Black And Blue: A Quentin Black Paranormal Mystery (Quentin Black Mystery Book 5)

by JC Andrijeski

  I swallowed, remembering that the colors were to commemorate the anniversary of September 11th.

  I knew why we’d come to New York. I understood Black’s reasoning.

  He wanted to make money, he’d said. He’d said making a lot of money, fast, would be a lot easier for him in New York. When he proposed the move to me, he’d explained that making a lot of money was phase one, but that he’d started on other phases, too.

  He would hunt down Brick’s resources even as he built up his own. He’d corner them, drive them underground, shine lights on them and watch them scatter. He’d use his current company to go after them even as he expanded it, under the protection of his Pentagon pals and his business ties and whoever else. He’d make it hard for them to attack us, by making us as visible as possible.

  He wanted to be untouchable.

  That’s what it felt like anyway. Black’s empire and vampire-killing army, with him directing things while he hid the two of us behind an obsidian wall.

  The money part was a detail to him. I knew he’d done it before, so for him, using his psychic ability to scam a few million––or possibly billion––off Wall Street was no big deal. He’d swum in that shark tank for years.

  Still, this was different, too.

  He’d never been so obvious about his money-making before. This was larger-scale Black. This was Black with a sense of purpose. In the past, he’d said, it was more about security and fun, about wanting enough “fuck you” money that he never had to answer to anyone, with enough left over for a ludicrously expensive private jet if he felt like it.

  Some of the reasons I sensed were less practical than he pretended, however.

  Not that I thought he was lying. But I felt the psychological tugs in him, too, the wanting of revenge mixed with fear, rage, powerlessness. Those fueled him much more than he seemed to be pretending.

  Then again, I knew Black probably knew that.

  He probably knew it better than me, but I also got why it made sense to him to go forward with his plans anyway.

  “Hey,” he said, softer. “You okay, doc?”

  I shook my head, clinging briefly to his arms, then to his shoulders. He flinched as I did, but didn’t pull away. I felt the reluctance there, the part of him that still didn’t want me to touch him, even now. Releasing him when I felt it, I bit my lip, laying my arms on the mattress instead.

  Even so, I couldn’t stop myself from looking at him. There was a bandage there, on his wrist.

  It wasn’t the first one I’d seen.

  “What did you do?” I reached for him again, unthinking.

  He pulled his wrist smoothly away, sending me a pulse of warmth, reassurance.

  “It’s nothing,” he murmured. “Another battle injury.”

  I nodded, but bit my lip, wanting to see it anyway.

  He’d been practicing a lot with swords lately, mainly with Cowboy. I knew they got pretty rough; I’d watched them do it most mornings, trying to learn by watching them. Even so, I didn’t remember him getting hit on the wrist––or on the shoulder, where I’d seen the last bandage––or the side of his abdomen, where I’d seen the third.

  I wanted to see under the bandages. I wanted to see the cuts for myself. I couldn’t articulate to myself why, but I had to fight not to reach for him again.

  His mind nudged mine, gentle. “What was the dream about, doc? Tell me about it.”

  Clasping my hands together, I held onto myself, instead of holding him. Sighing, I gazed back up at the ceiling, forcing myself to think, to remember.

  “It was her again,” I said. “I dreamt about that woman.”

  Silence. Then Black sighed, caressing the hair out of my face. “Do you still think it means something?” he said, his voice noncommittal.

  “I know her,” I said.

  My voice came out stubborn. Defensive.

  “I know her, Black. I met her somewhere, or––”

  “No, ilya. You didn’t.” He tightened his hold on me. His words remained low, softer than usual, but I heard the tension there. “Are you saying these are memories?” he said. “How could they be? You were never in that lab. You said yourself that the only vampire you spoke to while I was gone was Brick.”

  “Then they’re your memories,” I said, my words verging on accusing.

  He shook his head.

