Hell or High Water (The Devil's Daughter Book 4)

by G A Chase

  A police cruiser with siren blaring barreled up behind her. She let off the gas and pulled politely toward the side of the narrow road. Instead of continuing on his way, the cop turned abruptly in front of her and slammed on the brakes. Both snakes stuck their heads out of the saddlebags and started hissing at the bright swirling lights.

  “Okay. Maybe you two did have a point about wanting to keep Riley’s rifle, but it wasn’t yours. You just claimed it.”

  Even if she’d had the weapon, shooting a cop wasn’t really an option. She scanned the residential neighborhood and saw only one person outside, an old woman weeding her yard, but there were faces in the windows. Getting into a fight would only end in a full-on war with the city’s police force. Even the fact that she was armed with her usual assortment of weapons might be seen as provocative. Before the cops got out of their cruiser, she checked that her shotgun was still stashed in the bedroll under her headlight. She covertly pulled the knife from her boot and dropped it into her saddlebag.

  One cop walked up to her with his thumbs tucked in the black leather belt of his tight uniform slacks. “License and registration.” His companion continued past her as if expecting her to have help on the way.

  “I don’t have either of those things.”

  The cop pulled out a pad and feverishly scribbled down some notes. “Do you have any idea how fast you were going?”

  One of the things she liked about Joe’s homemade motorcycle was the lack of any kind of gauges. She waved at the handlebars. “No speedometer.”

  He flipped his cop notepad closed and rested his hand on the butt of his revolver. “Step off the bike and put your hands out to your sides.”

  Fighting was still an option, but like chess players, the cops were closing off her means of attack. “Can’t you just write me a ticket?”

  He grabbed her arm, yanked her off the bike, and roughly ran his hands over her like a drunk college freshman trying to figure out how to get his date out of her clothes. The aggressive move made her want to fight even more, but the second cop already had his gun out of its holster. “She’s clean. You’re coming with us, Sere Mal-Laurette.”

  Of course you know who I am. She had to admire his timing. Had he let on that he recognized her while she was still at the controls of the Triton, she could have made an escape—not that she usually worried about running from a good fight.

  “Did Marjory Laroque send you?”

  He latched the handcuffs behind her back. With the second cop standing guard, the first cop gripped her bicep and forced her into the back of the police car. “You’d be advised to keep your mouth shut if you know what’s good for you.”

  Time was getting away from her, and she could only guess what new critters were going to emerge from the swamp at midnight. “And you’d be wise to let me go,” she said as the two took their seats in the front of the car.

  “Not gonna happen. There’s someone who wants to have a little chat with you.” The second officer laughed at what must have been an inside joke. As the first policeman laid into the gas, Sere fell against the back of the bench seat. She peered over the edge and saw her two snakes coiled on the handlebars. I hope you two are just planning on protecting the bike. Don’t go getting any stupid ideas about trying to drive it.

  The huge doors of the Mardi Gras float-storage warehouse opened as if by command when the police car swung into the concrete parking lot. The cop didn’t even stop but drove straight down the line of garishly painted floats until he reached the office at the end. Both officers got out of the car before opening her door.

  Once again, they took up the tactical stance of having one cop stand backup in case she decided to fight it out. The guy who’d grabbed her arm was really starting to annoy her, but that feeling was possibly the result of her suppressing her desire for combat. He forced her through the office door.

  Sitting at the desk, reading the Times-Picayune, was former chief of police Gerald Laroque. He folded up the paper and set it on the desk. “You can leave us, Jefferies.”

  “I was told not to let her out of my sight,” the policeman responded stiffly.

  The former chief clasped his hands on top of the paper like he was giving a lecture. “She’s handcuffed in a building teaming with cops. She’s not going anywhere, but if it makes you feel better, you can listen from outside the door.” His voice of command made it clear he expected immediate compliance. Though in his eighties and twenty years retired from the force, he hadn’t lost any of his aura of authority.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Once the man had left, Gerald pulled out his revolver along with a box of bullets and set them on the desk. “Marjory has offered me immortality.”

