Until he walked in.
Her fingers wrapped around the cold metal as she leaned closer, a silent question rattling around in her mind before breaking back into song. Are you for real or just a figment of my exhausted imagination? Please. I could do with some good news for a change.
She poured her dreams and her desires into the final refrain, her words a secret message to the one patron in the room who mattered in her mind. The table’s hurricane lamp flickered in the surrounding dark, throwing dangerous shadows on the chiseled square jaw and piercing deep-set topaz eyes.
The blush on her face rose to finger-singeing level as he bowed his head respectfully. Her cheeks nearly cramped from her continuous grinning, the muscles weak after their recent bout of atrophy. Politely thanking the room, with an extra nod to one pair of applauding hands, she returned to the final song of her set; the promised, somewhat happier tune made sunnier by the smile still firmly planted on her lips.
Her regular audience seemed to notice the change in her voice as well, since she saw more reflected eyes and interested and upturned faces than on a usual night. Judy Garland was right, she thought to herself as “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” warmed her heart. With her eyelids fluttering down, she imagined her own personal rainbow just beyond the lights on the stage.
Who was he? What brought him in here tonight of all nights? Her mind spun in dizzying circles as her eyes continued to follow her own yellow brick road, for surely at the end was the greatest wizard. Just his presence in the club tonight had brought back the magic to her singing and to her soul. The final refrain filled the room, her voice stronger and buoyed by the first true blush of happiness, the notes clear and pure.
The enthusiastic applause returned once again, as did her joyful smile. Her head dropped down in shy response, the thank you she murmured into the silver microphone sincere for the first time in far too long.
“We’ll be back in five.”
Her eyes searched for the topaz gaze that gave her songs new meaning, but a pair of silent shadows crowded her vision.
“Boss wants to see you. Now.”
Miranda had to blink to convince herself she actually heard words from one of the monochromatic monoliths in tight turtlenecks. Shoulder to shoulder, the pair blotted out the focused spot before it snapped off, hiding her craning eyes from a much more pleasant face. Since neither Tweedle Dum nor Tweedle Dumber seemed too keen on her wishes, she bit down on the inside of her cheek to hold her tongue before she was duly escorted toward the offices at the back of the club.
Great. I’m finally in a decent mood, now this. This night cannot be for real.
Her bandmates started to rise up from their instrumental shields, but a short shake of her head and an unconvincing smile settled them back.
“It’s fine. I’ll be right back. I’m sure it’s nothing.” As she stepped off the stage with as much dignity as she could muster, her eyes strained to catch a glimpse of her male muse. Too bad the walking walls offered no window for her.
Her staccato stilettos tapped out a perturbed patter as all five-foot-five of her irritated frame power-walked down the cracked linoleum leading to the head honcho’s office. What the hell did he want this time? She hugged herself to stop any shudders from telegraphing the true depth of her fears. Yet, even as scary as the mumsy twins were at her back, she did hope they remained her human backdrop when she reached her destination. The thought of being alone in any space, especially the small confined ones, with Slick Sal froze her blood faster than a nor’easter blowing off Lake Michigan.
Familiar voices ebbed and flowed behind the thin wooden barrier. Fabulous. What did he do this time? A laugh boomed out and her armed escort opened the door. Sal sat on the edge of his massive oak desk, the smile too wide and too open. He clasped a hand on the shoulder of a nervously nodding young man in a thick gray hoodie, both laughs forced and fraudulent. Her boss leveled his gaze to hers, and a terrified chill ran down her limbs.
“Well, lookie here, kid. Look who I found coming to say hello?”
Miranda squared her shoulders as she stepped up to the open doorway. “Kyle? I thought you’d be at home.” At her words, the young man spun to face her, the male mirror image of herself busily avoiding her eyes. Dusty blonde hair fell across his baby blues as they scanned the floor at his feet.
“Uh, hey, sis. Yeah, I was just about to head there, ya know. So, how’s the singing business going tonight?”
