Dark Enemy Redeemed (The Children Of The Gods Paranormal Romance Series Book 6)

by I. T. Lucas

  A minute later he found it. The number belonged indeed to a Patricia Evans, born September 1951 and deceased November 1987. For a moment, his heart sank. Patricia had died about a year after meeting Bhathian. But then he glanced at the year of birth again. The math didn’t add up. Patricia had claimed to have been forty-five at the time, which would’ve put her birth year at somewhere around 1940, not 1951.

  Was it possible that she’d lied about her age? Claiming to be a decade older than she actually was? Not likely.

  And the fact that the year of death was not before, but after she had met Bhathian? A death certificate could’ve been falsified. The elaborate setup, however, was more appropriate for an undercover operative than someone in the witness protection or relocation service.

  The year of birth didn’t match Pat’s real age, but it matched the way she’d looked at the time Bhathian had met her. The guy had thought she was in her late twenties. If Pat had been working undercover at the time, her assumed social security number would’ve not raised suspicion. If anyone had bothered to check, they would’ve found a Patricia Evans who matched the agent’s perceived age—and who wasn’t dead. The death certificate hadn’t been entered into the system.

  Andrew stretched his arms over his head before diving back in. This was going to make his job so much easier. Fewer databases to check.

  Bingo! Pat was, or rather had been, a drug enforcement agent. Her real name was Eva Paterson. Funny, the guys in charge of producing the fake social security numbers must’ve liked that one. The real Patricia Evans, a name that would’ve been very easy for Eva Paterson to remember, had conveniently passed away at the right time.

  A little more digging produced Eva Paterson’s file and the rest of the pieces fell into place.

  As a drug enforcement agent, she’d been working undercover as a flight attendant, investigating the involvement of airline personnel in drug smuggling. The setup had been long, and that particular stint had lasted over three years. She had retired from the agency shortly after meeting Bhathian—for health related reasons. The government was still depositing monthly pension checks into her account.

  Eva was still alive.

  Okay, next step was to find out what she’d been up to.

  Andrew switched to the IRS database. Other than Facebook, there was no better source of information about people’s life than their tax returns, which he had unrestricted access to.

  Interesting.

  A month after leaving the agency, Eva had married a guy named Fernando Vega, a Cuban immigrant, and seven months later the couple had a daughter, Nathalie. Five years after Nathalie was born, they’d moved from Florida to Los Angeles and had opened a bakery in Studio City.

  Judging by the couple’s tax returns, their small-business income combined with Eva’s retirement checks had been just enough to provide their family of three with a comfortable middle-class living.

  Nathalie had remained their only child.

  Thirteen years ago, Eva had filed for a divorce.

  Andrew had to look up both spouses’ tax returns to continue.

  Fernando kept filing as a single man, but three years later he’d apparently been declared mentally incompetent, and the daughter had been the one filing the returns since.

  Eva’s last tax return had been filed seven years ago.

  Damn, what happened?

  He ran her name again through a couple of other databases, and what he’d found wasn’t good.

  The daughter had filed a missing person’s report with the police six years ago. With no evidence of foul play, the case had been closed even though Eva hadn’t been found.

  Fuck.

  Andrew felt like punching the computer screen—he’d been so close to finding the woman and she had to go and disappear. Again.

  With a sigh, he pulled up the police report.

  Damn! Eva must’ve had extensive plastic surgery done because the woman in the photograph looked exactly the same as the woman in Tim’s forensic sketch. She hadn’t aged at all…

  It could’ve been the result of a skillful surgical knife, or… immortality…

  But Bhathian had claimed that he hadn’t bitten her.

  Had any Dormant ever turned without the help of venom?

  Searching his memory, Andrew sifted through everything he’d been told about a Dormant’s turning, dimly recalling something about the little girls’ turning facilitated by Annani’s presence alone.

