by Jeanne Rose
“I don’t need an excuse,” Mahooty blustered. “I’m the law and you’re –”
“Let’s see your warrant for his arrest,” Mara insisted.
“He arrested Naha?” one of the onlookers murmured. “What for?”
“Thinks he can do anything he wants,” another said, louder.
Though Mara despised Mahooty, knew him for the creep he was, she felt no other sense of recognition. He was what he seemed – a bully and nothing more.
He wasn’t the one.
“You’re not going to mess with me, Mahooty.” Luke took a threatening step closer. “Or your butt’ll be in jail.”
“Hey, getting you out of the way wasn’t my idea,” he protested.
Mara immediately picked up on the implication. “Then there was no warrant for Luke’s arrest.”
“Somebody paid me to get Naha out of the way,” Mahooty admitted. “He’s in the clear.”
“Who paid you?” Luke pressed. “Whose idea was it?”
Mahooty clenched his jaw as if he wasn’t talking. But the moment Luke grabbed his shirtfront, the coward gave in. “All right, all right. Tom Chalas paid me to get you out of the way.”
A murmur set around them as Mara met Luke’s gaze.
“Let’s go,” he said, taking her arm. “We’ve found our man.”
Glancing back, Mara realized the spectators were following them and waving to others in their yards or on porches to do the same.
“It makes sense,” she said as they rushed toward the grocery store. “I should have picked up the clues. Tom Chalas is a sick man whose art speaks to war rather than against it.” She remembered the slides of the sculptures that revealed his twisted mind. “If only I’d recognized who he really was when I saw his artwork . . .”
The Spanish captain, Francisco Castillo.
“You could have what?”
“Maybe saved Rebecca.”
Luke threw her a disbelieving look. “You didn’t even know who you were. You can’t blame yourself. And I’m speaking from experience. I’ve lived with guilt far too long. I finally had to accept that it was actually paint rags that caused the fire in Arizona. I’ve harbored a lot of anger in my life but I’m neither an arsonist, nor a killer.”
They flew into the grocery store only to be stopped cold. Empty.
She closed her eyes. Concentrated. “He’s here.”
“The back room.”
They rushed past counters of canned and packaged goods to the door on the opposite end of the store even as residents of the pueblo trailed through the entrance after them.
In the back room, Chalas was sprawled out on the floor, the top buttons of his shirt undone. As Luke knelt to feel for a pulse, Mara noted something slithering into the shadows of the supply boxes. A snake? Or a sacred spirit?
Moving closer, she recognized the marks at the base of Chalas’s neck – two pinpricks like those made by fangs. She checked the shadows to be careful, though she knew in her heart that this snake wouldn’t hurt anyone else. If the rattler did appear, was real, she or Luke would pick it up and release the creature into the desert.
Shuffling noises came from behind her as other people crowded the doorway.
“He’s still alive.”
Even as Luke made the pronouncement, Chalas’s eyelids fluttered open. His eyes were glazed over and his breathing was shallow.
“Someone get an anti-venom kit,” Mara said, fighting her revulsion to the evil she felt filling the room. “Call an ambulance.”
“Don’t . . . bother.” Eyes hooded, Tom Chalas was staring straight at her. “You won . . . never make it to a hospital.”
Distressed, Mara said, “It didn’t have to come to this. Why did you purposely try to destroy your people?”
“My people? Ha! They held me back . . . elders said too weak to be wise or have visions.” Chalas’s laughter was broken by a cough. “Showed them.”
“Your hatred for the Kisi had nothing to do with this life,” Luke stated. “It’s part of a three hundred year old vendetta. You couldn’t let go.”
“You have to let go, to forgive yourself,” Mara said urgently, afraid he might give up the last of life before he could do so. “Or we’ll spend three more centuries playing the tragedy over and over, and you’ll never be free.”
She realized all three of them had been dealing with guilt through several lifetimes. Guilt that condemned her to being a white woman and her Comanche lover and the Spanish captain to being Kisi.
“Don’t want this to go on . . .” Chalas was saying, a whistling sound punctuating his words.
“Then forgive yourself,” she urged.
“Yes, forgive . . .” The last word he uttered faded into nothing.
And Mara felt the evil lift from the room.
Chalas was dead. She only hoped his soul was finally at rest.
Luke found a blanket and covered the body. Then he put an arm around Mara and led her from the room. Onlookers parted and made way. One of the men offered to see to the paramedics when they finally arrived.
Mara allowed herself to be led back to the house as if in a dream. Once there, Luke shared the news with his mother and grandmother. Onida left the room to make some tea.
“He didn’t have to die,” Mara said, pacing the length of the room. “If only he had seen the truth and asked for forgiveness before it was too late.”
“No one person is to blame for anything that happened,” Isabel assured her, already looking stronger, more like the fierce woman Mara had first met. “Evil is allowed to exist when all do not work together for balance in the universe. There will be true peace in the world only when everything works in harmony. Light and dark, earth and sky, male and female . . .” On the last she stood, a knowing smile curving her lips, and moved toward the doorway. “Onida needs me in the kitchen.”