This was wrong. She could feel it in her bones. Fighting the urge to grab onto his ear and drag him out, she threaded her fingers together, her arms hanging low before her. Movement caught the corner of her eyes as Sal slipped behind the desk and sank down into the high-backed leather seat.
“It’s fine.” Her eyes drifted to the slimy smile over her brother’s shoulder, her face a mask of indifference. “You wanted to see me, Mr. Francciolli?”
Slick Sal tipped his chair back, the practiced action not even shifting a hair out of place. “Yeah. Heard you still singing those sad tunes, doll. Remember? Folks come here to be entertained and no one likes to cry.”
Miranda paused, her mind racing with all the things she should say, each of which would only make her current situation even worse than it was. At the end of the bullet train of scenarios, she settled on a simple nod, her furious eyes finding solace in the garish velvet rendition of the Last Supper. Her eyebrows pulled together the longer she stared at one incredibly tacky work of art. Was Jesus really drinking a PBR?
More chuckles reverberated through the air, mirthless and eerie, pulling her gaze back to the gathered faces. Not one set of eyes seemed to be interested in her any longer, and she did need to pee before going back onto the stage. After waiting another moment, she mumbled her excuse to leave and turned on her heels, pointing her nose toward the staff restrooms.
“No more crying, got it?”
She held her gaze steady, focused on the safety of the hall. She nodded her understanding and moved as quickly down as her stilettos would allow. I don’t think you’re seriously including me in that statement, you bastard. A couple of hard swallows helped her maintain her composure until she made it to her destination. Yet, once inside the solitary space, the tears did flow as she hid in the first open stall she found. Quickly grabbing a handful of the scratchy squares, she held them under her leaking eyes, careful not to smudge her thick mascara.
C’mon, Andy. Hold it together. The night’s almost done. Her mental pep speech had become a nightly mantra, the words rattling around her head and keeping her voice crooning through one more song. She squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her palm flat against the graffiti-clad, faux wood, plastic laminate as she dragged in a much-needed deep breath. The scents of Lysol and some lingering flowery body spray blended in a strangely grounding mix.
Stuck in a world not of her making, she at least knew her place in it. And she prayed for the day when she could return to the one of her own choosing.
Sure she was composed enough to face one last set for the night, she did her business, checking her make-up in the unflattering mirror over the single sink. Some nights, she hardly recognized the face staring back at her. Tonight was definitely one of those. Luckily, she hadn’t cried enough for her eyes to puff up like marshmallows, and a few swipes of her fingertips later, all evidence of her momentary breakdown vanished. But the reflection in the silvery glass, from the long false eyelashes and piled up bouffant hairdo to the hem of her hand-me-down gown, was not who she wanted to be.
Not today.
As she made her way back to the stage door, she half wondered if she would ever see those sorcerous topaz eyes again. She sucked in a breath of courage and stepped back onto the illuminated stage, painting on pleasant but disappointed smile as she scanned the sparsely peopled tables.
Looks like I lost my crowd.
More importantly, she spied one specific table empty. It was nice while it lasted, she thought with a sad sigh as she discussed the line-up for the final set o
f the night, her soft smile as reassuring as she could muster.
“Good evening, folks. Welcome to Francciolli’s. We hope you enjoy your night.”
I know I won’t.
CHAPTER FIVE
Bastian rose to his feet in a growling rush as two black-clad enforcers eclipsed his beautiful songstress. One foot was already heading toward the stage as a strong yank pulled him to a halt. He snapped his head fiercely back, glaring at his distracted companion who had a phone pressed closed to his ear.
Viktor nodded as he ended the call. “We’re on. Trouble down in Bedford Park. Sounds like it might be the lead we’ve been looking for.” He extricated his long legs from the cramped confines beneath the table as he stood to meet the feral snarl on Bastian’s face. “If we go now, get what we need, we can be back before she’s done with her last song. Or we could stand here in a fucking pissing contest, wasting more time, and then you’ll have to wait until tomorrow night. So what’s it gonna be?”
One final glance toward the empty stage and he moved to the door with dark intent. He had almost reached the doorknob when Viktor’s voice caught his attention from the receding dark of the club.
