Bound by Moonlight

by Nancy Gideon

  “We have the proof we need right here.”

  He gave a rather jaundiced glance at the files Cee Cee held. “Obtained how, did you say, Detective?”

  “Someone left them on my car. No note. No prints.”

  “And you were where at the time?”

  “I’d left my car to go grab something to eat.”

  “And you were with?”

  “Max. We were discussing vacation plans. For when the case is concluded, of course.”

  Atcliff made an assenting noise. Almost like a growl. “You seem to have some kind of guardian angel of important evidence watching over you, Caissie, dropping off just what you need to get you what you want.”

  Her jaw tightened. A while ago, information on Benjamin Spratt had similarly appeared just in time to keep Max from going down as their prime suspect. “Is that a bad thing, sir?”

  “Not as long as your hands are clean.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He sighed wearily as he stared at the files. “So, you discovered this manna from Heaven and did what, Detective?”

  “I brought Detective Babineau up to speed, and we had another conversation with Miss Michaels, whom we’d interviewed earlier this evening. She ID’d the photos and placed the girls in Blutafino’s employment. We went from there to talk to Detective Schoenbaum of Vice, and checked in at the lab to see if there were any prints on the evidence.”

  “Seems like you talked to everyone but me first.”

  She never blinked. “We didn’t see the need to wake you until we had a compelling package put together.”

  “And that would be what?”

  “We want to go undercover in cooperation with Vice in the club where all three vics were working. We can be set up by tomorrow night. I have an interview with Blutafino at five-thirty. If he likes me, we’re in.”

  “And what are you applying for, Detective?”

  “An entertainment position, sir.”

  “I wasn’t aware you could sing, Detective Caissie.”

  “I don’t, sir, but I’ve been told by an expert in the field that for an old gal, I’ve got a decent rack.”

  “We’re talking performance art, I take it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is this decent rack going to end up in the news, embarrassing the department?”

  “Not even my noble journalistic pals will be able to recognize me, sir.” She placed her palms on the table-top and leaned in, her eyes hungry and intense. “Let us do this. It’s a chance to get close to Blutafino, and possibly get to the latest vic before she becomes the next statistic.”

  He looked to Babineau. “What about you? Are you going into show business, too?”

  “No, sir. Can’t dance and no rack to speak of. I’ll provide backup position as talent management and boyfriend.”

  “Wife and significant other have no problems with this?”

  “None, sir.”

  Neither detective betrayed any discomfort under Atcliff’s scrutiny. Finally, he sat back in his chair. “Make it happen, Detectives. Keep me updated. And, Caissie, I don’t want any video showing up at future police functions.”

  “Soul of discretion, sir.”

  “Good night, sir. Sorry to have disturbed you.”

  On the front walk, Babineau gave her a look. “I wasn’t aware you knew your way around a stripper pole.”

  “I have all afternoon to learn under Cocoa’s excellent and expensive tutelage.”

  They climbed into her car, more thoughtful now that they’d gotten the go-ahead and the initial surge of adrenaline eased.

  “Savoie going to be all right with this?” With us, was what he didn’t say out loud.

  “Sure.”

  “You haven’t told him?”

  “That you and I are going to be incommunicado for several weeks, sharing a sleazy hotel room pretending to be lovers, while I spend my nights prancing around almost naked for strangers? I think that’s more info than he needs to have. How’s Tina going to handle it?”

  “She’ll tell me to be careful and kiss me good-bye.” And worry every second, he didn’t have to add.

  How they were going to handle it was the question neither of them asked.

  “I’ll drop you off, get my hooker gear together, and be back for you at seven.”

  Babineau nodded. That would give him time to grab some sleep and smooth things over with his wife.

  Instead of using that time to do the same, Cee Cee headed to her apartment. Instead of enjoying the sweaty farewell sex her body yearned for, she took a long shower. Instead of closing her gritty eyes, she pumped coffee and pillaged her closet for props.

  And when she absolutely had to, she reached for her phone.

  “Savoie.” His tone leaped at her, sharp edged and hard.

  “Hey. Hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “I wasn’t sleeping.”

  Of course he wasn’t. He was pacing, wondering where the hell she was.

  “I came into some rather fortuitous evidence. The chief has cleared me to go undercover. I’ll be out of touch for a while. Sorry I couldn’t have given you more notice, but we’ve been scrambling all night to put things together.”

  “Undercover? Are you going after Carmen?”

  “I can’t give you any details. Don’t try to get in touch with me; I’ll call you when I can.”

  A pause. “I don’t get to say good-bye to you?”

  “We’re saying it.”

  “Face-to-face.”

  “No time, sorry. Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”

  Silence as he took in what she was trying shove past him in a rush. “I want to see you.”

  “I can’t make it happen.”

  When he finally spoke, his words were a low rumble. “So, no kiss for luck? No packing your lunch or waving good-bye at the door?”

  “Not this trip. Gotta go.”

  Quietly: “Shall I make reservations?”

  Please don’t make this so damned hard. “Not yet.”

  “Charlotte? I love you.”

  “Me, too.” A pause. “I’ll call you.” She cut the connection before her resolve shattered.

