by Angie Sandro
“You’re a thousand times more beautiful than the zombies from The Walking Dead.”
The unexpected compliment pierces the bubble of shock I’m stuck in. “Good.” I let out a heavy sigh. “’Cause Gabriella’s mom once made me brain tacos, and I wasn’t a fan. Swear.”
I sniff. Damn, how long have I been crying?
I wipe my face with the blanket. The pounding in my head echoes the words flashing through my brain: STUPID, STUPID, STUPID. Too trusting. Too stupid. Everyone but me knew the truth. Mala, Landry, Mama. Ferdinand…he worked me over like a master liar. I spilled my innermost secrets to him, like he was my long-lost BFF. He acted like he didn’t know me. He kept the fact that he was the Hoodoo Queen’s muscle to himself. Why?
I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. My mind’s cluttered. Full of…of crap. Loads and loads of crap. Focus. One thing at a time. First Ferdinand. Why keep his identity a secret? So Mala won’t find out? He seemed sincere about wanting to help me. But maybe his motivation is more selfish. If someone is targeting Magnolia’s staff then Ferdinand’s at risk, too. Which means he’s on my side, if only to keep himself alive.
“Are you okay?” Anders asks.
“Yeah, I guess you had good reason not to trust me.”
He blinks, and the right side of his mouth lifts enough to flash his dimple before he sobers. “Don’t feel too bad. My partner’s the only person I ever truly trusted. You’re growing on me. It’d be easier if I wasn’t still confused as hell.”
Confused…This makes me giggle. My poor brain’s twirling like a pinwheel. “You and me both. So let’s break it down and consider the players involved. You’ve got a dead mob boss. My cousin, who refused the ‘Hoodoo Queen’ mantle of power, leaving Evil.org without a leader. A whole lot of incompetent—I call them this since I’m still alive—dead assassins. And me. We need to figure out who took over in the vacuum left by Magnolia’s passing.”
Anders’s eyes sparkle as he shifts on the couch. “Right. Maybe this person’s picking off those loyal to the old Queen. Like Ferdinand and Anton.”
I shake my head. “The black shadow killed Anton. He died because he was in the wrong place at the right time.” Except he’d also threatened me. Could this be the common denominator? Anything that threatens me, Ashmael crispy creams. “The shadow killed the assassins who came after me. It’s protecting me.”
“Not that I believe this shadow exists, any more than I believe you’re a zombie. But if it did, why?”
I shrug. “It…he…likes me.”
“I like you, too, but not enough to burn people to death for you.”
“Well, I hope not, Anders. We barely know each other.” I rub the blanket across the tip of my nose, soothing myself with the repetitive motion. The whole time, I firmly steer my mind from dwelling on the mini-confessions of interest Anders keeps slipping into the conversation. It’s getting harder and harder to act like I haven’t noticed he thinks I’m more beautiful than a zombie. He likes me but not enough to kill for me. And he needs to protect himself from whatever seductive wiles I may throw at him. Okay, the seductive wiles part is my own interpretation.
I sigh and wrap the blanket over my head. “The more important question is why am I being targeted?”
“That’s what doesn’t make a lick of sense, Dena.” Anders stabs his fingers through his sable hair again. For some absurd reason, it strikes me as endearing. Maybe because he seems genuinely flustered. I don’t think this is one of his calculated emotional responses. This time, I’m reading the truth in the emotion stamped on his face.
He scratches the rough stubble on his jaw, staring at the coffee table, then meets my gaze. “If one of Magnolia’s business rivals is taking out the competition, then why not target Mala? What’s so important about you? I’ll do my best to protect you, but I can’t stop them until I figure out why you’re such a threat.”
Without saying it outright, he thinks I’m doomed. I’ve got a giant bull’s-eye plastered on my back. The only reason I’m not still crying: I’m not alone. Anders has my back. And so does my guardian angel of death. Ashmael kept me safe before I knew of the danger. Everything will be okay. I’ll be fine.
“Sorry for calling you a stalker for staking out my house.” I force myself to smile. “I get it now. All this time I thought you were a perv. Instead you’re my knight in shining armor, carrying a Glock 9-mil in your shoulder holster instead of a sword. At least I don’t have to worry about you lopping off my zombie head.”
