Black Dust Mambo

by Adrian Phoenix

  “Aye. Yer mum figures fifteen hours, give or take, fer travel. They’ll be here in the wee hours.”

  Layne nodded, and Mc Kenna caught a heart-tugging whiff of sweet orange and musky sandalwood from his unknotted dreads. An intimate scent that reminded her of sleeping tucked into the hollow of his arm, her head on his chest.

  “And Frost understood the situation?” he asked. “Aye.

  Yer mum said nothing of Gage’s soul.”

  “Good.”

  Layne seemed to study the red digital numbers ticking away each floor they passed, the skin beneath his eyes smudged with shadows, his jaw tight. Despite his casual posture, his cable-tight body almost seemed to thrum with coiled tension.

  Her heart ached just looking at him. She’d seen him like this before. Ignoring his body’s pain and hiding the anguish tearing him apart inside.

  Poesy’s gone, Layne. She died on the way to hospital. There was nocht anyone could do, luv.

  He’d survived a beating that, by all rights, he shouldn’t have. He’d survived the murder of his big sister, the sister who’d taught him everything she knew about running cons for quick cash from squatters.

  Until one night, the con had failed and they were caught.

  Nearly lost him that night. Almost lost him this morning too.

  He’d even survived Poesy’s ghost, her uncrossed-over spirit, climbing inside of him, pressing cold against his soul and mind, and wearing his body like a costume, using him to say her good-byes and vent her despair.

  Survived, aye, but all the laughter and tenderness had been stomped out of him. His wild and poetic heart now caged and voiceless.

  “Hey,” she said softly. Layne glanced at her, his forest-green gaze steady. “How are you holding up?” she asked.

  “I’m fine, woman. Holding up as well as you are.”

  Mc Kenna snorted. “Then we’re both doomed, lad.”

  A smile brushed his lips. He nodded. “That we are, buttercup.”

  The elevator slowed to a stop with a solid thunk. The doors slid open, revealing a busy administrative office. A male receptionist wearing a navy blue suit and tie sat behind a sleek mahogany desk beneath a sign proclaiming in a flowing and elegant script: HECATEAN ALLIANCE, INC. The sharp, clean scent of sage drifted into the air from a charcoal-burning brazier.

  To the right of the desk, comfortable-looking chairs clustered around end tables piled with slick magazines; cubicles occupied the left side of the room. Voices in warm, fluid French and crisp, cheery English floated from the cubicles as employees chatted up clients, the sound filling the air like the busy hum of bees.

  Mc Kenna took note of the double steel doors marked holding barricading a hallway running past the receptionist’s desk. Round signs containing a wizard’s pointy hat with a red slash through it were emblazoned on both doors: no magic allowed.

  Must be the detention facilities.

  And most likely where Little Miss Striptease was being held.

  Just as Mc Kenna stepped from the elevator and into the foyer, a gunshot silenced the hum of voices from the cubicles. A second sharp crack followed a split second later. The receptionist dove under his desk.

  Mc Kenna leaped back inside the elevator and dropped down into a crouch to make herself a smaller target. Gun-fight Survival 101. And apparently a course Layne had skipped somewhere along the line, since the bloody idiot rushed out of the elevator, his hand disappearing inside his jacket.

  “Dammit, Layne, no!” McKenna cried.

  But his long legs and adrenaline-spiked pulse had already carried him across the foyer. He slammed through the steel doors shoulder first, honey-blond dreads dancing against his leather-jacketed back.

  The gleaming doors swung wide, and Mc Kenna’s heart pogoed up into her throat. The hall beyond swarmed with grim-faced guards in black, guns gripped with a deadly purpose in their gloved hands. Guards who now seemed to be zeroing in on the nomad who’d just barreled through the door.

  “Holy Mother,” Mc Kenna muttered, jumping to her feet and joining the madness.

  TWELVE

  A MAN WHO SPEAKS HIS MIND

  Men. Great for knocking boots together. Worthless in a pinch.

  One hand on her hip, a damp, wrung-out rag smelling of sandalwood, patchouli, and gardenia petals in her other hand, Belladonna regarded Dallas Brûler. Considering that Kallie had saved the root doctor’s messed-up life, you’d think the very least he could do would be to chase after Basil Augustine and demand Kallie’s freedom.

