Rising on tiptoe, Rain leaned close to Trevor. She put her hand on his shoulder and her mouth against his ear so she could be heard above the synth-pop music. “Is it what you expected?”
“I think Sister Clarice, my third-grade teacher, just rolled over in her grave. What are the confessionals used for?”
“You don’t want to know.”
While the atmosphere was undeniably gothic, the club’s main area catered to an eclectic crowd. Trevor held on to Rain’s hand as they worked their way through the revelers. Above them, a balcony indicated a second floor where a lounge area was located. People leaned over the railing, tossing glittering diamonds of black confetti onto the crowd.
Rain pointed to a stone archway veiled with heavy red curtains.
“There’s a room in the basement. It might be the best place to start.” A male with spiked wristbands and multiple piercings jostled her in an attempt to get past. Trevor caught her waist and pulled her to him.
“You okay?”
Nodding, she lifted her gaze to his. Her stomach flipped at the sensation of being held against the hard muscles of his chest.
“I don’t want you out of my sight,” he reminded. He took her hand again as they headed toward the archway, but a hulking man in leather pants and a shirtless black vest blocked the entrance. Dark makeup framed his eyes.
“Private club.” He glared at Trevor, who looked poised to pull his shield from his pocket and push his way through. But as the man glimpsed Rain, recognition flared in his eyes. He stepped back and bowed his head with near reverence.
“Forgive me, Dr. Sommers. Please go ahead.”
“We’re expected?”
“Armand says you’re always welcome.” He continued to regard Trevor with a hostile expression, but he didn’t stop him as he followed Rain inside.
“Armand?” Trevor asked as Rain parted the velvet curtains.
“He owns the Ascension,” Rain said. “He’s also a huge Desiree fan.”
They walked into a dimly lit, tunnel-like corridor that was degrees cooler than the overheated dance floor. The sounds of the live music faded as they traveled farther, until they reached a stone staircase that appeared to drop directly into hell.
The stairs were steep, ending in a shadowed foyer that opened into a larger room. As their eyes adjusted to the darkness, forms took shape—black-clothed humans with pale faces. Rain had been to the Ascension before, but not into this private area. The furnishings were simple, with couches lining the windowless walls and a wood-paneled bar located in the far corner. The place smelled dank and musty, a reminder they were below street level. She felt eyes turning toward them as the whispered name Desiree floated in the air.
A woman latched onto Rain’s arm as she went past. Her black hair hung into mascara-caked eyes. “You’re supposed to be dead, sugarplum!”
“I’m not her,” Rain said coldly, but the clawlike grip tightened.
“They worship you here, but I know the truth! You’re a little whore! You deserved what you got from your old man—”
Trevor disengaged the woman’s hold. “Touch her again and deal with me.”
She sneered at him, but sank back into the shadows.
“A fan?” he inquired. His arm slipped protectively around Rain as he moved her toward the bar.
“More like a stalker.” Rain peered at the half-moon imprints the woman’s nails had left in her skin. “I’ve seen her before, outside the WNOR studios.”
“And I thought I only had Dante to worry about.”
At the bar, Trevor ordered a soda for himself, and Rain requested red wine. As he handed her the stemmed glass, he said quietly, “Back in my day, these were just punk rockers.”
She took a sip of wine. “Actually, by most accounts goth is an offshoot of the punk movement of the seventies.”
“Was that what Desiree was part of? The punk movement?”
“Desiree defied categorization. She was more of a torch singer, really, but her vibe was goth. She gave off that sort of creepy, sensual New Orleans attitude in buckets.” Rain stared into the burgundy liquid. “My father, however, was definitely on the edges of punk. I think Desiree’s association with him, along with the way she died, is the real reason goths have embraced her as an icon of sorts.”
“Gavin Firth was your father,” Trevor recounted. “The British guitarist for the Dreads.”
“Yes.” She grew quiet, realizing he hadn’t posed a question but had made the statement as fact. It was confirmation he’d done his research just as she’d expected. She looked at the soda he held. The previous evening at Brian’s reception, she’d seen him only with sparkling water.
“You don’t drink, do you? Not even off duty?”
“No.” He didn’t elaborate. Instead, he gazed at a tall male garbed in a frilly shirt and black coat who appeared to be squeezing through the crowd toward them.
“Rain!” Armand Baptiste called from a distance. He had flowing black hair and eyes rimmed with dark eyeliner. Although he was older than the others frequenting the goth-only area of the club, his face still held the visage of slightly androgynous good looks.
“Who’s that?” Trevor asked in a low voice.
“Armand.” Rain lifted her hand in a slight wave. “In addition to the Ascension, he owns a successful antique business. He’s also on the Orleans Parish Council.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Goths are all ages, and they come from all walks of life,” Rain said. “Armand is an elder in the goth community. He dresses normally during the day, for business and council meetings, but…”
Her voice trailed away as Armand arrived. He bowed and genteelly placed a kiss on the back of her hand.
“You look lovely, my dear. And so much like Desiree it hurts. I’m pleased you’ve finally accepted my invitation to join us.” His silvery-blue eyes traveled appreciatively over Trevor. “Do you have a new lover, Rain?”
