Practice. Now, why don’t we start with the comment about my family? It seems you know more about them than I do.”

Williams and Gillian shared a look before Gillian placed her hands on the counter, folding them neatly together. “Do you know why you were given the name Jude Magdalyn?”

I shook my head, shrugged and shifted my legs. “The nuns simply told me my mother’s dying request had been I receive those names. They refused to tell me my mother’s name until I turned eighteen, and by the time that happened….”

“You were in Kentucky, if memory serves correctly.” Gillian nodded her head, seemingly satisfied with my answer. If anybody else in the room thought it was strange a person I’d never met knew where I’d been seven years before, they didn’t mention it. She unfolded her hands before folding them together again, something she didn’t seem aware of - I was betting she did it when nervous or uncomfortable.

“Your mother was the only daughter of a woman who herself was an only daughter, also born of an only daughter—.”

“Ok, I think I get the picture. I come from a long string of only daughters. Paternally, any clues?”

Gillian brow creased in a grandmotherly sort of frown. “The nuns made no mention of your father?”

I smiled and shook my head. The coffee had cooled to lukewarm but I was almost done with the cup, so I took another sip. “I was told my mother refused to name the father, leading the sisters to assume she was unmarried and I was illegitimate.”

“I can imagine how the nuns treated you, with such an assumption.”

I glanced at Williams’ somber face. I cocked my head, pretending to think. “Well, there was one time when Sister Mary Penitent called me a sin-filled bastard, but it was slightly deserved.”

“What could you have possibly done to deserve such an epitaph?”

I glanced at the man who’d blurted out the question. Boy, really, since he looked younger than I did, despite the massive amount of weapons strapped to his body. I grinned, something I could never not do when the memory surfaced. “I’d just called her a stultifier of young minds and a harbinger of doom and misery. If memory recalls, she’d just finished ridiculing half my English class for their inability to understand the nuances of Shakespeare’s tragedies. All of them.”

Williams coughed, the unmistakable sound of a covered laugh, while Gillian frowned and did her hand-folding thing. “Hand-fasting is recognized in only a handful of countries and religions as being a legitimate form of marriage. Your mother and father were hand-fasted and consequently any child conceived during the twelve month period is considered as legitimate as a child of a state marriage.”

“So, my parents were married, but they weren’t. Great, but who were they? Were you planning on telling me that little tidbit of info, or do I have to guess?” The coffee was gone, I still had strange people in my home, and I didn’t really have any more information about the night’s events than when I’d started out. I was getting a little annoyed, to say the least.

“Patience is a virtue.”

I set my empty coffee cup down with a thump and crossed my arms over my chest, glaring at Williams. “So is timeliness. And if it’s not, it should be. Let’s speed this up so it doesn’t take all night.”

Gillian huffed, the sound reminded me oddly enough of Sister Mary Penitent. “Very well. Your mother’s name was Martha Anne Henries. Your father’s name was Luc St. Martin.”

“If they were hand-fasted, or married, or whatever, why do I have my mother’s last name, and not my father’s?”

“Your father was murdered before they could be state-wed.”

Williams lifted his right hand, and one of the men near the windows stepped forward, pulling a large manila envelope from inside his coat. Taking it from the silent man, Williams pushed the envelope across the counter in my direction.

Curiosity is one of those things you always regret. Sooner or later, you usually end up regretting it. Mine had me hopping down from on top of the stove and reaching for the envelope. I was surprised to find my fingers shook, and opening the flap was more difficult than it should.

As soon as my fingers brushed against the top photo, I stumbled, the ferocity of it almost knocking me off my feet. I heard someone saying my name, then my fingers gripped the photos firmly and I lost it.

Huge, engulfing waves of pain lashed through my body, dropped me to my knees. The photos spilled out of the envelope, landing face down on the floor, and I thrust my hands out in an attempt to break my fall. When my hands came into contact with the photos, I felt my skin sizzle like grease in a pan. If what I’d felt before was pain, this was something nobody was meant to endure.

Images flashed through my head, some vague, some clear, all of a man with hair as dark as mine, skin as golden as mine. None of them were pleasant. Whips, knives, screws — torture apparently hasn’t gone out with the Inquisition in some circles, and murderers would be one of those circles. I felt the skin on my back open, a thin line of blood, followed by a second, and a third, until I lost count, and it dawned on me - I was experiencing what had been done to my father before I’d even been born.

I don’t know if I would have gotten the full show because a hand gripped my shoulder, pulling me to my feet. The sudden change in elevation, in addition to the shock my body had already been through, made the room swirl rapidly around me. Black began to eat at the outer edges of my vision and I cursed violently and colorfully enough to have Gillian comment, “Oh, language.”

“Fuck language, somebody catch me when I pass out.”

I was out long enough
for Williams to carry me into my bathroom and strip off my shirt. When I came to with the feel of cold tile against my bare stomach and the heavy weight of a body on my legs, I reacted without thinking - I kicked my heels up as high as possible and was rewarded with a thud and a muffled curse.

“If you’re done battering me, perhaps you’d like me to take a look at your injuries.”

Williams’ voice had me slumping as much as it was possible against the floor, and I turned my head to rest my left cheek against the tile. My own voice was thick and slurred, which told more than anything how badly I was hurt. “Sure, whatever. Knock yourself out, champ.”

“If there had been any indication your powers included such results, we would never have allowed you to handle the photos.”

A tiny part of me was glad Gillian sounded worried and apologetic. The larger part of me was pissed as hell. After everything I’d been through, I was still having to pull information out of these people like you’d pull teeth out of a chicken. An impossible task.

“Well, since it seems you apparently don’t know as much as you thought, why don’t we cut the bullshit, and you tell me what the fuck this night’s been about.” Before either Gillian or Williams could respond, I continued, “The short version. Because I’m tired as hell and would like some sleep some time tonight.”