by Nancy Gideon
Some assenting rumbles.
“Why should we suffer when it’s him they’re after?” Silence, then the quiet voice from the back said what many were thinking. “I say we need to save ourselves. To do that, we need to give them what they want.”
Nine
LAROCHE’S HEAD WHIPPED from side to side. “Who said that?”
“I did,” came a meek voice from the rear of the group. “You know me, Jacques. You all know me. I’m a laborer, not a fighter. I have a human wife and four children who haven’t enough of our bloodline in them to howl, let alone bite. If we anger the Trackers, if they come for another Gathering, what chance would my family stand—would any of our families stand—with us in the city and our loved ones in another parish waiting to be slaughtered?”
A Gathering. They trembled. One hadn’t occurred for two generations, but whispers of the savagery kept the New Orleans clan wary. They were cowards when alone, preferring to slink off when faced with confrontation. It was the pack that gave them strength. And the last time their ancestors had tried to organize, a terror had swept down from the north to slay the men and half-breed children, and steal the women away.
That threat whispered to them now. While most rallied around Savoie for the security and the pride he encouraged, they were also wary of the danger.
They fell silent when Max strode to where the hi-lo driver sat cringing in the shadow. The warehouse worker hadn’t witnessed the initial meeting between Savoie and the clansmen here at Cheveux du Chien, but he’d heard it recounted too many times to doubt its savagery. Of how Savoie, with his Upright female cop at his side, had ripped through all comers like a chain saw.
Savoie’s lethal hands settled lightly on narrow shoulders as Max hunkered down so they were eyeto-eye.
“What’s your name?”
“Henry Durban, Mr. Savoie.”
“Henry, don’t ever think I take your fears for granted. I know what it’s like to be alone and afraid. And I know what it means to find strength with those of your own kind. If I thought for a second that surrendering myself up to them would keep all of you safe, I would do it. But it won’t. Because they have no fear or respect for us. Unless we draw a line and forbid them to cross it, they’ll come and go as they please. They can do what they want, take what they want, because no one cares if they do.
“But I care. And I’m not going to let them continue to make us feel like we have no value. Do you believe me, Henry? Will you trust me?”
He spoke to one man, but they all felt it.
“I do and I will, Mr. Savoie. Just tell me how I can keep my family safe.”
Max rose and faced the others wondering the same thing. “The Towers are almost finished. Henry Durban and his family will have the second unit available. My word on it.” He’d promised the first to Jacques LaRoche.
“We’ll form a new community there, a community of families who will support and take care of one another. No more crowding into dark rooms, hiding like rats. Isn’t it time you lived free of fear, so your children can feel pride in who they are and you can walk among men without shame?”
This was met with overwhelming enthusiasm, but Max caught LaRoche’s cynical gaze. At Max’s questioning furrow, the bar owner simply called, “A round on Mr. Savoie. He can afford it.”
As they scrambled for the rail to place their orders, Jacques chuckled at his puzzled friend. “Nice speech. Rally ’round me, men, and head for the castle. We can wait out any siege if we just stick together.”
“Why are you mocking me, Jacques?”
A heavy sigh. “I’m not. I want to believe as much as the rest of them.”
“But . . . ?”
“I’ve seen the Trackers, Max. Me and your fierce little female went up against them. I had to run to stay alive; they would have broken me in half. What chance does a mite like Henry have? Trackers are just the attack dogs of the monsters we fear.
“And you don’t know them; you were raised in the wild. They’ve never Processed you. You don’t know what they can do if they decide to claim what they’ve always owned.”
Max leaned forward. “What do you mean, Processed? I don’t understand.”
“How could you? You’re not truly one of us. A Porche and a Prius will both get you from here to there, but it’s a question of power and style.”
“Explain.”
The huge bald man hesitated.
“Jacques, how can I protect them, how can I ask for their trust, if I don’t understand the danger?” He gripped the other’s forearm. “What is it?” Max insisted.
