Rise by Moonlight

by Nancy Gideon

  “You’ve no power over me, you simple animals,” Fran growled in response to Colin’s threat. “My sister and I would rather join her than submit to the likes of you.”

  She grabbed the hand holding the knife, struggling for possession, clawing, even biting his thumb until Colin dealt her a short, stunning blow to the nose and yanked away.

  Genevieve’s elder daughter licked at the blood streaming over her curled lip and smiled as she taunted, “I drove the truck that officially killed your mate. How did she feel, knowing while she was locked away in the dark, you and I were rolling around, playing house together so many, many times?” When Colin didn’t react as she’d hoped, his temper locked down tight, she seized the only other path to freedom she could find. “You owe me! I brought her back and I can take her away again just as easily any time I want unless you—"

  “No more deals.”

  The Terriot prince gripped her jaw, and with a quick wrench of his hand and crack of her spine took her threats off the table.

  Seeing her only ally crumple, Olivia cried up at Kip, “You owe me, Chris! Your life for mine!”

  The young prince’s stunned gaze followed the figure sliding lifeless to the floor. Olivia’s . . . sister? He swallowed hard. Features firming along with his resolve, he replied, “That’ll be up to Ophelia and our king.”

  After Kip placed a call to Babineau requesting yet another cleanup, he and Colin took their prisoner to the Towers. Olivia remained docile and silent, adding to his worry. As they approached the elevator, Jacques, Susanna and their child, Pearl LaRoche were just getting on and stepped back to make room for them inside.

  As the car rose silently, Olivia glanced down at the somberly intense child. Gazes met and, in surprise, held. A kindred spark leapt between them, each recognizing the dark half of the other.

  Olivia faced front and smiled slightly to herself.

  She was not alone.

  The family got off at an earlier floor while the car continued to the next. As the three of them approached an apartment door, it flew open. Ophelia Brady stood on its threshold. Her gaze flew from sister to her mate’s as she whispered, “Thank you.”

  Olivia trotted docilely at the big Terriot’s side as Colin hauled her inside and straight across the living room to the open terrace door. A weak laugh escaped. “Are you going to throw me off?”

  “Not my choice to make,” Colin growled, glare hinting at his preference. He gave her a push over the threshold.

  A tall, black-haired female turned away from the view to offer a narrow smile. Despite her obvious pregnancy, she had the strong, fit body and manner of a warrior. Liv returned the gesture cautiously. Sharp, no-nonsense blue eyes imprisoned her gaze as if piercing to the soul she claimed not to have. The prickly invasion left her shaky but oddly not alarmed as she asked, “Who are who?”

  “I’m like you. I once walked the same path you do now. My name is Nica, and I can show you another way.”

  – – –

  Michael Furness assessed his visitors, smile guarded. Max and Charlotte, Silas, and Dr. Duchamps gave nothing away with their demeanors. After they’d found seats in his modest office, he asked, “What’s happened?”

  Silas, who had little affection for the priest, spoke plainly. “We’re here to clean up the mess you’ve made, not only in New Orleans but in the North as well.”

  His startled gaze jumped to Max, who was brutally blunt.

  “She’s dead, and so are her men.”

  All the calm that served his profession well failed as he sagged back into his chair, struggling to find words. Finally, he whispered, “How?”

  Max spelled out the course of events slowly, carefully, concluding with, “The question now is what happens next, and that’s up to you, Michael. Genevieve may be dead, but our worlds, our clans are still at war. That ends. Now!”

  Confused gaze going from one face to the next—each a different piece of the whole that made up New Orleans—Furness started putting those pieces together. “What has that to do with me?”

  “Everything.” Max passed him the letter from Rollo Moytes to the son he never knew. “It was Rollo’s plan to save himself by leveraging this information to the highest bidder. He came to New Orleans to retrieve it. That ended badly for him. He should have trusted his son instead of his greed.”

  Furness began reading, carefully at first then so swiftly the words blurred together. Finally, the paper dropped from trembling hands to desktop. “This can’t be true.”