  From the moment Sere had read Joe’s letter about trusting the former police chief, she’d known her faith in her mentor’s recommendation would bite her in the ass eventually. “I thought she was focusing on Devlin.”

  “My nephew is merely a test subject. If Marjory succeeds with that boy, he’ll become a foot soldier. He was never destined for the power he craves.”

  “Why are you telling me?” she asked.

  He pulled one of the bullets from the box and set it in front of her. “You weren’t the only one Andy supplied with paranormal ammunition. You really should have searched the area for something else he might have left behind.”

  Sere wasn’t a fan of fear—it seldom served any useful purpose—but the sight of the box of bullets capable of disconnecting her from Jennifer and freeing her soul for the loas of the dead to harvest made her take a half step back toward the door. “If you’re going to shoot me, just get it over with.”

  “That’s not how this works. You’ve been invited to a private soiree. Together, we’ll see if Marjory is capable of creating an immortal as she claims. If she is, then I’m to shoot you as a sign of my fidelity to her mission.”

  If she’s testing him, she must not fully trust him, which means maybe I shouldn’t discount his loyalty to Joe. She shuffled closer to the desk. Even though she always kept the four-barreled shotgun Joe had worked up for her fully loaded, the presence of the pellets from hell put her on edge, like feedback from an amplifier. However, even as she stood with her legs against the desk, she didn’t feel anything from inside the copper bullet.

  “I don’t have anything to wear.”

  He laughed, got up, and unlocked her handcuffs. “I knew I liked you. I tell you you’re going to die, and what you most worry about is what you’ll be wearing. There’s a wardrobe storeroom through the back door of this office. There’s only the one door, so don’t get any clever ideas of escaping. I know about your unwillingness to lie, so give me your word that you’ll behave, and I won’t send Jefferies along to keep an eye on you. Most of the Mardi Gras riders’ outfits back there are somewhat garish, but I trust you’ll find something suitable. But don’t take all night deciding. Marjory doesn’t forgive tardiness.”

  She nodded her acceptance of his terms.

  Sere had never bothered with fancy dresses. The storm in hell made such frivolities a handicap. As she walked down the row of period wear that looked like a carnival version of what her mother might have worn in the 1800s, she wondered if having her wear one of the costumes was Gerald’s way of limiting her mobility.

  She inspected each elegant dress for some unforeseen tactical advantage. She felt along the tattered top of the corset of a sequined purple gown. The row of metal stays that kept it rigid poked above the stitching. She pulled out one of the flexible shafts and ran her finger along the dull edge. It wouldn’t make much of a weapon, but it was better than nothing. To fight, however, would require her being free of the dress, and pulling out the interwoven lace at the back would take all night, even if it did result in a mile of cord usable for strangling or binding. She snugged the stay back into its pocket.

  What she really wanted was something along the lines of a pirate outfit. It needed to be steampunky enough that she could stash a weapon in it and hav
e people think it was just a prop but, more importantly, fit close enough to her body that she could fight or at least get out of the damn thing without needing an assistant. They must keep those outfits in another warehouse, she thought.

  After ten minutes of inspecting dresses, she realized they must have all been made to similar specifications, if not by the same dressmaker. She settled on a yellowish-cream number that would have been understated next to half the dresses she’d looked at but would probably still stand out in an elegant ballroom. She set her leather jacket on the cushioned bench and scrunched out of her boots, jeans, and halter top.

  Crawling under the mile of overlapping cloth was more disorienting than fighting stalkers in the dark. This is like putting on a fucking tent. Once she had the uncomfortable dress facing the right direction, she looked at her boots in dismay. “What the hell was I thinking? I’ll never get you on while I’m wearing this thing.” She walked to the end of the aisle and looked over the selection of shoes. The high-heeled stilettoes appealed to her lust for weapons, but wearing them would likely end up with her on her ass. She chose a pair of comfortable flats instead. Maneuverability beat having a potential spike any day.

