Rise by Moonlight

by Nancy Gideon

  “Frannie?” Broad shoulders shrugged. “’bout as much as I know about anyone who works behind my bar. She shows up on time, doesn’t dip into the till, and the customers like her.”

  “No references?”

  “For this job? Just verbal. I’m lucky to find anyone for what I pay. Was down a server, and she showed up lookin’ for work. Wasn’t about to be picky. What’s she done?”

  Colin skipped over his question, too busy with his own. “She been here every night?”

  Jacques frowned, worry lines crowding his broad brow. “She’s been taking some time off. Hurt her shoulder carrying some heavy stock . . . down here.”

  “She tell you that in person?”

  “She called in. What’re you getting at?”

  “She was here, at least her body was, in that box while she was walking around in my mate!”

  Jacques stared at him as if he’d gone insane. But there was no madness in the hard, green eyes, just fury. “What the hell’s going on?”

  “Later. Where would she go? Where does she live? I need an address. Now!”

  A search of Fran’s by-the-week room provided no answers. Two changes of freshly laundered basics she wore to work, a bed not slept in, bathroom empty of products beyond soap and off-brand shampoo, neither used. No toiletries or makeup that might contain traces of the owner’s identity. A room not lived in.

  So, where did she keep her belongings? Where had she gone to have her wound tended? Where was she hiding from the questions they needed answered?

  – – –

  Michael Furness moved through the quiet nave immersed in the everyday motions of the role he falsely maintained. A man of God. The spiritual leader of his flock. Hypocrisy weighed upon his shoulders like the burden the true Martyr had carried on the way to a symbolic sacrifice.

  “We need to talk.”

  Low words whispered from deep shadow came as no surprise.

  “Yes,” he agreed, “we do.”

  Max Savoie followed him through the silent annex, his inevitable presence bringing relief rather than alarm. He’d no intention of resisting the long overdue reckoning. The wages of sin. At the soft click of the door behind them, Max got right to business.

  “It’s time.” Those two words embraced their future in grim finality. “Where is she?”

  The priest sighed, sinking into his worn chair, so ready for all this to end yet dreading the obvious conclusion. “I don’t know. She doesn’t trust me with her safety.” A low chuckle. “A wise decision, considering.”

  “Then bring her here so we can end this. No more innocents die on my behalf. Before our streets and docks run red, we need to come to an accord.”

  Studying the proud, unbent figure before his desk, Furness proceeded carefully. “You know what she plans to do. Those who won’t bow will be crushed.”

  “They already have been.” Emotion flickered, a dull flame behind unblinking eyes. “We’re a conquered people. She’s broken the back of our resistance. I’m here to discuss terms.”

  “Terms?” Once Furness conquered his shock, he choked on a bitter laugh of experience. “She’ll give no terms.”

  “Bondage is better than extermination. A lesson I learned very young. The Terriots are suppressed. Guedry fled the city to negotiate for the safety of his own clan. My only concern is for the survival of our next generation. You saved them from the horrors of your kind, sheltering them, hiding them, preparing them. Charlotte, Mary Kate, Nica. I need your promise that you’ll continue to advocate for them within those robes, within these walls. If you make that promise, I’ll surrender myself to my aunt in exchange for their protection.”

  “And you believe she’d honor any deal she makes?”

  A heavy truth weighted those broad shoulders. “I’ve no choice. I can’t let them die as the city burns.”

  Furness studied him, seeing only what Max would allow, which was damned little. Decades of weariness etched the stoic expression, bending his posture into necessary submission rather than defeat.

  “Are you sure, Max? She could destroy them all just to spite you. There is nothing kind or noble in her.”

  “I know what she is. Call her.”

  Furness hesitated. Max wasn’t above humbling himself for the sake of others, but could this unexpected and risky capitulation have another purpose? One that could harm the tyrant he’d once loved, destroying the rigid hierarchy he’d thought to hide himself within in to save himself? For what? Certainly not the benefit of others.

  After a moment of troubled reflection, the pseudo-priest nodded. “Where do you want to meet?”