  “It is,” Susanna assured him. “I’ve tested dozens of samples just to be sure. This is what Genevieve was looking for, why she founded this place, conducted all that research in the North, to find this unique link, whether to use it or destroy it, I don’t know. This is the connection to our past before it separated. The one pure source from which we all sprang.”

  “And that source?” Furness asked, his usually strong and purposeful voice faint.

  “Is you. There’s no mistake.” The Chosen doctor interrupted his gathering argument. “The markers are there, plain to see. Max was the closest Genevieve could find until the experiments that produced the Brady girls provided the only real clue. Genevieve was trying to create a future generation from her own genetic material. Hers with you produced Olivia.”

  The pseudo-priest spoke in a labored monotone. “She and I never—”

  “No,” Susanna supplied, voice surprisingly kind. “But once there was a plan for you and Marie Savorie. Your samples were taken after both families insisted on a test for purity of line and virility. Then she disappeared with Rollo. The samples were never destroyed. Genevieve kept them for study. And then for her own ambitious purposes.”

  Michael Furness had gone very still. “You’re quite the detective yourself, Dr. Duchamps.”

  “LaRoche,” she corrected.

  Finally, after a bout of spiritual squirming, Furness sighed and admitted, “Ophelia is my child with Sister Catherine’s—Mary Kate’s—mother.” Whom he’d obviously loved and had tried to protect from Genevieve’s jealous machinations. “I wanted to guide and protect her without her guessing the truth. Not easy or possible with that gift of hers.”

  Cee Cee summarized the conversation in the Towers between the four females, sliding an apologetic glance her mate’s way for keeping those newly discovered facts a secret.

  “Genevieve,” Furness continued, “used that knowledge to secure my allegiance when I’d have broken away from her madness. Instead, I watched over both Brady girls, the same way I did Mary Kate and Charlotte. With her gone, they’ll be safe now.” That settled in, strengthening his posture and his resolve. “Everything’s changed.”

  “So, it’s you, Michael,” Max said again, this time as fact not suggestion. “You’ll become the power in the North, and you’ll use it to unite all our people. With the Terriots’ help, we’ve locked down the docks. Rueben Guedry has frozen all military assistance. When word spreads that my aunt is dead, her men defeated, there’ll be a scramble for control if no one worthy steps up. It’s time for you to step up, Michael, to stop hiding in those robes and do good for all our people.”

  His eyes closed, reflecting on his failures. “I wasn’t strong when I needed to be.”

  “Be strong now,” Cee Cee urged, reaching for his hand as he’d often done hers for that firm squeeze of support. “You’ll be that figurehead for all that’s good, what we all can aspire to be. No divisions of class. No separation that would put any of our kind in bondage to another. Yours’ll be a message many have waited their whole life to hear. You’re the Chosen One.”

  As his features twisted, her voice softened. “This is the mark you’ve always wanted to make, one of service and humility. Make your amends by lifting all of us up so we stand together.”

  Furness took a deep breath and looked to each of them in turn. “I can’t do it alone.”

  “You have Rueben and Cale. And me.” Max pressed a hand upon his shoulder. “We’ll be there f
or whatever you need, not to police or punish or demand, but to provide, to strengthen and guide.” His smile slowly unfurled, “And you’ll be that good shepherd who cares for us all.”

  EPILOGUE

  Carmen Blutafino entered his office on the second floor of The Sweat Shop eager to start siphoning his poor deceased partners’ shares into his own till. He sighed in brief regret at their passing then shrugged philosophically. A tender heart wouldn’t pay for that house being built in the Caymans. New Orleans was getting too hot for comfort since Savoie and his little woman wouldn’t oblige him and carelessly die by accident or design.

  Closing the door behind him, he scowled, good humor plunging. His massive desk chair was turned so the back was toward him. He always insisted it face front to give the impression of a throne waiting for him to fill it. Annoyed at the thought of having to track down one of his careless cleaning crew to fire them, he started across the room only to pull up sharply as the chair swiveled around.