“You planning on walking there?”
Fuck. His jacket.
Which happened to house the keys to their ride.
He gnashed his teeth as he fished for the claim ticket in the front pocket of his slacks. On accident, he brushed against his trigger-primed cock and his jaw nearly cracked to contain the guttural growl rumbling in his chest. Damn. It had been a while since he had been with a woman. Then again, no other female had entranced him so. He glared at the young man behind the coat check counter, impatience rolling in such powerful waves off his body the boy stumbled as he struggled to retrieve his coat. Grumbling as he grabbed the offered coat, he tossed down a generous tip before following his companion, fighting the urge to give one last look over his shoulder in hopes his songbird had returned to stage.
Jacket back in hand, he continued to the door, the blast of cold air doing nothing to derail his desire that circled back to the tempting beauty who crooned like Ella Fitzgerald and looked like a dream. The simple thought of her stripped down to the essentials had his hand again finding his crotch, this time angling his throbbing shaft into a space so he could walk without a limp.
Laughter rose from behind him as he triggered the door locks from the fob key. Dark brows lowered as he shot daggers across the hardtop roof of his ‘72 Chevelle, the brick red paint job glistening bloodlike under the amber streetlight.
“I should just let your damned ass do this on your own. Would serve you right, stronzo.” Still grumbling as he climbed into the driver’s seat, careful not to castrate himself with the seat belt, he revved the engine. The powerful V8 roared to life and jumped onto the silent streets, its nose sniffing the fastest route to the Stevenson Expressway eastbound to the thumping soundtrack of Breaking Benjamin.
Viktor laughed harder as Bastian nearly careened into a hapless homeless wanderer pushing his wheeled home through the intersection. He reached over, dialing down the radio volume. “Ease down, lillebror. The body isn’t going anywhere fast and I, for one, would not like to join him in the After Life tonight.” White knuckling the Oh Shit handle, Vik swung into the passenger door after a screeching hard left, his shoulder knocking against the window as the on-ramp appeared in the headlights.
“Sebastian? BASTIAN!”
The rapid-fire flashes from the overhead street lights blurred from strobe to solid as Bastian eyed the clear roadway ahead of him. A loud, sharp sound boomed off to his right, his brain spinning faster than his tires to determine the source of the distraction. The palpable pressure in the cab cleared, a virtual window sucking out his single-minded determination as he tuned in on his friend’s strident voice. His foot eased off the gas, backing the 356 horses under the hood of his metal monster into a more socially and legally acceptable speed, skimming through scant late night traffic on I-55.
“What.” Keeping one eye on the road, he glanced over at the stunned and surprised face of the man he had fought and bled next to for the past two and a half centuries. Knowing blue eyes stared incredulously at him. Bastian forced his gaze back to the pulsing lights on the thoroughfare. “Can’t I just want to get this latest bloody chapter wrapped up? Getting tired of bodies showing up on the train tracks missing vital pieces and reeking of those damned Rogues.”
His jaw snapped shut at the focused twinge starting behind his right eye. The pressure was slight, fading quickly as he thought on the details of their current late-night destination.
The first dismemberment showed up two years ago. At first, the police chalked it up to rival gangs sending grisly messages, using internal organs instead of the Internet. But over time, more bodies joined the thugs in the morgue. Businessmen, reporters and soccer moms were soon toes up next to the seedier side society players. No pattern, no rhyme, no reason. Then nothing. Months had gone by in an anxious peace, until three mutilated corpses were found decorating the docks two months ago. Another two were discovered scattered along Marquette Park’s back nine three days later.
All the signs pointed to some serious Rogue activity, but the traces were too faint on the bodies to be of any real use, the slaughter happening too many hours ago. After unsuccessful snooping online and greasing palms of questionable contacts, Viktor made a connection with a female police dispatcher sympathetic to their cause, his silver tongue and late night ring-ups ensuring her continued cascade of helpful tips.