  “Not here. Others could be harmed. Tell her where I can say good-bye to my past. She’ll know.”

  “When?”

  “When the sun sets. I need time to say my good-byes.”

  “Max, she’s going to kill you . . . or worse.”

  A sketch of a smile. “Watch over them, Michael. Be their good shepherd.” Max put out his hand.

  Emotions taking a bittersweet twist, Michael Furness clasped it firmly. “I’ll do what I can.”

  – – –

  Ophelia Brady entered the Garden District house that had never been a home, there to attend one last familial obligation. Her father’s body would be released that afternoon, leaving her the official duty of arranging for a funeral. Something small, private, no notice, no fanfare. No press or gawkers. She’d come for his spare uniform to drop off at the mortuary along with the proper forms and payments. No obituary, no service, just name and dates of birth and death on the stone next to the woman who wasn’t her mother.

  Would anything have changed if they’d had that one last chance to talk? Her conscience ached with that question. Whether his summons was for further condemnation or impossible reparations, it no longer mattered. When she locked the door behind her, after she’d discharged her duties, she’d leave all that in favor of her new life, her new family.

  Except for one loose end.

  “Hello, PhePhe.”

  Olivia sat on the foot of the stairs in the same spot Ophelia had spoken to the police. None of the glam clothes and frivolous airs. She looked . . . tired. Lost. And whatever this new ploy, it wasn’t going to work.

  Phe expected to feel anger, but it was apathy that surfaced as she stepped past the slumped form and began to climb. “I don’t have time for your games today, Liv. I’ve got a father to bury.”

  “Yes. My father. The great man. Left for worm food with no one to mourn him, just as I’ll be some day.”

  Phe paused and sighed, reluctantly drawn in. “You know that’s not true. Why do you say such things?”

  “Because the only one who’s ever loved me is walking away from me right now.” A moment’s silence then a quiet, “I did it for you, not her. For you and Chris.”

  A shiver ran from head to toe, an icy trickle of truth. She recalled her three-card draw that morning: The Sun reflecting a past of optimism, relationship growth, family, children and happiness, all of which she’d found; the Eight of Swords her present, a grim tableau of forced obligation and relationship road blocks right here before her; and, a future in the Seven of Swords with its warning to be vigilant and protect home, possessions and relationships. A dark circle Olivia was forcing to fruition. Before she could turn in frustration and grief, another warning followed.

  “He’d never have let you be happy. Neither will she. Be careful, Phe. She’s made plans to see all of you dead. Starting with your new king. Soon.”

  Squeezing her eyes shut, Phe swayed on the steps, struggling not to respond. Finally, she breathed deep and slowly turned. “And still, you stay with that monster. Knowing these things.”

  “Only because I have nowhere else to go. No place I feel . . . safe with who I am.”

  “My family could have been killed!”

  Shoulders hunched beneath the blow those words struck, Olivia continued in the same lifeless monotone. “If I’d known, I’d have warned you. That demon bit
ch must have followed me when I visited, so guess it’s my fault. It’s always my fault. I led her there. But I had to see you, to know that you were happy, that he makes you happy.” A wavering smile. “He does. And I’m glad. I’d never have let you, Chris or his family be harmed. You have to believe that.”

  “Believe? I’m so far past believing anything you have to say. Why would you think an apology makes you blameless?”

  “How about this instead?” She extended her hand, fingers unfurling to reveal a hotel pass card. “Give this to Chris’s brother, the big, pretty one. That’s where he can find justice for his mate.” As Phe cautiously took the key card, Olivia warned, “Whatever my . . . my mother is planning, it’s happening soon. And no one will be spared. Unless one of you stops her.” She stood, eyes lowered, voice weary. “Good-bye, Phe. See to our father then see to you and yours. Get the hell out of this city while you can.”

  – – –

  Cale stepped into the back lot of CdC where he’d parked his bike, the family party officially, dramatically, over. As he straddled the seat, his cell pinged, alerting him to a message from an unknown caller. It was mysterious and brief, citing a cargo dock number, urging ASAP. Tibideaux requesting a private meet? Or perhaps one of his undercover workers with sensitive information.