Staring after his grandmother, Luke echoed, “Male and female, indeed.” And then he turned to Mara. “Do you think we could work together?”
Together. The word thrilled her. She’d been alone for so very long. “Toward peace in the universe?”
“Healing the Kisi would be a good start. Grandmother is the only spiritual leader left and she may not have long on this earth. Our people need guidance to come back from the curse.”
“I wouldn’t know where or how to begin.”
“We’ve already begun.” He took her in his arms, though he held her at a distance so he could gaze into her eyes. “We could continue together . . . as man and wife.”
Her eyes rounded and her heart thrummed. “You want to marry me?”
“I’ve loved you for you for more than three hundred years, Mara.” His eyes, his voice held heat. “Isn’t it time you finally told me you won’t make me wait any longer?”
“Oh, God, no longer, please!”
She threw her arms around Luke’s neck. In her heart, Mara knew that, finally, the guilt of the past was vanquished. Their kiss was filled with hope for a lifetime of promise. Together. Always together from now on.
Three hundred years was longer than anyone should have to wait for love.
GOODNIGHT, MY LOVE
Jeanne Rose
HE ONLY CAME TO HER AFTER DARK
From the first moment Adriana Thorn felt Valentin Kadar’s touch, she was drawn to him with a desire so intense it made her burn like liquid fire through her veins. Then someone, or something, began stalking the people closest to her. Was it coincidence that the terror began when Valentin came into her life? And why had she never seen her mysterious lover in the light of day?
Copyright © 2011 by Patricia Pinianski & Linda Sweeney
GOODNIGHT, MY LOVE
was originally print-published
Other digital novels now available from Jeanne Rose
originally print-published
THE PRINCE OF AIR & DARKNESS
HEART OF DREAMS
GOODNIGHT, MY LOVE
Jeanne Rose
PROLOGUE
“NIGHT, THE ETERNAL, the elemental, owns the earth. Night wraps reality with dreams and great, starry wings.
The sun rises and the sun sets, but its fires burn far away. The sun merely visits. After dark, the city flares like a tiny flame in the all-encompassing blackness. Closer, the blaze splinters into a multitude of lights, an electric net that stretches for miles upon miles.
But nothing catches the night.
Night breathes. Night beats like a heart.
Hear the throb of traffic, the rumble of the subway deep beneath the ground.
Night needs. Night demands.
Feel your pulse quicken, your breath rise and fall.
Night lives.
Night wears another face . . . sometimes dangerous, often thrilling, always timeless in its beauty.
If you know this, you know me.
Meet me after dark. . .”
The FM broadcast segued into music, an old Doors number that started slow, then rose in tempo and volume, finally obliterating the soft, sensuous female voice.
Though the woman had already imprinted herself on his soul.
He knew her.
Adriana Thorn was the deejay at After Dark, a popular dance club located in downtown Chicago. He’d tuned in for the first time last week, inadvertently catching a midnight show transmitted from that establishment.
Adriana called herself ‘The Daughter of the Night’ and gave poetic monologues so riveting, she’d doubtlessly put the club on the city entertainment map. No wonder a radio station had decided to send her lush voice zinging along the airwaves for an hour every Saturday night.
He sat back in his chair, allowing himself to conjure Adriana in his imagination. He felt certain she possessed large smoky eyes, rich dark hair, full lips . . . and, of course, a long graceful throat. She’d be intelligent, as well as naturally, beautifully sensual. Her pale skin would smell like hot house blooms and be as velvety smooth to the touch. Her taste . . .
He stopped at that. No use torturing himself.
And with a bitter smile, he rose to pace about the huge, empty, darkened room. No lamps, no flames in the great maw of a fireplace, not even a candle. He didn’t need them.
The dim glow of the streetlights through cracked, latticed window panes produced more than enough illumination.
As usual, restless in the deep night hours, he decided to go out for a walk. Approaching the fireplace mantle, he switched the radio off and picked up his dark glasses.
Outside, on the porch of the decaying Victorian mansion, he carefully locked the door behind him. Not that anyone would try to break in, not after the way he’d handled the last would-be thief.
The old floorboards should squeak beneath his feet. But they didn’t. His step was light.
He left and headed down the sidewalk, which seemed surprisingly deserted, especially for the seedy center of Uptown on a warm spring night. Only a drunk staggered out of his way as he glided onward, passing apartment buildings with doorways that smelled of urine and lower windows that were boarded up.
At the end of the block, the business district started and he put on the dark glasses which protected his sensitive eyes from neon glare. Several men argued outside a bar, while a woman wearing tight shorts and long earrings tried to flag down a car. ‘Bang Me, Baby’ sparkled in sequins across her rear.
As he stared at the hooker, she paused for a moment, turning to see what or who had attracted her attention. But she didn’t really notice him, merely sensed his subtle, fleeting presence. As did the men, who suddenly decided to take their argument elsewhere.
Again the sardonic smile. They needn’t worry. He hadn’t been dangerous for years . . . at least not most of the time.
And he never drew attention to himself unless he wanted it.
Tonight he craved nothing from the scrabble of people who drove up and down these streets or called to each other from open windows and doors.