His gruesome trip down memory lane was accompanied by a male voice screaming through his Bose speakers. That definitely was not the one he wanted to hear. He yearned for the sensual, seductive tones still ringing in his ears. He cranked down the window, the slender crack issuing in a breath of much needed fresh, arctic air. In the back of his mind, he pictured her, the long, dark lashes hiding her cobalt blue eyes as her long fingers stroked the microphone, her mouth temptingly close to the thick, bulbous padded grille as low and throaty sounds filled the room.
And cue the strangling restraints of his pants and seat belt. Snarling as his eyes rolled back into his head, he made a hasty readjustment rather than play a quick round of pocket pool. He cut the music with a glare and dragged his immediate attention to the approaching off-ramp. The directional blinker clicked and pulsed in the silent dark, filling the emptiness like a strident metronome.
“Bastian. I don’t think it’s been that long for you to go this nuts over just any girl.” Viktor’s calm voice, buoyed by his Channeler skills, cut through the porterhouse thick tension. “Do you think she’s the one?”
Unwilling to give voice to the answer, Bastian stared out into the night as his mind mulled over the possibility. “This has nothing with her.” His gruff answer smacked of a lie, and the stabbing pain behind his eyes dragging a hiss from his clenched teeth proved it. It had everything to do with her and until he touched her, he would never have the final truth. He narrowed his eyes, glaring at Viktor as the incredulous scoff filled the silence between tracks.
“Really? So that’s why you just got a fucking spike through your skull? Wanna try that one again?”
A rumbling snarl echoed in the small space. “Just tell me when we’re there.” He turned his eyes back to the inky road ahead of them as Viktor shook his head and lifted his hand, reaching toward him.
“Touch me, segaiolo, and you’ll pull back a fucking stump.” The smooth pavement disappeared under the tires, replaced by the pitted dirt road next to the railroad tracks. Police lights pulsed in the distance, pointing them toward their final destination. Bastian cranked the wheel, aiming the nose of the sleek metal beast toward the lone black and white beside the silent line of empty train cars. If Viktor’s connection was right, this might be the tip they needed to bring them closer to their prey.
Bastian hit the lights, plunging the car into darkness as they rolled to a stop next to the parked squad car. Before he reached for the keys still in t
he ignition, Viktor gripped his jacket, carefully avoiding any physical contact. One thick brow arched up, his narrowed gaze trailed up the arm to lock with a pair of openly concerned sky blue eyes.
“Look, I get you don’t want this. But you cannot lie to yourself.”
The corner of Bastian’s lip curled, a warning growl grumbled in his chest and slipped between his clenched teeth.
“Hey,” Viktor continued. “Don’t get pissed at me. I just thought you needed to get out for a night. You stay inside that house, staring at the same four walls. It’s enough to make anyone crazy. And you didn’t start too far from that in the first place.”
Bastian barked out a sharp laugh as he slammed the car into park and yanked out the keys. “I hope you weren’t planning to pick up a girl with any of those lines, because they really sucked.”
Another tug on his sleeve had his eyes once again finding those of his friend. He bit down on his molars as yet another delay threatened to ruin his already screwed up night. His mind had begun to trek back to the nightclub and to the temptress at the microphone. If he had not been so distracted, he would have stopped Viktor’s hand before his fingers reached the flesh on his neck and squeezed gently.
“Sebastian, listen to me.”
The hairs on the back of Bastian’s neck lifted, the sign of his friend’s unique talents knocking on the thick iron door of his mind behind which his emotions remained safe. A forced sense of peace stole into his bones, his anger diffused and his breathing slowed.
“We cannot lie, not to ourselves and not to others,” Viktor said, and Bastian’s eyes narrowed in annoyance, his standard growl caught in his throat as he glared at his friend. “Nor can we choose when the gods will send us our spiritmates. I know what you will say, my friend.” Another comforting squeeze on his shoulder stopped the denial on the tip of his tongue. “I don’t know the future. She might just be another pretty face. Maybe it was the lighting and costume and everything else you want to add to that laundry list. But she might be more. Do not let this drive you to distraction.”
Spirit Song Page 4