  Under no circumstances, though, could Eva have been exposed to the Goddess as a child. He doubted the clan would’ve surrendered any of its precious children for adoption in case something had happened to the child’s mother.

  But just in case, he would check if they had lost track of any of their females. Maybe someone who had moved far away and hadn’t kept in touch with her family had been abducted or killed, and her young child had been adopted by unsuspecting humans.

  There was a more expedient way to find out, though; he could check Eva’s birth record.

  Thank God for Uncle Sam and the access to information Andrew had been granted. Adoption records and the birth certificates of adopted children were guarded better than the government’s strategic secrets.

  Eva’s birth record, however, was easy to find and as fascinating as yesterday’s porridge. She was born in Tampa General Hospital, previously known as Municipal Hospital Davis Islands, to Alfonso and Fawn Paterson.

  Nevertheless, it wouldn’t hurt to ask Kian if he was aware of a long lost female clan member.

  Damn, Bhathian would be disappointed that Andrew hadn’t found Eva. But at least he could deliver the news about the daughter.

  Okay, Nathalie, let’s see what we can tell Daddy about you.

  Husband—none. Children—none.

  Her father was the only dependent listed on her tax return.

  She’d closed the Studio City coffee shop less than a year after her father had been declared mentally incompetent, and opened a new one in Glendale. Most years the profits hadn’t been great. Nathalie was barely scraping by.

  He wondered why she hadn’t closed the place a long time ago. She could’ve been making more as an employee somewhere. Perhaps she was the type who valued being her own boss above everything else. Or maybe it had something to do with the father and preserving his business for sentimental reasons.

  A closer look at her tax returns provided the answer. Her residence address was the same as her business, save for the suite number. Nathalie had moved the shop to an area that allowed mixed-use housing—business and living quarters combined. A perfect solution for someone who needed to work and at the same time keep an eye on a parent who had suffered a severe mental decline. Apparently, Nathalie was a very devoted daughter.

  Did she know that Alfonso wasn’t her real father?

  How would she react if she ever discovered who her biological father was?

  Andrew pulled out his cellphone and selected Bhathian’s number.

  “You found something?” There was no mistaking the excitement in the guy’s voice.

  Andrew delivered the good news without preamble. “You have a daughter. Her name is Nathalie and she lives right around the corner from you, in Glendale.”

  “Thank the merciful fates,” Bhathian breathed in a shaky voice. “And Patricia? Is she”—the guy swallowed—”you know…”

  “As far as I know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Patricia’s real name is Eva Paterson, and she went missing six years ago. Nathalie filed a missing person’s report but the case was closed.”

  “What the hell? She disappeared again?”

  “Meet me at Barney’s in half an hour and I’ll tell you everything I was able to find.”

  “I’m leaving right now. I can be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “Good deal, see you there.”

  Eva’s missing person’s file was still opened on his screen, and he printed an enlarged version of the photograph Nathalie had given the p
olice.

  While his terminal was powering down, Andrew stashed both the forensic sketch and the printout in the shopping bag. Keys and wallet went into his jacket’s inside pocket and he switched off the lights on his way out.

  The drive to Barney’s took less than ten minutes, and as he entered the bar, Andrew felt an irrational rush of satisfaction that he’d made it there before Bhathian.

  Selecting a quiet booth at the back, he ordered two beers and a platter of nachos.

  It had taken Bhathian another fifteen minutes to storm into the bar, and people scurried to clear the path for the hulking guy with a murderous expression on his face.

  “Goddamned LA traffic.” He pulled out a chair, grabbing a beer as his butt landed in the seat.

  “It’s a bitch,” Andrew agreed.

  Bhathian sucked half the bottle on a oner then pinned Andrew with a hard stare. “Lay it on me.”

  Andrew moved the nacho platter over to the edge of the table before leaning sideways and lifting the shopping bag. He pulled out the large forensic sketch and the letter-size printout, laying both side by side so they were facing Bhathian. He pointed to the photograph. “This is the picture Nathalie gave the police when she filed the report six years ago. I don’t think she would’ve given them an old one.”