“The things you offer us . . . You bring us hope, Max, yet you have no idea what you’re jumping into. If it were me, I’d run like hell and hide in the deepest hole I could find.”
“Maybe I should, Jacques. But it’d have to be a pretty damn big hole for all of you to come in with me.”
Jacques nailed him with a look that demanded all.
“Philo’s not wrong. I wish he was.”
Then Max told Jacques everything. About the Tracker who’d played games with him in the park. About the police officers who knew of their existence. About the new family he’d discovered and feared to lose. He’d shared bits and pieces before, just enough to get assistance when it was needed, but not the whole truth. If he’d understood friendship more than he understood betrayal, he would have realized sooner what a strong ally he had in LaRoche.
The big man was silent, absorbing the information.
“Knowing all this,” Max challenged, “tell me you still have my back.”
“First, you tell me that you can walk away from what you have. That you can turn your back on the things Legere left you. Because once you commit to this, to us, you can’t go back. Could you give up Charlotte for us? Make me believe it, Savoie.”
Objection roared through him. Give up his mate? Never. She was everything he’d ever wanted, and the fear of almost losing her was still fresh. He hadn’t forgotten what it was like rushing her broken body to the hospital, hearing them say there was nothing they could do, that she was damaged beyond repair. Going to her apartment alone with the task of picking out something for her to wear for her funeral. Lose her? Never.
Yet he could hear Father Furness’s warning that he’d have to sacrifice everything he loved.
And staring into Jacques’ sympathetic face, ironically it was Charlotte’s voice that goaded him. Step up, Savoie.
He had to know what he was, where he came from. How could he have any kind of life with Charlotte until he knew those truths? How could she continue to care for him if he backed away now to hide from his heritage?
How could he keep her safe?
His voice was rock steady. “Everything I am is yours.”
FROM HIS OFFICE window, Max could see the Towers rising bold and strong against the morning sky. Legere money funded it, his ground supported its foundation. To get it built, Max had cut a deal with the devil, Simon Cummings, who had the pull to get the project approved. They’d both made concessions to get what they wanted. Cummings got the PR glory for reclaiming and repopulating a former area of urban blight. Max got a guarantee that those who worked for him would be fairly housed. And their bargain was struck and bound by a decades-old secret that would never be told.
But because Max mistrusted Cummings, he worried about the promises he’d made to his clan. He worried about his ability to protect the woman he loved from pain.
She hadn’t come home last night.
He’d sat alone on the dark staircase listening for the sound of her car, yearning for the first whisper of her scent. Sick with indecision over the things he’d shared with and learned from LaRoche, he’d needed her to anchor him. He’d watched the sun come up through the transom over the door with no sign of her. No call.
The gulf between their different worlds wasn’t going to go away anytime soon. He could feel the tension, the new caution when they were together, but he didn’t know how to get past it. He didn’t doubt s
he loved him. When she said it, she meant it. When she touched him, he felt it. Their feelings for each other weren’t the problem, and that commitment was cemented by their bond.
But their outside lives were making it damned difficult. No matter how strong their magnetic pull, their worlds were forcing them apart. And his greatest fear was that there was no way to overcome it.
“Mr. Savoie, Mr. Petitjohn is here.”
“Send him in, Marissa. Thank you.”
Max swiveled his chair toward the door, his features an expressionless mask to meet the viper he kept close to his breast. He couldn’t look at Francis Petit-john without seeing bits of Jimmy Legere’s brain all over the floor at his feet. Petitjohn had killed his cousin in an ill-conceived coup, and now he was alive for only as long as Max tolerated him.
Yet the things that were reminiscent of Jimmy soothed Max’s soul. Petitjohn shared those beloved features, the cadence of his voice, the edges of his scent, and Max clutched at those threads of memory. He couldn’t force himself to kill the only link left to the man who’d been a mentor and father figure to him.