  Detective Charlotte Caissie smiled thinly in greeting. “Hello, Manny. Thanks for not keeping me waiting. I’ve spent quite enough time in this place. It takes days for the stench to wash off.”

  “What are you doing here?” He flicked an impatient hand. “Get out of my chair!”

  As she stood and came around the desk, keeping it between them, Cee Cee relayed, “I thought I’d let you know Genevieve Savorie was killed last night.”

  Heavy brows lowered. “Who? Is that name supposed to mean something to me?”

  “You and Atcliff should have done your homework before you had Brady killed.”

  After easing his bulk into the wide-bodied seat, he grumbled, “I didn’t have anything to do with that.”

  “Maybe, maybe not, but you certainly profit from having one less associate. Or is it both?”

  Manny stared at her unblinkingly. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  She shrugged. “If you say so.”

  His broad chest heaved, expelling a labored sigh. “What do you want, Detective? If you’re here to reapply for a job working the pole, you’ve gotten a little bit . . . um, girthy, for my patrons.”

  “I came to ask a favor.” As suspicion registered, Cee Cee continued. “It has to do with my former work on stage and, specifically in your back room with the man who is now my husband.” She pointed to a door off to the side of his spacious office where she, when undercover as one of his dancers had been instructed to entertain a potential investor, one Max Savoie. “I know you kept a copy of the tape. Not that I find it distasteful, but it’s not something I’d like shown at the annual police benefit, nor would I want my daughter’s friends to one day see it pop up on social media. Or held over my head at future date.”

  He leaned back, tenting fingers above his massive girth. “Why would I want to do that kind of favor for you?”

  “Because I’m going to offer one in return.”

  Carmen pondered a moment, greedy wheels turning, then spun his chair toward the credenza behind him. One of the doors covered a substantial safe. Burdened leather and casters groaned in complaint as he bent down to enter the combination. Cee Cee got a glimpse of probable blackmail stacked and waiting. He selected one of the tapes and turned back to lay it on the desktop beneath one pudgy hand.

  “That’s the only copy?”

  A smile. “Cross my heart. And what do you have for me?”

  “A head’s up. The Fed’s just finished deposing a very talkative protected witness. You’ll want to get your lawyer on speed dial. They should be here in about five minutes to read you your rights.”

  All amusement wiped from pasty features. “What are you talking about? What witness?”

  Cee Cee cued up her phone and turned the recently dated photo of a woman toward him. Her burn-scarred face was partially covered by a scarf and large dark glasses, but there was no mistaking the dramatic curves Blutafino had bought and paid for.

  “Lena.” Her name fell from a mouth dropped open in disbelief. “Bu-but she’s dead!”

  “You did your best. I’m afraid she was rescued by a member of my team who was transporting her when you tried to blow her up in that Memphis hotel room. It took a while for her to heal, but she just finished giving the most detailed statement.”

  He shook off his paralysis to gasp, “And Paulie, my son?”

  Dark eyes turned agate hard. “He wasn’t as lucky. So, you can be sure there’s no bribe, no threat, no amount of enticement that will keep her from shoving your murderous ass into prison. You might want to pack for Forty-to-Life. And if you just so happen to get out early, you’ll find me sitting in Atcliff’s office ready to welcome you home. Funny thing about that. He was supposed to meet his family in California yesterday but never showed. His bags are still at home. What do you think? He just cut and run to avoid prosecution? Or did he get cut up into little pieces to feed our natural wildlife?”

  When he offered no comment, Cee Cee snatched up the tape. She cocked her head toward the door and cupped an ear. “Oh, they’re early. I think I hear the sound of your time running out.”

  As Manny sat still too stunned to move, Cee Cee exited the room, leaving its door open for the grim-faced men she passed in the hall.

  A small smile bloomed when she exited The Sweat Shop to find Max Savoie leaning against her Camaro, all tall, dark, and wickedly delicious. He gestured toward the line of black, unmarked vehicles.

  “Expecting company?”