  MAX PLANNED TO concentrate on business. He thought that without anyone to come home to, he could direct all his energy to the office by day and to his clan by night. Time would go by quickly, and before he knew it, she’d be back.

  He hadn’t anticipated the way missing her would suck the very spirit out of him.

  He found himself listening for the sound of her car, jumping at every ring of his phone. But she didn’t call. It had only been a little over a week. Not that long, he told himself. He’d given her the damned evidence, after all. Had he expected her to do nothing with it?

  Not his Charlotte. She was a juggernaut, making plans and plowing forward full steam ahead, with no time for a kiss good-bye. And apparently no time to miss him enough to pick up the phone.

  Why didn’t she call?

  He’d gotten spoiled. Having her in his life filled every corner with unimagined delight. The sound of her voice, her laugh, her sighs. Listening to her grumble about her day, tease him for his sheltered ignorance, provoke him with sultry innuendo. The simple joy of watching her get ready to go to work, or undress to join him in bed. The feel of her there, beneath him all hot and infinitely greedy, next to him in the night, warm and soul-satisfying. The touch of her hand on his face.

  Loneliness howled through him.

  It was nine-thirty Saturday morning, and he had absolutely no idea how he was going to fill the hours of the day. His cell phone was in his hand before he consciously considered what he was doing.

  Don’t try to get in touch with me.

  An objecting growl rumbled through him on a fierce spike of emotion. The need to have her close, under his care, in his control, threatened to consume him. She was his mate, his love, his . . . what? His possession? The instinct was so strong, he shivered with it. His to have and protect.

  He was so
startled when the phone rang, he almost dropped it. His hands were shaking when he flipped it open. His voice broke. “Charlotte?”

  “It’s Tina Babineau. I’m sorry. Is this a bad time?”

  He hauled back hard on his chaotic feelings. “No, it’s fine. I was expecting a call. It’s good to hear from you.”

  “Oscar was wondering if you’d mind some company. It’s been so quiet here with Alain gone, we’ve been jumping at shadows.”

  “Would you like me to send a car over for you?”

  A pause and a nervous laugh. “No, that’s not necessary. What time would be convenient?”

  “C’mon over. I’ll have Helen fix us some lunch.” He was smiling for the first time in days when he sauntered into the kitchen to say, “We’re having company.”

  TINA BABINEAU WAS soft and shy and sweet. She dressed in tender shades of peach and cream, always understated, almost unnoticeable. Invisible. The same way Max had been taught. Coincidence? he wondered as the two of them sat on the back porch steps, watching Giles and Oscar assemble a foam glider.

  Lunch had been unexpectedly easy. Everything about Tina was easy and quiet. He found himself relaxed and content in her company, something he hadn’t been in days. He enjoyed listening to Tina talk about her family, about Oscar, about her hopes and plans for them. Normal things so outside his experience, she might as well have been discussing life on another planet. And in the pictures she built, he saw the things he’d always wanted. Family. A place to belong. To be accepted. Things he longed to share with Charlotte.

  “Thanks for letting us barge in like this. Oscar’s been after me all week. He was sure you wouldn’t mind.”

  Max smiled. “He was right. You’re always welcome.”

  “Oscar and I both feel safe with you. Why is that?” she asked softly, as if to herself.

  “Because I’m like you.”

  He let her mull that over while he leaned back on his elbows and stretched his long legs out in front of him. He watched Oscar race across the grassy yard after the glider Giles launched for him.

  “You must be so proud of him. I’d give anything to have a son like that.”

  “I’m afraid for him, Max.” When he glanced at her, Tina rushed on. “I’m afraid someone else might come to take him away from me.”

  “I won’t let that happen.” He said that with such certainty, belief bloomed in her gaze. “I’ll protect him.”

  “From what? You know, don’t you? You know why they picked him, why they took him.” Her mouth trembled as she turned to her son. “I asked Alain, but he says he doesn’t know. Why is he lying to me?” She clutched his hand, startling him. “I don’t understand. He treats me like I’m something fragile, made of glass. And lately . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Why are you afraid to be yourself around him? Because he’ll know you’re different? And why do you push pills into Ozzy until he’s dull and complaisant, when you know he’s so much more? Are you afraid your husband doesn’t love you enough to handle the truth?”

  She looked away, but he caught the wildness and fright in her expression. “He’d leave us, Max. He’d run if he knew—”

  “That there’s something inside you that you’ve struggled to hide from all your life? Feelings and instincts so strong, they wake you up at night and have you prowling, restless and panting, without knowing why? Sensing that you’re more than those around you? Different, stronger, alien, dangerous.” He paused, then added the kicker. “Not human.”

  She turned back to him, her eyes huge and bright.

  “You’re not crazy, Tina. And neither is Oscar.”

  “Then what are we?”

  He smiled, a slow display of white teeth. “You’re something else. Like me.”

  Twelve

  TINA BABINEAU’S EYES glazed with panic. “What do you mean, something else?”

  Max turned on the steps to face her, holding her hands firmly. “Don’t be afraid. You’re not alone. We’re special. Blessed.” That’s what his mother had always told him to take the fear from his heart. “We look like them, and we’re taught to blend in with them. But we’re not human, Tina.”