She felt herself blush. “This is Special Agent Trevor Rivette. He’s with the FBI.”
Armand’s eyebrows lifted, and Trevor removed the photo from his pocket. “Do you recognize this girl?”
“Should I?” Armand asked with disinterest.
“You tell me. Her body was found last night. She had a stamp on her hand from your club.”
Rain attempted to soften Trevor’s response. “We’re just trying to find out who she might have spoken with, or if she left with anyone.”
“Two detectives were here earlier today asking my club manager the same thing. I’ll give you the same answer he gave them. I’ve never seen her before.”
“Look again,” Trevor instructed. “Unless you want me to start asking questions about the absinthe you’re serving, which is illegal, or the underage kids who are down here with drinks in their hands.”
Armand sighed. He lifted a pair of bifocals he wore on a chain around his neck and perched them on his nose. Taking the photo, he said, “Pretty, I suppose. But if she was around here I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Then you won’t mind if we talk to your patrons.”
“Suit yourself.” He gave back the photo and pointed to a group of teens in the corner.
“Baby bats,” he muttered. “You can start over there.”
Trevor leaned forward. “Excuse me?”
“Kindergoths. They’re here almost every night. Our clan does its best to indulge them, but they can be a rowdy bunch. They’d be of more use to you than the older clientele. If the girl was here, she was probably with them.”
“Thank you, Armand,” Rain said.
“I’m at your service.” He smiled, but the affection he’d expressed for her earlier appeared to have drained from his eyes.
“You’re making friends,” Rain commented once Armand had left the bar.
Trevor finished his soda. He returned the glass to the bar top, his eyes on the teenagers who stood together like a leather-clad herd. Then he laid a few bills down to pay for their drinks.
14
The sickly-sweet smell of clove cigarettes hung in the air as Trevor and Rain approached the teenagers. A few of them held beer bottles or plastic cups filled with what was most likely alcohol, despite the stamps on their hands marking them as underage. This place would be a wet dream for an ATF agent, Trevor thought. He considered busting both the bartender and Armand for serving to minors, but reminded himself it wasn’t why he was here.
It didn’t take long for one of the teens, a petite Asian girl with piercings in her lip and nose, to recognize Rain. She came over and asked timidly for an autograph on a paper napkin. Several others soon followed. Trevor stayed back a step, allowing Rain to interact with the group. She held up the photo he’d given her.
“Do any of you know this girl?”
A male with a bad complexion and a T-shirt that read Fuck the Mainstream snatched the photo. “Shit. Is she dead?”
“Do you recognize her?” Rain repeated.
He grinned slyly. “Yeah. She blew me in the bathroom last night.”
A few of the teens burst into laughter.
“Watch your mouth.” Trevor made his presence known. At his stern expression, the kid’s smile faded and he handed back the photo.
“Her name’s Rebecca.” The voice came from the edge of the crowd. The girl had ink-black hair plaited into two thick braids. She wore a miniskirt with torn fishnet hose and platform Mary Janes.
“You know her last name?” Trevor inquired.
She shook her head. Moving closer, she took the photo. “God. What happened to her?”
“She met up with the wrong person. When did you see her last?”
“Last night, I think. She’s only been coming around the past few weeks.”
“Was she with anyone?”
“Besides this jerkoff?” She rolled her eyes at the male who’d been showing off earlier. “Ethan hit on her. She told him to get lost.”
“Bite me,” he retorted.
She clicked her teeth like a snapping dog. “You wish.”
Trevor looked over at Rain. The throng around her had grown, and she was signing another autograph. He drew the girl to a nearby table, pulling out a chair for her and locating himself so he could keep an eye on things. “Sit. What’s your name?”
“Aurelia.”
“Is that your real name?”
She nodded toward Rain. “Is that her real name?”
When Trevor continued to stare at her, she sighed. “It’s Marcy. Marcy Cupich.”
“How old are you, Marcy?”
She frowned suspiciously. “I thought you wanted to know about Rebecca.”
Underneath the severe makeup, Marcy had unremarkable, although not unpleasant, features, and Trevor guessed her natural hair color was ash blond to light brown. When she spoke, she had a lisp, and he’d noticed her tongue was pierced with a silver ball stud.
“Just tell me what you know,” he instructed.
She took a nervous sip from her cup. “Are you a cop?”
“I’m a federal agent. And you’re too young to be drinking.”
“Are you going to arrest me?”
Trevor took the cup. “Not if you start talking.”
“Like I said, I saw her last night.” Marcy fiddled with one of her braids. “She was talking to some guy for a while. He was kind of tall, with dark hair.”
“What time was this?”
“Around nine or ten, maybe.”
“Was he goth?”
Her forehead wrinkled thoughtfully. “A little, I guess. I didn’t get a real good look at him.”
“Could you tell how old he was?”
She shrugged. “Not really. Maybe in college?”
“You sure he wasn’t older? My age at least?”
“I don’t know. I think he was younger.”