  Bhathian picked up the photocopy, his gloomy features softening as he caressed it with his finger. “She looks exactly as I remember her,” he said quietly.

  It seemed that the guy was so used to being around people who didn’t age that the significance of what he was seeing escaped him.

  “Does it not strike you as odd? Eva, your Patricia—a human—not aging in the slightest?”

  Bhathian lifted his head, the momentary softening of his features giving way to a frown that was impressive even for him. “What are you implying?”

  “Look”—Andrew pointed to the picture—”the woman hasn’t aged in thirty years. So she is either an immortal or has undergone extensive plastic surgery. Frankly, though, I don’t think any surgeon is that good.”

  “I didn’t bite her.”

  “I know, I’m not saying that you did, there must be some other explanation.”

  “Like what?”

  “Maybe she was already immortal when you met her? You said she looked a lot younger than what she claimed to be, and looking at this picture I agree. This woman looks like she’s in her late twenties, not mid-forties.”

  Bhathian rubbed his neck. “Immortal females are supposed to smell different than humans when aroused.”

  “And she didn’t?”

  The guy shrugged. “All I can remember is that everything about her was amazing. My head was all into the sex and wanting to bite her. Then when I realized she wasn’t responding to the thrall, all I could think of was how to refrain from sinking my fangs into her neck. It took all I’d got just to hide what I am from her.”

  “So there is a chance she was an immortal.”

  Bhathian shook his head. “There are no immortal females other than ours. Maybe the Doomers have some, but even if they do, there is no chance in hell even one managed to get away.”

  “Are all the clan females accounted for? Is it possible that you guys lost touch with one who had a young daughter? A child who was already turned and somehow ended up being adopted by humans?”

  Bhathian kept shaking his head from side to side. “We know where every clan member is at all times.”

  “You sure? How can you keep tabs on everyone, every moment?”

  “I didn’t say every moment. But everyone who lives outside the keeps or travels for extended periods of time calls in once a week.”

  “What about before there were phones?”

  “Back then hardly anyone lived outside the community and the few who did, lived nearby.”

  “Travelers?”

  Bhathian shook his head. “Never alone, always in groups.”

  “Okay, I’m stumped. I can think of no other explanation.”

  Bhathian’s neck rubbing intensified, the furrow in between his brows so deep that the bushy things became a unibrow. “There is one more possibility. But it’s a one in a billion chance. She might have had sex with another immortal before me, and he turned her without him or her realizing it. Otherwise, he would’ve never let her go.”

  “Yeah, it does sound extremely far-fetched. There must be a simpler explanation. Like your daughter, for some reason, using an old picture. Maybe Eva was…is…one of those women who hate being photographed and this was the only picture Nathalie had of her.”

  “Yeah, that’s sounds more likely.” Bhathian sighed. “I would like to meet he… my daughter.” There was wonder in his tone.

  Andrew grimaced. “That’s a really bad idea. Eva married a guy named Alfonso Vega shortly after you’d last seen her, and Nathalie was born seven months later. She might not know that Alfonso is not her real father. And anyway, you look too young.”

  Bhathian stared at Andrew. “So, there is a chance she isn’t mine. Premature babies are not uncommon.”

  “Nah, she’s yours. Too much of a coincidence.”

  “Do you have her picture?”

  “No. What I know about her, I got mostly from her tax returns—she’s not married, doesn’t have children, owns a coffee shop, and takes care of her father—adoptive father that is—who suffers from mental decline. I didn’t have time to dig any deeper. I can, if you want.”

  Bhathian’s frown eased a fraction, relaxing the pissed-off expression he normally wore. “Can we go see her? You know, at her coffee place, like random customers. I just want to get a look, hear her voice.”

  “Sure, but you don’t need me. I’ll give you the address.”