Anders frowns. “This isn’t a joking matter, Dena.”
“Yeah, I know…but I have to laugh to keep from crying.” I get up and motion him toward the kitchen. “Come on, hero, I’ll get us a drink, and you can brag about how many times you’ve saved my life this week.”
“I haven’t saved your life this week,” he mutters, following me into the kitchen.
“Yet…I feel so undead, Anders.” I pull a six-pack from the fridge and place it on the table. “Want a beer? Or are you on duty?”
His gaze travels across my face. “It’s my day off,” he says with a frown.
“Really? Then I admire your dedication to your work. Come on. You have no excuse. Let’s get drunk and forget about all the problems plaguing us like pesky mosquitoes out for blood. At least for a little while.” I gesture toward the extra chair.
It’s at this point that I break Anders.
CHAPTER 14
Lover Boy and Anchovies
Anders throws his hands in the air. He turns in a half circle, as if to storm out of the kitchen, then lunges forward to grab a beer from the table. He downs it in four long gulps, before snatching my can from my frozen hand. I stare, mouth open, in complete shock. My laugh bursts from my chest, catching both of us off guard. The man completely disarms me by chugging a beer, like any other normal guy.
“Why don’t you order us a pizza?” Anders loosens his tie and unbuttons the top of his dress shirt.
My eyes are drawn to the sliver of bare skin revealed. “Pizza, huh?” I lick my lips, mouth dry. I take another can from the table. “Plan to be here awhile?”
“Can’t have beer without pizza. It’s un-American.”
Pizza, too. Damn, score another one to Anders. He’s just leveled up in hotness points. My heart races and each breath comes with effort. I tear my gaze from his chest, pulling my cellphone from my pocket as an opportunity to clear my head. I hit the preset number to my favorite hole-in-the-wall pizza joint, Santiago’s, and hold the phone to my ear.
Back in control, I face Anders with a raised eyebrow. “What do you want on it?”
“Pepperoni, olives, and extra anchovies.”
I give a delicate shudder. “Whatever turns you on, Lover Boy.”
His eyes do that thing—where they darken— and my stomach clenches. “A lot of things turn me on,” he says, his voice like silk sliding across my skin.
Whew, it’s warm in here. Fanning my face, I stare out the kitchen window. I won’t let him see how his words affect me. Nope, no blushing. Not this time. I keep my voice steady when I place my order. “Yeah, give me a large pizza: half pepperoni and olives, and half veggie delight hold the olives— anchovies topping both sides. For delivery, please; you have my address.”
Anders grins when I look at him. “I see we have a love of eighties movies in common. Tell me, do you tip well?”
Oh God! Of all the movies to references, why did I pick Lover Boy? “Better than most women.” Ugh, I suck at flirting. “Who doesn’t like little salty fish and Patrick Dempsey as a gigolo pizza delivery boy? I actually have the DVD. We can watch it while we eat.” I grab another beer and sit down at the table.
Anders follows, sitting next to me. Maybe he senses my discomfort at the topic of conversation, because he tips the beer toward me in a salute. “Thanks, I needed this.”
I salute back then take several large swallows. “I could tell. You were wound a little tight.”
“Murder usuall
y affects me that way.”
“I can’t even imagine all you’ve gone through.” I set the beer on the table and fold my hands. “If I forgot to say this earlier, I’m sorry about your partner. I’d gotten lost in a pit of self-pity over my own drama and forgotten my manners.”
Anders smiles, shaking his head. “I’ll leave that last part alone since you’re being civil for once and enjoy it for as long as it lasts. And thanks for the condolences. He was a good friend and a better partner. He saved my life that night.”
“What do you mean?”
“I told you about Étienne Thibodaux—”
“Magnolia’s zombie servant.”
“Chauffeur…. And for a dead guy, he had excellent reflexes. Jimmy and I had followed Magnolia to the Dubois estate. Thibodaux tried to run me over with her big ass Cadillac. Jimmy shoved me aside. The impact killed him. I cracked my head on the pavement, but I got lucky. Dr. Estrada put the shattered pieces of my skull back together like a jigsaw puzzle.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. That’s awful. Wait. Estrada—” My words cut off with my gasp. I put together the pieces of information he shared earlier—the Dubois Estate, Magnolia—to solve my very own puzzle. “You said this happened the night of the earthquake.”