  “They’re not,” he said. “They’re just dreams, doc.” His voice grew thoughtful as he stroked my fingers. “Sometimes dreams are just dreams. Sometimes they are tapping something we fear, not something we know to be true. Maybe it’s how your mind sees that lab? Maybe it’s your fears that you or I might end up in a place like that again?”

  I was already shaking my head. “But I know her.” I turned, looking at him in the dark. “Why don’t I remember? How do I know her, Black?”

  He shook his head, wrapping a muscular around me, pulling me up against his chest.

  “You don’t,” he said simply.

  I could only look at him, the breath burning in my lungs.

  I looked at him, and wondered why he was lying to me.

  1

  CELEBRITY

  I ADMIT, I wasn’t remotely prepared for what greeted us when the car door opened.

  I think I’d more than halfway convinced myself that all the people waiting outside the studio’s glass doors, milling there on that curb and staring at the blacked-out windows of our SUV, couldn’t really be there for us.

  Black clearly didn’t harbor those delusions.

  He slipped on a pair of mirrored sunglasses as the car rolled to a stop, his whole expression changing to that of smiling-shark rich guy in a blink. Even his light felt different, that psychic energy that surrounded the mind and body of every seer, including me.

  Staring at his face, I struggled to adjust to the difference.

  The door opened in front of us before I was all the way there.

  He got out first, shielding me from the worst of it.

  Even so, I felt like a deer in headlights as cameras flashed all around us. Hand-held phones and microphones got shoved in both of our faces as questions were shouted, mostly at him, but also at me. I barely knew what was happening before we were outside the car.

  Then Black’s people appeared, surrounding us out of nowhere.

  Cowboy and Devin materialized on one side of me. Ace, Dex and Melissa appeared on the other side of Black. All of them except Cowboy wore mirrored sunglasses identical to Black’s, and I knew from the bulges in their jackets they were all carrying like Black, too.

  In that, Cowboy also remained the sole exception.

  He wore his gun on his hip in an outside holster, a massive Colt Python with a carved ivory grip he’d told me he’d gotten from his grandfather.

  I couldn’t help wondering if him wearing it like that was even legal.

  His fingers never left the gun’s handle as he scanned the crowd with his light gray eyes, shoulders hunched in a beat up jean jacket and faded T-shirt.

  As for Black himself, he moved so gracefully, I barely made sense of what he was doing. Before I could attempt to field a single question shouted in my direction, he’d inserted the bulk of his body between me and the crush of reporters. I followed the direction of his hands numbly, stepping behind him at the prompting of his fingers and the angling of his long body.

  What the hell were all of them doing here?

  Get used to it, doc, Black answered grimly in my mind, although I hadn’t aimed my stray thought at him. You knew what going this route would mean. I warned you.

  Swallowing, I didn’t answer.

  I had known. Like many things in life, however, the reality was different.

  I stared up at the skyscraper we were about to enter, feeling my nerves worsen. I hadn’t been thrilled with a lot of aspects of Black’s new “strategy” to be honest. I knew after today, after what Black was about to do inside that building, there would be no turning back.

  “No questions right now,
please...” Black held up a hand, flashing that killer grin of his. Mirrored sunglasses hid his eyes from the video screens recording us from all sides. “Folks, please. We’re running late. I’m sorry, we don’t have time to chat right now.”

  Even as he said it, motion caught my eye and I turned.

  Black’s lawyer, Lawrence Farraday––“Larry” as he insisted I call him––hurried up to us through the crowd, managing to squeeze his way through the crush of bodies and cameras despite his relatively small form. He had two bulky security guards in tow, presumably hired by the studio, but they appeared to be following Larry, rather than the reverse.

  As per usual, he had an expensive-looking briefcase clutched in front of him like a shield.

  He looked harried, though. His bad toupee was even more ruffled on his head than usual, looking more like dried grass that needed mowing than real hair. His gray suit looked like it might have been period-wear from the 1960s, and his shoes were cheap tennis shoes you might find in a bargain bin at a department store. The latter were so big they bunched up the pleats of his dress pants, making them even more noticeable.