  Bhathian swallowed a couple of times before spitting it out. “I don’t want to go by myself.”

  The big guy was asking for moral support, and Andrew could think of no good reason to deny him. In fact, it would be better if he went with Bhathian. After all, a man who looked like that, sitting alone and staring at the woman for God knows how long, would scare the shit out of her. Andrew could provide a cover and soften the impact.

  “No problem, when do you want to do it?”

  “How late do you think her place is open?”

  “Let me check.”

  CHAPTER 59: AMANDA

  The crypt was awfully quiet as Amanda waited for Anandur and Brundar to arrive and revive Dalhu.

  Since she’d gotten there more than an hour early, she’d been breathing shallowly and barely moving, afraid of making any noise lest it disturb the dead. Their ghosts might rise to haunt her.

  Or rather one ghost—Mark’s.

  Please, dear fates, let Mark be satisfied with Dalhu’s sacrifice.

  She wished Mark would give her a sign, let her know somehow that he was okay on the other side and that he had forgiven her.

  This entire week, ever since Dalhu’s atonement, she’d been going to bed early, hoping that Mark would visit her in her dreams. But, of course, he hadn’t.

  It was stupid. Just wishful thinking.

  Fates, she was lonely.

  Her mother and sisters had gone home the day after the wedding, as had Syssi’s parents, while Syssi and Kian had left for their honeymoon in boring Dana Point. She had tried to convince them to pick Hawaii, but Kian had refused to go any farther—claiming that he needed to remain close by in case he was needed urgently.

  Like the keep couldn’t function without him for one measly week.

  At least he’d been nice about leaving Anandur and Brundar behind, taking Onegus and Arwel as his bodyguards instead.

  She didn’t trust anyone other than Anandur to revive Dalhu.

  Her man had already suffered so much.

  He’d paid with his flesh and blood. And in a way—his life. Experiencing entombment came too damn close to dying.

  And yet, there was a sense of poetic beauty to it—death and rebirth.

  Dalhu would be reborn as a new man.

  Bo
th Andrew and Edna had vouched for him, and he’d provided the clan with loads of vital information about the Doomer organization that couldn’t have been obtained in any other way.

  Feeling like an idiot, she murmured, “Come on, Mark, this must be good enough, give me a sign that you’ve forgiven me.”

  Not that she was really expecting a response, but she couldn’t help the pang of disappointment when the crypt remained silent. She wondered if Mark could hear her, wherever he was. Probably not, because otherwise he would’ve answered. Mark had been such a nice guy—he would not have let her suffer like this even if he was still angry with her. Come to think of it, she was pretty sure he would’ve forgiven her even without Dalhu’s sacrifice.

  The one who had been seeking retribution was she, not Mark.

  Mark had been a good person, she wasn’t.

  Maybe that was why she was carrying around such tremendous guilt.

  Her mind couldn’t focus on anything, and even though she had gone back to work the day after Dalhu’s trial, she had done nothing more than go through the motions—lecturing and supervising the standard university research. Using the convenient excuse of Syssi’s absence, she hadn’t conducted a single paranormal test—as if she hadn’t done it for years before hiring Syssi.

  She just hadn’t been in the mood.

  It was hard to concentrate while counting the seconds until Dalhu’s rebirth.

  She heard the brothers coming down the corridor even though they were making very little noise. The crypt magnified the slightest sound—she could hear the swish of their robes.

  “Hi, guys,” she greeted them as they entered the chamber. “Why the formality? Is there a ceremony involved that I wasn’t aware of?” She was wearing jeans and T-shirt.

  Anandur shrugged. “I guess not, but I kind of like these.” He waved a hand between his and Brundar’s robes.

  Brundar arched a brow as if to say, really?

  Amanda sighed. “Okay, you had me scared for a moment there. I don’t want to waste one more minute of Dalhu’s life, and I would’ve hated to have to wait for Onidu to bring my robe.”