  Or something else.

  Familiar with the area from his time spent unloading freighters in the guise of Mick Terry, he rode down to the wharf. Stevedores pointing him in the right direction, he began searching the maze of stacked containers for the right combination of numbers until he found himself in a dead-end metal canyon. Cutting his motorcycle in a tight cycle, he braked as a group of at least a dozen males approached, blocking the exit with a wall of muscled bodies. Flame tattoos on bared forearms identified them as Patrol members. Cale swung off the bike, about to call out to them when their stances widened and their eyes glowed red.

  With quick, bold movements, Cale stripped off his shirt so they’d see who they were dealing with, displaying those violently earned scars and proud tattoos as a resume of his life in the House. The glare of midday sun detailed the brutal swell of muscle and sparked a cool fire of determination in his unblinking stare.

  They came at him with barely a whisper.

  How well they’d been trained, these infiltrators in their midst. His brother Rico’s doing? Proud of them even as he drew a wicked knife from his boot. Pleased when they hesitated for a long moment.

  Cale smiled, sharp teeth flashing as he drawled, “Take me, you traitorous sons-of-bitches. But I’m not gonna make it easy for you.”

  – – –

  A hard shove propelled Cale into the lofty second room of a mid-town hotel suite. He stumbled and fell to hands and knees on the plush carpet, blood soaking warm and wet through his shirt from his many wounds, running from torn scalp to cloud his vision. He hadn’t been blindfolded so him knowing where they were apparently presented no problem. Because they didn’t plan for him to live long enough to tell anyone.

  His pulse shuddered as polished shoes stepped into view. Hand-made Italian. A lifetime of acidic terror flooded his throat as memories he couldn’t swallow choked him. Of Bram the Beast. His father.

  Be like stone.

  Those words from childhood flooded his mind as one of the shiny shoes lifted, making every muscle contract in expectation of his rage. That smooth sole fit to the back of his neck, heel exerting pressure, forcing tensed arms to finally fold until he was prostrate on the rug.

  “Give me a reason to let you live.”

  It took a moment for enough spit to form to allow words that were subdued but steady. “You’ll want to know why I’m here.”

  A pause as Bram considered that. “I assumed it was involuntarily.”

  “You’d be wrong. Those pieces of shit couldn’t get me on my knees unless I wanted to be there.”

  Silence.

  Cale closed his eyes, steadying the rasp of his breathing, hoping curiosity would outweigh a famous eruption of temper and a very final retribution. Bram’s chuckle surprised the hell out of him, providing both hope and a soul-clutching dread. His father’s amusement didn’t often lead to mercy.

  “I’m listening. What do you want, Cale, that’s worth your traitorous life?”

  “My family’s survival. End this, my king, without further bloodshed. Take my life and spare theirs.”

  “Why would I want to do that? I already have one without the other?”

  “Because my brothers, excluding this one who isn’t worth a damn,” he paused for emphasis to make sure Stephen Terriot, who’d supervised his capture, registered his disgust, “carry your blood and strength and the future of our clan.”

  “Conspirators who’d cage me and let me rot.” Pressure increased, grinding Cale’s cheek into the wool fibers.

  “No, my king. Not traitors to you. You exist because that was their condition.”

  A lengthy pause then a suspicious, “All of them?”

  “Yes, my king. They insisted your behavior was from the poisons Martine gave you. They wanted you to get well. I convinced them to follow me, to deal with New Orleans and Memphis. And it’s torn our proud and powerful family in half, made us weak and afraid. I’m here to ask . . . to beg you to make it whole and strong again. Don’t think for a second,” he growled, “that that one,” he glared again at his treacherous half-sibling, “could have brought me here alive unless it was my wish to meet with you.”

  Fateful seconds ticked by as Bram considered his words, nudging at them cautiously. Finally, the pressure of that expensive stitched sole lessened, allowing Cale to ease up onto his knees while head stayed bowed and shoulders slumped in humility. A moment his father savored as a balm to his fury.