  Despite his appearance, he was one of the best lawyers in the business.

  I’d known his name even on the West Coast, from some of the high profile cases he’d won in New York.

  Like Black, he seemed determined to make people underestimate him.

  “Thank God you’re here,” he huffed, his face redder than usual in the fall air. “Come inside, come inside...” he said, waving us forward. “No questions!” he snapped, glaring around at the reporters. “No questions right now! Leave Mr. Black alone!”

  “Larry, Larry.” Black smiled his widest. “Don’t harass the fine people of the press! They are one of the foundational pillars of our very society!”

  A few reporters laughed, shaking their heads at Black’s remark.

  Unfazed, Farraday tapped the face of his watch with a crooked finger. “You’re late,” he told Black. “Security needs to clear your team before I can let them backstage.” He looked at me, smiling for the first time. “Except Miri, of course. You and she are both on the list already.”

  “Is he here?” Black said.

  “Inside. I have a new list of questions. He made a few changes.”

  Black nodded.

  He turned, guiding me in front of him towards the path Farraday just cleared. I took my first step towards him when a leggy blond reporter stepped in front of me, blocking my way and shoving a microphone in Black’s face.

  “How did you do it, Mr. Black?” she said coyly. I glanced up and back, saw her smiling at him with full, pink lips, her eyes conspiratorial. “Do you have a system you work with? Some kind of model? Are you going to share your secret with the rest of us?”

  I heard the subtext of her question and tensed.

  When I glanced at Black however, he only gave her a brief look, smirked.

  “No,” he said.

  “Aww, come on,” she cajoled. “They say you just broke the record for single-day trading for the last seven years. Now this thing with oil prices? You can’t pretend that’s just dumb luck––”

  “We all have good days.”

  I winced. Black, I warned softly. A terrorism attack is not to be referred to as a “good day,” no matter how much you profit from it...

  He changed course smoothly.

  “...Of course, what happened in Texas is horrible,” he added. “It’s a terrible, unspeakable tragedy, so you can’t exactly put that in the same camp as a few other good guesses on the market I might have had. No one ever wants to profit off something like that.”

  That better? he asked me softly.

  I fought not to roll my eyes. And you wonder why Nick thought you were a sociopath when he first met you.

  The reporter snorted. “Good guesses? Good days? Please. Four hundred million on dumb luck? You know they’re calling you the Rock Star of Wall Street now? That there are websites devoted to figuring out what system you’re using to beat the futures markets?”

  He grinned. “Of course I know that. I’m here, aren’t I?”

  Again, I fought not to roll my eyes.

  The reporter let out a snort, half humor and half disbelief.

  I might have done the same if I were her.

  Black was already moving away from her, gripping my arm tightly in his hand as he kept me in front of him, wedged between his body and Cowboy’s.

  He gave her a dismissive wave as he turned.

  “We really don’t have time, Miss. I’m sorry.”

  “Who’s the friend you’re hiding there, Mr. Black?” she shouted after him, as we moved away. “Is she your girlfriend?”

  Black stopped at that, turning his head.

  Looking down at me, his face grew serious briefly, his lips pursing in a faint frown. Then he looked back at the reporter, a faint smile visible on the corner of his lips.

  “No,” he said.

  Without another word, he turned his back on her, leading me with him through the crowd. Once Cowboy and Dex moved in front of us, clearing a wider path, Black pulled me against him, both hands on my shoulders as he slid closer to me, so that we walked almost like one person. Something about his energy grew denser once he’d done that, and whatever it was, it seemed to keep reporters from getting close to either of us, but especially me.

  Thanks for that, doc, he sent to me softly. I guess I need to step up those “Acting Human 101” courses of yours... apparently it’s not rubbing off in osmosis as much as I’d hoped.

  Grunting, I didn’t answer.

  He added, The problem is, I tend to react to what people are actually thinking, not what they say. A lot of them don’t give a shit regardless of what they say, doc.