“Yeah, why?”
“Because I think you’re my mystery patient. The night of the earthquake an injured man was brought to the hospital. I watched over him.”
His lip curls, and he shakes his head, disbelief stamped on his face. Not that I blame him. I hardly believe it myself.
“Why would you be there, Dena?”
“I’d woken from my coma a few days before. That night…” Was the first time I heard Death’s song. “I’ve never seen anything so horrifying. So many of my friends didn’t make it.” I blink back the memory. “The hospital had too many patients coming in and not enough staff. The nurses were overwhelmed so I helped to monitor your status until Estrada could operate. You joked about Estrada putting you back together like a jigsaw puzzle, but I saw…Anders, you almost died. It scared the hell out of me.” I held your hand and blocked Death from stealing your soul. What kind of crazy fate do we share for this to happen?
He stares at me through thick lashes, and I shiver. The intense bond I formed with the unnamed patient that crazy night stretches between us—a fragile, unbroken cord. I never got over him. I’ve been wondering why I feel such an intense attraction to him. Now, maybe, my conscious self knows what my subconscious has been shouting since the first moment Anders scowled at me. I only wish I’d recognized him sooner.
Guilt forces my head down. “I’m sorry. I promised to find you after the operation, but I didn’t. They moved you to another hospital, and I never got your name.”
“Jimmy and I went in undercover. I didn’t have my identification on me. I ended up at the hospital in Lafayette, then after I woke up they moved me to New Orleans.”
“Yeah, well, I still should’ve tried. This is so crazy.”
“What? That I found you instead?” He takes my hand and lays it on top of his. With the other hand he opens my fingers, one by one. “I wondered why this hand felt familiar.” His soft lips press a kiss to the center of my palm. Right on my love line. Coincidence? Knowing Anders, I think not.
His green gaze traces the curves of my face, pausing for a long, breathless moment on my mouth. I don’t breathe. My heart’s about to fly out of my chest. I wet my bottom lip with the tip of my tongue, and Anders’s pupils dilate. I can’t conceal the blush warming my cheeks, but I can redirect this situation before it gets out of control.
Clearing my throat, I ask, “Do you know how Magnolia found out about your investigation?”
“No, Jimmy spoke to the informant. He told me that Magnolia would be at the Dubois estate, and the informant would meet us there with enough proof to indict Magnolia for her crimes. Only I can’t remember if we met this person before Thibodaux tried to kill us. My memory’s spotty.”
“Did anyone else in your department know about the meeting?”
“It wasn’t sanctioned. We kept quiet in case the informant didn’t show. The captain had already ordered us off the investigation.”
I lean forward, elbows propped on the table. “What do you remember about that night?”
Anders raises the beer to his lips and takes a deep drink. “Not much. That’s the problem. I read statements given by the victims who survived the quake. Nobody remembers Magnolia being at the Dubois party, but her remains were found in the debris. Along with Étienne Thibodaux.”
I lift my own beer and shake the empty can. I don’t remember drinking it, but I won’t guzzle the next one. I grab the last can from the table before Anders nabs it.
Anders stretches back in the chair, kicking his legs out. He rakes his fingers through his hair again. “I was put on administrative leave after the incident. My captain wanted me to see a shrink and convince him I was fit for duty. I left instead. Sheriff Keyes knew my history, and he still hired me. Even now, I worry he’s waiting for me to screw up. I’ve heard that some of the guys think I’m responsible for my partner getting killed. That I ran away rather than facing sanctions for what happened.”
I slide my chair next to his, so close that I can smell his clean, spicy scent. “There’s no way. I’ve only known you for a week, but there is no doubt in my mind. You’re not capable of betraying your own partner,” I state firmly. “It must be difficult not knowing if somewhere in your mind is the answer to all of the questions you’ve been asking yourself. That maybe you know more than you remember.”