  “Why should I believe you, boy?”

  He took a steadying breath. “Kendra. Nothing means more to me than her survival. And that of our child. Let them live. Let my brothers and their families live, and I’ll make any concessions you want. Without me, they’ll turn to you, as they should, and you can take our family back to their place of respect and pride.”

  “Look at me.” A long moment passed, Cale remaining unmoved. “Look at me!”

  Cale’s wary gaze lifted, his posture still tense, prepared for the mottling of Bram Terriot’s infamous rage. But this wasn’t the crazed, deathly-ill tyrant he’d had imprisoned. Here was the feared and respected king of their clan. Strong, confident, a larger than life red-headed mountain of a male fueled by pride and greed and fury. What he, himself, might have become if not for the sweet kiss from a childhood dream.

  Deadly as a hypnotic cobra as a grim smile spread, his father demanded, “What do you know of pride, boy? You bent a knee to Savoie and Guedry. You tore our clan apart and here you are, begging for me to clean up your mess.”

  Vision skewed by the truth of that claim, Cale whispered, “I am.” A long, meaningful pause, building toward that final capitulation. “Please, my king. I beg you, show them mercy.”

  “But none for yourself?”

  “I don’t deserve it. Our mates carry the future of our people.” This was the point he had to sell to his last breath. “You’ll need their numbers to increase those we’ve lost. Especially now.”

  Silence, then that rough chuckle that eerily echoed his own. “I don’t need them, boy. All I need to do is step back, then claim my reward.”

  Mouth going slack, he fought to find words. “What reward is worth their blood?”

  “Power.” Bram savored that single word. “Those from the North wasted their trust on Guedry promises. They’ll have no reason to doubt mine once I cleanse our clan of its defectors and crush those in opposition.”

  Breathless with dread, Cale whispered, “You’d sell out our kind to serve those monsters?”

  “Not to serve, to join. They mean to use New Orleans to reeducate or rid themselves of those who’ve opposed them. We will stand on those walls of progress to assure that vision is successful. We’ll be the muscled arms of
their intentions now that Guedry has betrayed his weakness. I’ll show none. And my first act to prove it will be the very public execution of all those who stood against me. The name Terriot will be reborn in their blood. Your blood.”

  Cale’s tortured gaze lifted. “You’d kill your children and their unborn?”

  “And sleep like a baby. It won’t be the first time I’ve cleansed with fire. It’s the only way to purify. Time to finish what I started at our compound.” Bram savored the flash of horror on his son’s face. “I’ll let you think on that while your life drains out at my feet. Because you’re right, they’ll crumble once you’re gone. My people,” a harsh laugh, “are sheep, easily deceived, easily led. They’ll follow once I devour all who’ve betrayed me, leaving your precious Kendra for the last tasty bite.”

  Slowly, the gloating king’s pleasure faded.

  Instead of expressing horror and begging for a stay of those terrible plans, Cale’s lips quirked then slowly curved into his fierce smile. “I think we have enough to make our case.”

  Those odd words sent a shock of warning to scatter the old king’s confidence.

  Silent as an avenging spirit, Turow Terriot stepped through the doorway behind Stephen. Before his brother could draw a startled breath, it was too late for it to be his last as the flash of Row’s blade nearly took off his head.

  “For Sylvia,” Turow declared softly into Stephen’s ear. “No one harms those I love and lives to boast of it . . . especially not to me.” After wiping his blade clean on Stephen’s jacket, he let the shell of his brother fall. Stoic stare never leaving their father, Row addressed Cale. “Thank you, my king, for allowing me that privilege.”

  “What is this?” Bram demanded, outraged and not yet afraid.

  Cale showed his teeth. “I needed your men at the docks to bring me here. But they weren’t all loyal to you.”

  “The traitors have been taken care of.” Row put down a hand to his leader, hoisting him from his knees as he nodded toward their father. “What do we do with him? Back to his comfortable jail until he finds someone else to free him?”