  But no.

  Dallas Brûler allowed a little thing like unconsciousness to stand in the way. You’d think he’d chugged the actual contents of the potioned-up bucket, the way he’d dropped to the floor like an air-gunned steer. Belladonna snorted. Men. A little juju, a little wormwood, a near death, and they curled up like salted slugs.

  So now Kallie had been hauled away by Basil Augustine and his black-suited guards, suspected of Gage’s murder and facing an inquisition Hecatean Alliance style.

  And what was Dallas doing? Standing beside Kallie—his rescuer—his strong hand on her shoulder, his steady gaze on her accuser? Murmuring encouragement and reminding her that the truth always shines and that the radiant truth of her innocence would sear the sight from Basil Augustine’s eyes?

  Oh, hell, no. Dallas was snoring. Sprawled on her bed, thank you, his head with its cap of damp red hair pillowed on his arms, his mouth open, his beard-shadowed face relaxed. Snoring. And reeking to high heaven of worm-wood and cheap whiskey.

  And she’d promised to take care of the sonuvabitch until he was conscious enough to do it himself. Not that he’d been doing such a bang-up job of that so far . . .

  Not very nice. Not very fair. It’s not Dallas’s fault someone tried to kill him. Oh. Wait. Yes, it probably is.

  Now Kallie, on the other hand . . .

  Sighing, Belladonna walked into the bathroom and tossed the rag into the milky-green granite sink. Leaning against the threshold, she closed her eyes. Poor Kallie. All she’d wanted for the last nine years was to forget her dark and ugly past. She’d yearned to forget her papa’s murder and her own miraculous survival . . . pounded a heavy-duty punching bag every day with taped-up fists, throwing heart, mind, and taut muscle into each knuckle-bruising blow.

  Strived to understand why.

  But Kallie’s search for why would shackle her to the past forever. Sometimes why had no answer. Until she accepted the fact that her mother had been bat-shit insane and had access to a gun, she’d never let go of the past. Never accept her future.

  She’d always be looking behind her.

  Belladonna opened her eyes and rubbed her face. She wished she could be with Kallie, just so Kallie wouldn’t be alone. To offer a little moral support. To keep her from blaming herself.

  Kallie drops the sheet back over the hex, then sinks to her knees on the carpet. She closes her eyes.

  Probably way too late for that. With another sigh, Belladonna pushed away from the bathroom threshold and walked back over to the table. Scooping up the small bottle of golden protection oil from beside her purse, she returned to the bed.

  Belladonna plopped down onto the mattress beside Dallas. She uncapped the bottle and tipped it against her index finger as she studied the root doctor. A fine-looking man, Dallas Brûler—tall, lean-muscled, his looks more Texas-rugged than movie star–classical with his dark red hair and belly-fluttering deep blue eyes.

  How many relationships had he busted up just to see if he could?

  “No one stays true, Bell. Fidelity simply ain’t a part of human nature.”

  “Excuse me, Dal, but your bitterness is showing. Not everyone is like Lucinda.”

  Still, if Belladonna ever found herself stuck with a flat tire on a dark and lonely stretch of road, the first person she’d call (provided she couldn’t reach Kallie)—and the one who’d show up quicker than spit, no questions asked—would be Dallas Brûler.

  Belladonna touched her o
il-slick finger against the snoring root doctor’s forehead, anointing him with the same sandalwood, patchouli, frankincense, sage, and gardenia mix she’d used to protect the room’s doorway and windows.

  Murmuring the sixty-eighth psalm, “‘Let God arise, let his enemies be scattered,’” she touched her oiled and fragrant finger to the base of Dallas’s throat, then the center of his sternum. “‘As smoke is driven away, so drive them away—’”

  A sharp knock on the door ended Belladonna’s prayer. Her pulse leapfrogged through her veins. Dallas never even twitched, snorted, or stirred. Just kept snoring.

  “Ms. Brown?” a female and oh-so-British voice inquired. “Lord Augustine requested that you and Mr. Brûler be taken into protective custody.”

  Protective custody? Not sure I care for the sound of that.

  Belladonna twisted the cap back onto the bottle of protection oil, then dropped the bottle into a pocket of her tunic. Rising to her feet, she tiptoed across the carpet to the door, as silent in her two-inch-heeled half-boots as a barefoot ninja on grass.