Night wears another face.
Well, this one was painted . . . with cheap makeup.
He longed for more elegant darkness.
A few blocks farther, his acute hearing picked up the soft lapping call of the lake. Passing a bank whose clock showed it to be nearly one a.m., he crossed a street, traversed an underpass and finally stood on the sandy beach. Waves swept in, along with a light, swirling fog.
Above, a white moon slid behind a bank of charcoal clouds. Downtown Chicago beckoned, a curve of glittering radiance across the black water.
He savored the beauty.
If you know this, you know me.
The wind gusted and plucked at the edges of his jacket, fluttering the material like wings.
He thought of her, her lush voice, her obvious passion for the element in which he loved and lived.
Meet me after dark.
Cynicism fought desire and lost.
He would accept the invitation.
CHAPTER ONE
At one in the morning, Adriana Thorn took off her headphones and pushed her chair back with a relieved sigh. The radio broadcast was over. She’d had experience with the medium some years before, having worked as a deejay at an obscure AM station in the suburbs, yet sending her voice out into the stratosphere always made her feel a bit disoriented.
She preferred a more tangible audience like that of After Dark. The glass walls of the club’s sound booth separated her and the crowd outside, but she could gauge their reactions to her monologues and mixes, could feel she was interacting with them. A nonconformist who’d never quite fit in with her family, a night person continually at odds with the world’s daytime schedule, she appreciated company in the dark hours.
Making sure the stack of CD’s was ready for her next set, she left the booth, locking it behind her. On Saturdays, a live band played for the next hour or so. Tonight, the rock group that had been scheduled was running late, still setting up. A skinny guitarist strutted past, his shirt open to the waist, his hair long. He tossed wild strands back from his face and gave Adriana the eye. “Hiya, Babe. Catch you for a drink later?”
She smiled. “We’ll see.”
Which was probably enough to discourage such a pretty young man. She’d outgrown his type – the kind who thought the earth and its female population revolved around him.
Though she was still attracted to men who did most of their living at night. She’d dated her share of musicians and actors. Once she’d even gotten involved with a cop. World-weary and street-smart, he’d exuded an aura of danger which had fascinated her.
Danger.
She had to be careful. Her last romance with a free-spirited performance artist had left her broke and a little afraid, both reasons for her moving in with her older sister Jennifer.
She observed the crowd as she skirted the dance floor. Beneath soaring Gothic-style eaves, the usual Saturday night revelers boogied with their weekend dates. Laughter rippled around her and smiles sparkled in the dim light. There would be requests later, selections easy enough to come up with. Adriana wouldn’t be experimenting with anything unusual like she did on week nights – mixes of different types of music blended with special effects like owl hoots and wolf howls. Not that she still possessed all the records and tapes and CD’s she’d once had since her collection had been stolen.
Frank Nieman, the club’s manager, waved and pushed his way through the throng to slide an arm about her shoulders. “Great work.” A nervous man with a slight accent, he wore black wire-rimmed glasses and a gray-streaked pony-tail. “I don’t know where you get your ideas, but that monologue was phenomenal.”
“Sometimes I read poetry before I go to sleep.” Reading at night being a hobby she’d pursued since childhood when her parents had made her go to bed too early and she’d sneaked a flashlight under the covers. “Don’t expect the same caliber of material at two. I save the best for the broadcast.”
“Leave modesty to those without your brilliance.”
Adriana returned Frank’s grin. It was nice to be appreciated. Further
more, she considered the manager a friend, though she sometimes thought he’d like to be more. When he took his leave, she strolled toward the massive doors opening into the lounge area of After Dark. The smaller space was situated near the entrance of the building that had once been an auditorium.
A long, curving bar in the shape of a quarter moon dominated one end of the room, while the adjoining area featured candle-lit booths and a gypsy fortune-teller whose dark red curls were wrapped with a bright scarf. Noting that her pal Irina Murphy was busy reading Tarot cards for a couple of customers, Adriana sauntered over to the bar.
“Tonic water and lime please, Peter,” she told the bartender.
“Nothing stronger?”
“Since when do I drink on the job?” Actually, she rarely drank at all, except for an occasional glass of wine at dinner.
“C’mon, let loose. Get wild and crazy for once.”
He was teasing, so she joked back, “I’m plenty wild and crazy already.” At least according to her sister.
She moved away, again glancing toward the tarot readings. Irina remained busy, her gamine-like face serious. Adriana decided she should try a reading herself some night. Half-Irish and half-Romanian gypsy, Irina claimed to have inherited psychic abilities from two different cultures.
Adriana glanced at her watch, surprised to see it was only ten past one. She had plenty of time until her next set and should probably be wandering around. Frank said her presence added ambiance, which is why she always dressed in floaty dark clothing and celestial jewelry.
Tonight she wore a long midnight-blue chiffon skirt strewn with stars and a matching jacket over a wine red satin bustier. More stars, clusters of rhinestones, dangled from her ears. A draft from the door behind her made those earrings swing, her skirt flutter . . . while at the same time raising prickles on the back of her neck. She had the distinct, sudden feeling that someone was staring hard at her.