  It’s not always about caring in the moment, Black––

  I know, social fabric. Feigned empathy. Blah, blah, blah.

  It’s not all feigned, I sent back, warning.

  I know. He squeezed my hand, sending me a pulse of heat laced with a softer apology. I know you care, doc. And you’re right, other people do, too. I just don’t run into a lot of the caring types in my “rich douchebag” circles, as Cowboy calls them.

  Glancing up at him, I didn’t answer.

  Feeling him there briefly, meaning the real Black, under the celebrity mask, I found myself focusing on that, instead. Turning over what he’d said, along with the look I’d seen on his face before he answered the woman’s last question, I tried to decide how he was doing.

  He was certainly acting like everything was okay. He acted like that more all the time, but weirdly, the lighter his outside demeanor, the more I doubted whether that facade was real.

  I couldn’t help but be conscious of the protectiveness emanating off him even here, as he ushered me those last few steps from the curb to the studio’s glass doors. That intensity might have been smothering, even unnerving, coming from anyone else.

  Coming from him though, I have to say, I liked it. I liked it a lot.

  More than liked it. Truthfully, I was starved for it.

  When it came to our physical relationship––as well as the part of our relationship where we shared “light,” what he called the psychic energy that tended to feature prominently in our sex life––he’d been keeping me at arm’s length for weeks.

  I understood, I really did. The logical part of my mind understood it, at least.

  He’d been through hell. He had a right to physical autonomy right now, even more so than usual. He’d had it taken from him forcibly in that prison for weeks.

  But the less-rational part of my mind was a lot less... well, rational about it. Even now, in front of all these people, I had to fight not to push him for more. That part of me was aggressive, demanding, wanting to merge with him in a way that didn’t wholly make sense to my analytical mind. It also wanted him open, authentically himself. It wanted him with me––and outside of the increasingly dense wall he wore around his person like a living shield.

/>   Whatever part of me screamed for that, it didn’t strike me as particularly understanding about Black’s need for personal space.

  Even being cocooned in his light for just those few precious seconds managed to relax something in me so intensely it might have embarrassed me if I could bring myself to care. I could feel the parts of me that wanted that from him, that demanded it now that he was letting me feel him, even as other parts of my more logical mind continued to struggle with the sheer aggression behind that drive.

  Relax, doc. He sent warmth over me. Relax... we’re good. Everything’s good.

  Even so, I felt him withdraw slightly again.

  Once he had, I had to bite my lip to keep from snapping at him.

  I was still fighting those competing pulls as we entered the glass revolving door, which spit us out into a carpeted lobby with a two-story ceiling. A massive chandelier hung from the middle of a round mosaic in the ceiling’s center. To our left stood the reception desk and the ticket counter, along with a coat check and security.

  I knew in two hours or so, this same lobby would be teeming with people. We’d driven past the queue on the way in, so I knew it would be a packed house. Black told me some of them had been queued up since midday. Apparently corporate tickets started going for three times the listed price after Black was announced as the featured guest.

  Thinking about that brought another stab of panic.

  Forcing my mind still, I followed the staircases with my eyes, noting those that led to the dark red double doors that fed into the auditorium. I was still gazing around when more shouts came from the door, as a few of the reporters tried to get into the lobby past security.

  Farraday caught hold of my arm.

  I thought he was pulling me away from the tumult outside, but he surprised me, bringing me into his arms for a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

  “It’s so good to see you, Miriam,” he beamed, holding my arms. “I’ve missed you terribly in San Francisco. You look beautiful, as usual! Positively glowing, my dear! And that’s a lovely outfit to wear here.”

  I glanced down at the long skirt I wore and scoop-necked blouse. Truthfully, given all the fanfare outside, I felt completely under-dressed. I should have listened to Black’s fashion consultant, Jonas, who wanted me to wear a gold mini-dress, probably in part to match Black’s eyes. The damned thing made me look half-naked, though, especially when the light shone on it from behind.