  Sidling up against the door, Belladonna peered through the spyhole. A smiling woman with sleek and curving strawberry-blonde hair met her gaze, the woman’s happy hazel eyes level with Belladonna’s.

  Hmmm. Must be five-nine, five-ten, like me. Wonder if she’s wearing heels?

  Two tall and expressionless male guards—no doubt they’d left their heels at home—in neat black suits with the embroidered red HA insignia flanked the woman.

  “And you are?” Belladonna challenged.

  “Felicity Fields, Lord Augustine’s assistant.”

  Belladonna snorted. “Felicity Fields? You kidding me?”

  “I could ask you the same, Belladonna Brown.”

  “Touché.” Belladonna unlocked and opened the door.

  The guards, their eyes hidden behind stylish shades, broad-shouldered their way into the room and took up positions on either side of the door.

  Felicity Fields, smile bright enough to inflict permanent damage to the retinas, bounced into the room, a May vision in white and rose, a small overnight bag in one hand—a black bag decorated with neon-green tree frogs.

  Belladonna frowned. “That looks like Kallie’s bag.”

  Felicity glanced at the bag, then returned her gaze to Belladonna. “Yes, it is your friend’s overnighter. I was asked to bring her some clothing. Please do the same for yourself.” She eyed Dallas. “My, my, my. Sleeping like the proverbial baby, is he?”

  “Mmm-hmmm. Least he isn’t crying like one,” Belladonna replied. “Not yet, anyway. He’s not used to being on the receiving end of a hex.”

  Dallas’s snoring cut through the air like a buzz saw.

  Felicity laughed, a throaty and intimate sound.

  “Men.” Belladonna found herself smiling. “Exactly.”

  Felicity dropped the overnight bag onto the carpet, then leaned over the bed and squeezed Dallas’s biceps. “Oh,” she chirped happily.

  “Y’know, I’m none too happy with how your boss has been treating Kallie,” Belladonna said, crossing to the closet and pulling out her ugly-ass Pepto Bismol–pink, but easily spotted, overnight bag. “Someone tried to kill her, then they tried to murder Dallas.” She slipped a blouse and a pair of slacks from the closet’s wood hangers, then folded them into the bag.

  “It’s my understanding that the situation has changed,” Felicity said.

  “Well, I should hope so, because the whole thing’s stupid,” Belladonna groused. Striding to the dresser, she yanked open the drawers, grabbed a handful of undies and stockings, and stuffed them into the ugly-ass overnighter. “Instead of searching for the coldhearted bastard responsible, your boss decided to follow the time-honored tradition of accusing the victim. Something I bet the real killer is happy as hell about, by the way. As a detective and as a human being, Lord Augustine sucks.”

  “My, my, my. Please tell me how you really feel,” Felicity murmured. “Well, then, it should make you happy to learn that Lord Augustine’s opinion has changed and he now believes your friend innocent of Mr. Buckland’s murder.”

  Belladonna glanced over her shoulder.

  “Seriously?” Felicity nodded, her sleek and shining hair swinging with the movement. “Yes. Please finish packing, and I’ll awaken Mr. Brûler.” A smile blazed across her lips as she grasped Dallas’s shoulder with one pink-nailed hand.

  “Good luck with that,” Belladonna said, stepping into the bathroom to fetch her toiletries. Given the way Felicity had been feeling up the root doctor’s muscles, Belladonna wondered if the woman intended to kiss Dallas awake like he was an enchanted prince instead of an unconscious and drooling hoodoo.

  Sauntering out of the bathroom, shampoo and cosmetic bag in hand, Belladonna glanced at the bed. What she saw iced her blood and froze her to the floor like a water fountain caught in a flash freeze.

  Felicity pressed a glinting silver stiletto against Dallas’s throat. A bead of dark blood trickled down his skin to the oil-anointed spot in the hollow of his throat. “Wake up, Mr. Brûler,” she said. “You have some explaining to do.”

  Dallas’s eyes snapped open, midsnore.

  Dallas stared into cold hazel eyes—pale green flecked with brown—set in a lovely freckled face framed with shining strawberry-blonde hair. A face he couldn’t recall—but, given his booze-blurred nights, not an unusual situation. Neither was a pissed-off husband, fiancé, or boyfriend shoving a gun in his face or swinging a tire iron in a whistling arc toward his head and/or balls.