  The wall-size mirror beyond the rows of garments made the storeroom look even larger than it was. She stood in front of the glass and adjusted the corset. “I wonder what Bart would think.” She pushed her boobs higher into the support cups. “Jeez, a half hour among elegant gowns, and I’m acting like a debutant.”

  Though she’d run her tactical analysis of the room when she first entered, she did a second sweep as she returned to her jeans, top, and jacket. The cops who’d taken her in had patted her down but hadn’t bothered confiscating the phone wrapped in silk gloves that was still in the pocket of her jacket.

  She snatched a garter belt from the shelf and hunched up the dress. Within the mile of fabric, the cell phone secured against her thigh would be completely hidden. As a final touch, she smoothed the silk gloves up her arms.

  The family crest on the side of the large black limousine made the car look as fake as the clothing Sere wore. Gerald, however, in his elegant tuxedo, looked like he’d been born to wear the outfit. He opened the back door for her. “After you.” Even as an abductor, the man had manners.

  She did what she could to contain the dress as she squeezed through the door and plopped onto the worn leather of the back seat. “Is all this made-up show really necessary?”

  At six feet tall, pushing three hundred pounds and eighty-plus years of age, Gerald eased into the limo like it had been custom-tailored for him. “We all have our roles to play.”

  The non-answer left Sere wondering if she’d ever figure out which side he was playing for. As two uniformed police officers followed their former chief into the limo, she realized he might be just as trapped as she was. During the short ride, she peered through the tinted glass, trying to figure out how to get a message to Bart, but the family limousine working its way through the streets of the Quarter didn’t attract any attention.

  Just as well, she thought. I can handle this on my own. With Bart next to me, I’d be constantly worried about him. The bravado, however, didn’t ease her longing to have him near.

  At the grand promenade in front of the bank, Gerald escorted her out of the limo and past the eight-foot-tall bronze sculpture of Baron Malveaux that dominated the stone-slab-covered veranda. With the old man’s hand at her back, she felt like he was chaperoning her to her first cotillion.

  “Would you mind not walking so close? I know you’ve got your goons behind every hedge. I give you my word I won’t try to escape.”

  “Impressions are everything in this city,” he said. “I can’t have anyone thinking you weren’t anything but thrilled to be here.”

  She couldn’t stop fixating on the bullets. Gerald could have made the switch himself—that was the most logical answer. But even if he had, his assumed support could still be a trap to draw her off guard. He needed Sere to come along willingly to the bank, and letting her sense that the bullets weren’t a threat would have been the perfect way to gain her silent cooperation.

  If Gerald hadn’t made the switch, her calculations became considerably more complicated. Someone would have to be running a con on the old man. Andy led her short list of suspects. It would be just like that little twerp to double-cross his employers. By not putting the paranormal rocks into the bullets, he might have thought he could blackmail the Laroques. He was just foolish enough to have tried. But with the professor’s old lab assistant nothing more than dust in hell, he was no longer a threat.

  The next most likely answer as to why the bullets in Gerald’s gun didn’t give her the willies was that Marjory might have had something to do with it. Though that was the most complicated of Sere’s theories, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the powerful woman had a hidden agenda when it came to her brother. Marjory was suspicion personified. Making Gerald commit cold-blooded murder in front of her and the police contingent would put him at his sister’s mercy, but the threat of using the officers’ testimony against him would only work if Sere didn’t disintegrate before the cops’ eyes. And if he did shoot her with enough bullets to knock her out, Sere might wake up in the vault as Marjory’s personal lab rat.

  Games within games. Sounds like something that bitch would think up.

  Not that it mattered who was behind the fake bullets. If Sere was to stop the next raising of the devil, accepting Gerald’s delivery of her into Marjory’s hands was her best shot at getting close enough to use the gloves. She just hoped Marjory hadn’t discovered the paranormal pellet during her rebuilding of Devlin.