Trevor rubbed the back of his neck. What the girl was telling him didn’t match the FBI profile. He considered the likelihood that whoever the victim had been seen with was just another horny teenager looking to get laid. “Did you see if Rebecca left with this guy?”
Marcy shook her head. Trevor asked a few more questions, including whether she could give a description to a sketch artist.
“I told you, I didn’t get a good look at him. His back was to me most of the time.”
“But you could try.” He gave her his card, along with a number to call the next morning to schedule some time with the artist. As his eyes fell on the small glass vial she wore on a chain around her neck, she touched it self-consciously.
“It’s not blood. It’s just corn syrup with red food coloring.”
“This vampire stuff isn’t something to play around with,” he told her. Marcy nodded, although he doubted his warning carried much weight.
She left the table and went back to her friends. The young people were still crowded together, but Trevor no longer saw Rain. Apprehension snaked through him. He stood and scanned the basement. Where was she?
A man in black leather leaned against the wall on the far side of the room. His eyes met Trevor’s in an unspoken challenge, and his cold smile revealed incisors sharpened into fanglike points. The man motioned for him to follow.
As Trevor pushed through the horde, the goth opened a door behind the bar and disappeared. Had he taken her? Trevor stopped to withdraw the gun strapped to his ankle. Then he traveled through the same door into an unlit hallway.
Cautiously, he moved forward with his weapon braced in both hands. Farther down the passage, shallow light spilled across the stone floor, indicating an interior room. But he made it only a few more feet before the light went out. Trevor crept closer, until he stood outside the now-darkened doorway. He took a breath and quickly turned its corner, peering into the nearly opaque blackness as he made a sweeping arc with the gun’s barrel.
Nothing. It was as if the man had disappeared into thin air.
Trevor made out the shapes of cardboard boxes stacked shoulder high against the walls. He was in some kind of supply room. A rotating fan hummed in one corner, moving the musty air around in warm bursts. Taking one hand off his gun, he felt along the wall for the light switch.
The vicious blow caught him between the shoulder blades and dropped Trevor to his knees. A second later, another jolt of pain shot through him as the square toe of a boot made hard contact with his side. He sprawled to the floor, the gun skittering from his grasp.
The man was large, with a shaved head, and not the one he’d trailed inside—which meant there were at least two of them. His boot aimed again for Trevor’s ribs, but this time he rolled out of reach. Using his feet, Trevor struck at his attacker’s ankles and was rewarded with a heavy thud as the man fell with a curse. But there was little time to recover his gun that was lost somewhere in the darkness. He recoiled at the shift of shadows and the flash of a knife as a second attacker approached. It was the man who’d enticed Trevor to follow him earlier.
“Get up and hold him!” the man barked.
The first assailant rose and lunged again at Trevor, who was now standing and prepared for another attack. Although the man was hulking and thick-shouldered, Trevor was faster. He sidestepped his blow and hit him with a fist to his face. Blood poured from the man’s nose. Sputtering, he crashed back down like a stone.
The knife-wielding accomplice was on him with catlike speed. He took Trevor off balance, slamming him against the wall and shutting off his windpipe with a forearm across his throat. His stringy black hair swung from his head.
“You’re dead, pig,” he hissed.
Trevor caught the goth’s other arm as it poised in the air for a downward strike with the blade. The man grinned savagely. Even in the darkness, Trevor could see his animalistic teeth. They struggled, their muscles straining as he held the knife at bay. The first attacker was back on his feet and lumbering toward them. Panic slid over him. He wouldn’t be able to fight them both at once.
“Trevor?”
<
br /> It was Rain’s voice, calling from what seemed like a long distance away. The man clutching the knife looked around, his hair whipping into his face. Using the distraction as an opportunity, Trevor shifted his weight and jerked his knee into the man’s groin. There was a howl of pain as the knife clattered to the floor. The hard pressure on his throat was gone and Trevor gasped, filling his lungs with air.
Rain called out again, closer this time, and the two assailants receded into the darkness as if it had gobbled them whole.
He bent forward with his hands on his knees, coughing. Light flooded the room. Rain stood with Armand Baptiste, his fingers on the light switch.
“Trevor!” Rain rushed to him. “You’re hurt!”
He held his side. “I’m okay.”
“What’re you doing in here?” Armand demanded. “This area is employees only!”
“Tell that to the two freaks who tried to gut me.” Panting, he stared at Rain. “Where’d you go? I thought they grabbed you.”
“One of the girls wanted to show me something. You were busy with—”
“What part of stay with me did you not understand?”
He spotted his gun wedged between two stacks of cardboard boxes. Grimacing, Trevor walked over and picked it up. He looked around for the assailant’s knife, and found it under a shelving unit that held bar supplies. Taking a paper napkin from one of the shelves, he retrieved the weapon, being careful not to smudge any prints on its handle. As he did so, he noticed another doorway in an L-shaped alcove in back of the room. It explained how the men had exited without running into Armand and Rain.
“Where does that go?”
“To the alley—”
“Those ghouls work for you, Baptiste?”
“I’ve no idea who you’re talking about,” the other man replied.
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