Knowing the sentiment wasn’t returned kept Max from foolish illusions.
“Whatchu need, Max? Did you have a chance to look over those cost projections for the Towers?”
“Not yet.” He’d taken them home with him on Friday, but had been too distracted to open his briefcase. “I’ll go over them this afternoon.” T-John grimaced. “Problem?”
“I need the okay before lunch. Can’t you just sign them and trust me to take care of the rest?”
Max stared at him unblinkingly. Trust him? Like he’d trust a water moccasin not to bite. Suspicion slithered like that undulating deadly snake. Perhaps he’d left Petitjohn in control of Jimmy’s interests a bit too long. Long enough for him to enjoy the taste too much.
“No. I don’t think I can.”
Looking impatient, T-John shrugged. “I guess I can stall them, but it’ll mean a few weeks of delay. When you stop the ball, it takes some time to get the momentum rolling again. Jimmy understood that, but I guess I can’t expect you to. If you want to control the ball, I’ll step aside. It’s your money, your risk, after all.”
Max rubbed his eyes. Was he seeing a threat where there was none? T-John knew what failure would bring; he understood what price he’d pay for betrayal. What possible benefit could he gain if LEI didn’t flourish? Success was in both their best interests, and T-John was all about greed.
“These are the same figures we went over a few weeks ago?”
“A few tweaks here and there to maintain code, but essentially the same. We managed to clip a few corners to keep Cummings quiet about the bottom line, but the numbers are good, damned good.”
“You’re okay with them?”
“Yeah. If you want to take your time, hey, it’s no big deal. I can have McCracken come up around three to do a line by line with you so you’re comfortable with it.”
Weeks of delay. He couldn’t afford it; he needed to get his people to safety. He’d made promises, and he needed to put his energies behind his obligations to his clan.
“Have you got a copy of the paperwork with you?”
It appeared on his desk as if by magic. Max gave it a cursory glance, then, after a long, weary breath, signed it. “I want things on schedule.”
“You got it, Max. Anything else?”
“Carmen Blutafino. Are we affiliated with him in any areas?”
A laugh. “Manny always wanted to get Jimmy into bed, business-wise, but Jimmy wasn’t having any. He’s made a couple of moves on us since you took over, but nothing worth looking at. He’s kinda like the strange uncle you keep an eye on at Christmas when the kids are around, if you get my meaning.”
When Max just stared at him, he sighed. “He’s got a thing for the young stuff—you know, dancers, film stars, Internet porn stars, hookers. The younger the better. Drafts ’em outta school, starts ’em off in his clubs, and farms ’em out to his other endeavors. Picks ’em out himself.”
“From photos, or does he interview them personally?”
“Hell, I don’t know.” He frowned slightly. “Why the interest?”
“Something my detective is working on.”
“And we want to help out the cops?”
“When it comes to the torture and murder of young girls, I don’t mind asking a few questions. It’s just plain decency.”
T-John shrugged, then said philosophically, “We step on his toes, he’s gonna go for our balls.”
“I don’t let just anyone feel me up. How ’boutchu?”
Petitjohn grinned. “I’m mighty choosy. I could talk to a few people. What do you want to know?”
IT FELT LIKE the electrostatic shock you feel after scuffing your feet over a carpet. Except Charlotte was sitting in Babineau’s car when the sudden zap made her jump.
Her whole system tingled, bringing the tiny hairs on her arms and at the back of her neck up in an eerie prickle. She’d felt gut instinct before and shivers of déjà vu, but nothing like this strange quiver of awareness from out of the blue.
Awareness of someone or something else.
She glanced around the service station lot. The driver of the battered pickup truck next to them was inside the building paying for his gas. Vehicles zipped by on Tchoupitoulas Street, heading through the Warehouse District toward City Central and the Quarter. Nothing to warrant the sudden breathlessness that had her on high alert.