  The grand doors of the bank were opened by two more uniformed police officers in full regalia. From the stiffly erect postures and furtive looks in the chief’s direction, it was clear they were in awe of him and nervous about performing the simple duty to someone they revered. The message to Sere was unmistakable; there was no escape.

  Her flowing yellow ball gown swept the floor as he guided her over the marble entry and up the half flight of stairs to the main room. No one had searched her after she’d exited the hall of gowns. She found it hard to believe that had simply been an oversight. I’m driving myself crazy with all of these conspiracy theories.

  “You look quite lovely.” Gerald leaned toward her, revealing the patent-leather gun holster under his jacket that matched his dress shoes and belt so well that it could have been sold as a suit accessory.

  By contrast, Sere felt like a tomboy dressed up to look like a Disney princess. “You’ve found a unique way of keeping me from fighting. It’s hard enough just walking in this thing.”

  He nodded to another uniformed cop at the reception desk in front of a row of elevators. The man smartly returned the greeting, put a key in a lock, and moved aside. The wall of marble slabs behind the desk parted to reveal an ornate lift that could have been left over from the days when Baron Malveaux ran the bank.

  “Your sister is waiting downstairs,” the cop said.

  “Of course she is,” Gerald muttered as he ushered Sere into the walnut-paneled elevator. The power play was subtle but unmistakable. After eighty years of coordination, competition, and conspiracies, every word and action between the siblings was calculated to reinforce the dominant party. And for the last twenty years—since the day Gerald had accepted retirement over confrontation—Marjory had held the commanding hand. Sere might be little more than a pawn in their game of power, but if played right, even a pawn could take down a queen.

  The elevator doors opened to two more police officers. “I hope you didn’t drain the entire department simply to impress me,” Sere said.

  “Marjory likes a nice show. Now, please keep quiet.”

  Again, she couldn’t tell if his command was a threat or a warning. I sure as hell hope you’re on my side. Being in the dark meant Sere could believe she at least had a fighting chance at his help.

  Marjory swept across the concrete floor in
a shimmering black-silk dress. The gown managed to downplay the woman’s age by not showing too much skin while at the same time highlighting the woman’s strength with starkly straight lines. She held out her hand sheathed in a long black glove that extended halfway from her elbow to her shoulder. “At last.”

  Gerald made a show of taking her hand and bending slightly to kiss it. “Shall we get on with it?”

  Though the floor had been scrubbed clean of the blood and guts Sere had spilled from Marjory’s devil and demons, the concrete pillars still bore the marks of missed sword strikes. Two final guards stood on either side of the table. From their clear eyes, Sere could tell they weren’t demons. If worse comes to worst, I’ll be facing four guards with guns in the basement, Gerald—who’s old but far from infirm, with a gun he’ll be overly confident about—and the version of Devlin that Marjory lets out of the vault. And me without my knife. Even in this stupid dress, those aren’t the worst odds I’ve ever faced.

  “You remember our agreement?” Marjory asked as if addressing a schoolboy.

  “Of course, my dear sister. If Devlin emerges, as you advertise he will—and if I’m convinced this isn’t all a trick—I’ll dispatch Sere Mal-Laurette. Our nephew will be the only immortal until I undergo the change.”

  “And once you do, you’ll perform the same procedure on me,” she said. “Think of it. We’ll shave twenty years off of our ages, and with our regenerative properties, our sixties will feel more like forties. I could live with being in my forties for eternity. You and I will be gods.”

  “One step at a time,” he said.

  Marjory turned and waved at a bundle wrapped in black plastic and secured to a dolly. “Would you burly gentlemen mind wheeling my nephew into the cabinet?” She had all the showmanship of a tawdry magician.

  The guards standing next to the table hopped to it as if the command had come from the chief. In the power play between brother and sister, Marjory might be in control, but when it came to the strongmen she relied on, she still had to trust Gerald. I dare not kill any of these men until I know which side he’s on. To know who to fight, Sere would have to wait until more cards were played between the siblings.