  But a knife pricking the vulnerable skin of his throat—that was a unique situation, for true. And given the stinging pain and the hot trickle along his neck, he was pretty damned sure that it was a knife the luscious babe was pressing against his throat and not, say, a salad spoon or metal tongs.

  Dallas couldn’t help but wonder if she was the one who’d tried to drown him via bucket-chained poppet.

  Belladonna stood behind the woman, her eyes wide enough to send her eyebrows crawling for her blue-and-black-curled hairline, her mouth hanging open. As motionless as a wax figure. And just as useful. Great. The day kept getting better and better.

  Not seeing Kallie, he felt panic ripple through him like a gator through a sunlit swamp—fast and ugly. Had she been arrested? “Where’s Kallie?” he asked.

  “Safe, Mr. Brûler,” the babe with the knife said. “Now if you would be so kind as to answer in turn.”

  Dallas said, “Sorry, sugar, but I missed whatever it was you asked.”

  The knife-wielding babe’s eyes warmed to golden brown. “I said you had some explaining to do.”

  “Sugar-doll, I’ll be happy to explain to your little heart’s content,” Dallas reassured her, keeping his voice low and light. “Once you’ve told me where Kallie is, and once you’ve put that knife away.”

  “My, my, my. Smooth as silk you are, Mr. Brûler. But the knife stays. For now. And Ms. Rivière is quite safe.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve got me at a disadvantage, darlin’, knife-wise and name-wise.”

  “Felicity Fields, Lord Augustine’s assistant. And he’s a tad concerned about your presence here given that you believe the carnival is for fools only.”

  Belladonna blinked. “And the biggest one of all is lying on my bed.”

  “And she’s back,” Dallas muttered. “Thanks for the heads-up, Brown.”

  Belladonna perched her hands on her hips. “Oh no you don’t. I am not to blame here, Dallas Brûler.” She shifted her attention to Lord Augustine’s assistant. Narrowed her eyes. “Besides, she neglected to mention the whole knife-to-the-throat thing.”

  “True, but I couldn’t be sure that Mr. Brûler wasn’t faking being asleep,” Felicity Fields chirped, “and I really didn’t want to give up the element of surprise.”

  “What, with all the damned snoring and drooling? You can’t fake buzz-saw shit like that,” Belladonna declared.

  “Wait. Hold on. Who snores?” Dallas aske
d.

  “You do, loud enough to bring the levees a-tumbling down.”

  “Bullshit, Bell. I only snore when I’m drunk.”

  Belladonna rolled her eyes. “Then no wonder you always snore.”

  Dallas glared at her and found himself wishing for the compliant and adoring Belladonna from his dreams. Felicity leaned in close enough to kiss, blocking his view of Belladonna, her heady, heated, sexy/intimate perfume teasing his nostrils.

  “You snore in a robust and manly manner, Mr. Brûler,” she whispered, her succulent, rosy lips drawing his gaze. “But I really think we should return to the matter at hand. Why are you here? And the truth would be in your best interests.”

  More blood trickled hot along Dallas’s throat as Felicity gave the knife a little nudge. He managed a smile, despite the icy fingers of fear trailing along his spine. “Not a problem, darlin’. The truth it is.” He wracked his brain for a reasonable lie, one that wouldn’t earn him a deeper taste of the knife’s edge, but his brain curled up into a ball on the far side of his skull and left him with only one choice.

  The truth. Or part of it, anyway.

  Dallas sighed. “Gabrielle asked me to keep an eye on Kallie, this being her first Hecatean carnival and all.”

  “Hellfire, and you agreed to play spy?” Belladonna muttered, shaking her head. “I know Gabrielle’s protective, and that’s understandable and all, given the circumstances, but Kallie’s a grown woman.”

  Felicity studied him, her autumn-dappled gaze penetrating and steady, and for the first time in more years than he cared to number, Dallas felt stripped naked, but not in a good way.

  “That’s not all, is it?” she said. She flicked the knife.

  Dallas felt another hot trickle of blood ooze down his throat and into the collar of his shirt. “Can’t tell you nothing, sugar, if I bleed to death,” he said.