She scented the air, almost expecting the whiff of ozone that preceded a thunderstorm. But this was different, from some deep, internal place she didn’t recognize—yet abruptly could name.
Max called it a Glimmer, the extrasensory communication between those of his clan. Was that what this was? Was she sensing a shape-shifter close by? Why here and why now? She’d been in close contact with his clansmen and women many times without the slightest spark. But maybe it wasn’t the circumstance. Maybe it was the individual.
Then she got a glimpse of a dark-clad figure across the street, tucking back into a doorway. For an instant, the eyes in that shadowed face gleamed hot and bright.
Was someone following her? If so, was it for protection or was it a threat?
The sensation suddenly disappeared, leaving her empty and shivery.
Her cell phone’s vibration at her hip startled her. “Caissie,” she answered.
“Good morning, Detective.”
The low, sexy rumble of his voice melted the tension from her spine. “Hey. Look, I’m sorry about last night.”
“That’s all right. It doesn’t matter.”
Something in his tone had her frowning. Impatience, a curt bite, the same way he’d spoken to her the night before.
What the hell was up with that?
She drew a deep breath before her attitude got out of hand. She could be bitchy at times and wouldn’t apologize for it, but it was unlike her to be one without reason.
“Maybe we can meet for lunch.” She wanted to look into his eyes when they spoke. And suddenly she needed to be close when she asked him about her Shifter encounter.
Silence. Then a brisk, “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
“Oh.” Her analytical mind started spinning, connecting his cool mood to his meeting with his clan. Had they discovered her loose-lipped handling of their secrets and given Max an ultimatum? Was that why she was being tailed? Oh, bullshit. She was just tired, that’s all. “I can’t make supper. I’ve got someone coming in to interview.”
“That’s fine. Will you be free by nine?”
“I should be.”
“Can you stop by my office?”
“Sure. Do you need a ride home?”
“No. I’ve something we need to talk about.”
Her heart skipped a beat.
“Can it wait until we get home? I’m really looking forward to curling up with you.”
A pause. “No. Just come here first. I gotta go.”
_________
; THE MEETING WITH Marilyn Schoenbaum was brutal.
They’d met at several police functions. Marilyn was a tall, sturdy woman with hawkish features and unwavering blue eyes. She’d been an EMT dispatcher when she and Stan met. They’d married when she found herself pregnant, and she agreed to overlook his occasional transgressions to raise his family. If she knew he’d tried to make Cee Cee one of those side pieces, she never gave any indication of it. Now she greeted Cee Cee and Babineau at her front door.
Alain did the talking. Cee Cee had filled him in on her conversation with Schoenbaum, and he’d agreed with the Vice detective’s request that they keep it lowkey. His easy manner and pleasant smile went a long way toward calming Marilyn since Stan confessed that their daughter might be missing. Alain downplayed the seriousness, holding her hand, making it sound like they weren’t really concerned but were covering the bases out of friendship for Stan.
While Babineau got the necessary information regarding friends, hangouts, and habits, Cee Cee was the observer. And she saw what she’d seen in hundreds of living rooms across the social scale: terror. Pure, raw, heartrending terror. The loss of a child. The thought of that child in danger and pain. The helplessness that came with waiting and not knowing. It didn’t get much worse.
Unless you were that child.
Stan Schoenbaum was a loudmouth who believed in unnecessary roughness on the job and who cheated on his wife in an offensively blatant manner. But the man sitting next to Marilyn was a husband and father broken by emotion and regret. His arm was about his wife in support while his other hand laced though hers. The poignant unity of those interlocked fingers said far more about their relationship than his selfish acts of adultery. This was why Marilyn Schoenbaum ignored the gossip. Because that grip was both strong and tender. That was love. And trust. As basic and powerful as it got.
She stared at those hands, at their plain gold rings, and she thought of Max. Of how the simple press of his palm, the gentle curl of his fingers about hers, could steady her world and bring everything into focus.