Anders’s eyes flicker, reflecting a vulnerability that tugs at my heart. He breaks our gaze, staring down at the table as if to shield himself before I peel off the protective layers he uses to conceal his pain. He reminds me of myself.
Neither of us trust worth a damn.
But I want to. Does he?
The question must be stamped on my face. I don’t mean for it to show. Or expect an answer. The corners of his eyes soften as he slowly puts down his beer. “You’re such a contradiction. I feel…” He releases a heavy sigh, but remains silent.
“Huh?” Feel what? Enraged? Annoyed? Maybe it’s better if he doesn’t answer. Do I want him to admit to feeling this connection between us? That he feels something deeper than the frustration and distrust he shows so often? It would only complicate our already complicated relationship. Maybe some things are safer if left unsaid.
I shift my focus to the word before the hiccup of a confession. “What do you mean by ‘contradiction’?”
Anders angles his chair until I’m sandwiched between his legs. His muscular thighs press against mine, holding me hostage. “Shut up, Dena! Just for a moment, please.”
I seal my lips, acutely aware of the heat of his legs. It would be so easy to reach out and slide my palms up his thighs. Even easier to rip the buttons from his shirt so I can explore the contours of the chest peeking out, teasing me. I clasp my trembling hands together and stick them between my knees, fighting the temptation to touch him.
Anders frowns. Does he read the desire in my eyes? At this point, I can’t hide it. Two—maybe, three—beers equal inhibitions shot to pieces. I’m screwed, or rather, hoping to get screwed, six ways to Sunday.
Anders lifts my hands from my lap. His fingers wrap around mine, holding on tight as if afraid I’ll pull away. “Dena, the men are targeting you for a reason. I don’t think they’ll stop until they’ve accomplished their objective, which appears to be killing you.” He punctuates that last statement with a light squeeze. “The only way to stop them is to figure out what they want, why they picked you. I know you don’t fully trust me, but I’m begging you—be straight with me. What secret are you holding back?”
I try to reclaim my hands. I guess I am a contradiction. One second, I want him to touch me. The next, I want to escape, and he refuses to let go.
“Dena, how did you get downtown last night?”
I struggle against the ill
usion of intimacy. He’s using it as a weapon to coerce me into trusting him. Manipulating my desperation. And I’m such a sap, it’s almost worked. How pathetic. The last time I softened toward him, I spilled the secret about the black shadow. He called me crazy. What will he say if I tell him about my semi-corporeal makeout buddy?
Deliberately obtuse, I shrug. “I don’t understand.”
“When I found you last night you were five miles from home. You didn’t take a car. Who picked you up?”
Now my confusion isn’t faked. I shake my head. What does he mean by five miles from home? Had I really been that far away? It didn’t feel so far. I ran it in about five minutes. I wasn’t even out of breath.
I stop trying to pull away and clutch Anders hands, my own sticky with sweat. Our eyes meet. Concern fills his jade and gold depths. It feels real. Maybe I’m subconsciously deluding myself, but as I stare into his eyes, my fear and uncertainty drifts away. Darn that beer.
“Dena,” he whispers, a little befuddled himself, judging by the shifting darkness in his eyes. His head tilts toward mine. He runs his tongue across his full lips. “Who is he? Gabriella didn’t know. She was as shocked about you being with another man as…”—his head dips, gaze dropping—“…I was.” Pain pinches the corners of his eyes when he looks at me through his thick lashes.
Am I responsible?
He clears his throat. “What’s his name?”
Is this jealousy? Or something else? I pull my hand free and rub my neck. Are the love bites Ashmael gave me still visible? Or did they heal as fast as my other bruises? “How do you know it was a man?” My voice sounds strained.
Anders grunts. He lays his fingertips against the racing pulse in my throat. My eyes close as I lean into the warmth of his cupped hand. Heat radiates through my body. “I know,” he whispers, a tinge of amusement lightening his husky tone.
His fingers tangle in my hair, tracing across the bullet scar behind my ear. My first instinct is to grab his hand, but I don’t. This scar reflects the one inside me. The pain of it has healed, but it’s a reminder not to take life for granted. No matter how much living hurts. It took a long time to accept this. I’m not ashamed of him seeing it.