  She chuckled, feeling a bit naughty herself. “I called them. Just finishing up some housecleaning before that motherhood thing begins. Must be the nesting phase.” At his perplexed look, she patted his arm. “You’ll find out all about it when we start taking classes.”

  “Does one need to get a license to rear children?”

  She bumped against him, hip to hip, as he held the door open, leaning in to enjoy the hard lines and delectable scent of him. “My job’d be considerably easier if they did. Prenatal classes. You want to be there to welcome our daughter into this world, don’t you?”

  “Indeed, I do. I plan to be a good student. I take this fatherhood thing very seriously.”

  She smiled, heart and hopes lightened by those words. Not that he needed to speak them after proving them every minute they’d spent together the night before.

  Wonderfully, exhaustively. Beautifully.

  “You rock my world, Savoie.”

  “Good to know, Detective.” He glanced down at the object in her hand. “Do you need to take that in to enter as evidence?”

  Remembering the tape, she exclaimed, “Good god, no!” As his dark brows raised, she added, “For personal home viewing only.”

  An intrigued smile shaped that yummy mouth. “I’ll arrange time for a private screening. A shame we have a houseful of company tonight.”

  She’d forgotten all their friends were gathering to celebrate the start of a new era for their kind. Drinking and dinner. The serious work would start when Rueben Guedry returned for their meeting with Michael Furness in the morning where, along with Cale, they’d outline that future to benefit all.

  Tucking her hand beneath Max’s long black coat to skim his ribs and claim a squeeze of that exceptionally fine ass, she murmured, “Rain check,” with a sigh of regret.

  He nocked a finger beneath her formidable chin, raising her gaze to his. “Why, Detective, haven’t you ever heard of afternoon matinees?”

  As her eyes widened, he opened the car door and turned her neatly into the passenger seat with a silky, “I’ll drive.”

  “Oh, baby. I’m inclined to let you take the wheel,” Charlotte rumbled in anticipation as he closed her inside.

  Max circled the vehicle, humming a tune that fit his jaunty steps, one he recalled from a most memorable night when he, as the Shapeshifter King of New Orleans embraced his future queen for a sexy two-step on their way out of Cheveux du Chien.

  Warren Zevon’s “Werewolves of London.”

  When they reached the top fl
oor of the Towers, he’d make his mate howl.

  And tomorrow, his kind would raise their voices.

  As one.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Nancy Gideon is the award-winning, bestselling author of 68 romances ranging from historical, regency and series contemporary suspense to paranormal, with a couple of horror screenplays tossed into the mix. She’s also published under the pen names Dana Ransom, Rosalyn West and Lauren Giddings. She recently retired after 20 years as a legal assistant and, when not at the keyboard, feeds a Netflix addiction along with all things fur, fin and fowl. For more information on the author, her books, or the “House of Terriot” and “By Moonlight” series, visit Nancy online at:

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  BOOKS BY NANCY GIDEON

  THE “BY MOONLIGHT” SERIES

  MASKED BY MOONLIGHT – BOOK 1

  “Intriguing characters and zippy action keep her complex and engaging story moving.”

  – Publishers Weekly Starred Review

  CHASED BY MOONLIGHT – BOOK 2

  “Terrific world-building as characters and readers discover dark and hidden secrets.”

  – Romantic Times Book Club

  CAPTURED BY MOONLIGHT – BOOK 3

  “Deliciously complex. Full of love, devotion, personal angst and paranormal intrigue!”

  – Night Owl Reviews

  BOUND BY MOONLIGHT – BOOK 4

  “Everything I want in a romance! Sizzling passion, a sexy hero, and paranormal love to last the ages.”

  – Gena Showalter, NYT bestselling author

  HUNTER OF SHADOWS – BOOK 5

  “Vivid writing, intriguing twists and a satisfying ending keep readers coming back to magical New Orleans.”

  – Publishers Weekly

  SEEKER OF SHADOWS – BOOK 6

  “Rich and complex, rewarding fans with enticing, well-crafted prose and page-turning tension.”