  “What are we?” she whispered.

  “Are you ready to see?”

  She swallowed and gripped his hands as hard as she could, then nodded.

  And slowly he let his hands change.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said gently as she stared at the lengthening claws, at the long distorted fingers, at the thick thatch of black hair. When she looked up in alarm and disbelief, he let his eyes glow golden. And he mentally reached out to her with that Glimmer of sensation that their kind shared between them.

  With a moan, she shut her eyes; a harsh tremor shook her body. Then she cried, “Oh, thank God. I thought it was madness. I thought I’d passed something terrible on to my son.”

  “You’ve given him a gift. A valuable gift we have to protect. We’re called Shifters, Tina.”

  “Like . . . shape-shifters?” Her hesitant question earned his smile and nod. “Does Cee Cee know?”

  “Yes.”

  She blinked, astounded. “And Alain?” Her voice quavered.

  “Yes. When he went into the bayou after us, he saw me change to kill those who were after Oscar. He knows that you and Oscar are my kind.”

  She slowly processed that. “So that’s why he’s been so distant,” she murmured. Then her gaze flashed up. “And Oscar? What does he know?”

  “He knows that I accept him for what he is, and that he can go to Charlotte for anything.”

  His hands returned to their usual form. Curious, she lifted them to examine his fingers and palms. Her brow furrowed, perplexed.

  “But I don’t turn into . . . into an animal.”

  “Our females don’t change.” That wasn’t quite true, but he saw no need to tell her that. “But they can recognize their own, as you did me when we first met.”

  “I felt something. I didn’t know what it was.” She dropped his hands to rub her temples, as if trying to force the information to be absorbed. “And those men— if they were men—what did they want with Ozzy?”

  “I think they want to catch us, to experiment on us and breed us. Then, if they decide we’re a threat, kill us.”

  “Who are they?”

  He’d been asking himself that question all his life. His mother had hinted at the mysterious, dangerous they to fill a young child’s mind with fear, to get him to suppress his talents, to shy from strangers, to withdraw behind a wall of isolation so no one could single him out as different. That awful, faceless, nameless threat had followed him as he grew up, making him cling to the rescue Jimmy Legere offered with a grateful, single-minded relief. Jimmy, who was indeed more exploiter than savior, just as Karen Crawford had claimed.

  And he’d done terrible things for Jimmy Legere out of that deep, shivery well of gratitude, believing his mentor was keeping him safe from a far greater danger. And maybe he had been.

  “They’re called the Chosen,” Max began.

  And while they watched Oscar’s innocent play, Max told her all he’d learned from his father and from Jacques LaRoche.

  It was hard to tell how much was folklore and how much was fact. His father had been a notorious liar who slanted the truth to fit his purpose. LaRoche’s recall was spotty at best, his memory damaged and broken. But they both warned of a controlling elite who suppressed their kind into servitude, into a brutish warrior caste used politically and economically as weapons.

  The Chosen’s rule was centuries old, using telepathic and empathic powers to subjugate through fear and pain. Shifters were their property, inferiors bred and trained selectively for their genetic traits. The finest lines were valued and protected, the weak and unstable discarded, often killed.

  To belong to a house boasting pure bloodlines ensured favor and prestige to that entire family, and that favor was prized, stirring fierce, murderous rivalries and shrewd alliances. The Alpha male of a line wa
s akin to royalty, a breeding-age female a treasured bargaining tool.

  Dangerous, guided by instinct, and physically powerful, Shifters adhered to a pack mentality, Max told her. Challenging one another for dominance, the strong and cunning ruled within their clans, but the Chosen yoked them through mental intimidation. Each Shifter child was mentally imprinted at birth to be submissive to their rule. Once Registered, there was no hope of choice or free will. Breeding “in the wild” was forbidden. And mating in their basic forms, which was the only way to transfer their pure genetic strengths, was strictly regulated so that the breed would be improved, and the offspring were trained and tested for abilities.

  “Like livestock,” Tina whispered with a chill of horror.

  “Yes. Bred and sold as a commodity.”

  “To do what?” she asked softly.

  “What we do best: kill. As bodyguards. As assassins. As mercenaries.”

  “For whom?”

  “Whoever can afford us.”

  Tina jerked to her feet and began to pace, her arms wrapped tight about her trembling frame. Her gaze locked upon her son. “Is that what you are? Did Jimmy Legere own you?”

  “Yes. And no. He knew what I was when he bought me from my father. He knew more about them than I did, and kept me from discovering the truth so he could control me. But he also hid me, kept me safe from my own kind.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of who and what I am. I am the product of two pure lines. I’m not imprinted. I’ve never been trained or judged, and my mind is my own. The Chosen can’t find me; they can’t control me. I’m a danger and a threat to them because of that, because of what I represent. But I’m valuable because of who my parents were.” A pause, long enough to warn her. “And so is Oscar.”

  She froze, tense in her denial. “How could you know that?”

  “Because Oscar and I share the same father.”

  He watched it sink in, saw the shock dull her eyes and quiet her breathing. Then she shook it off. “No! That’s not possible. I don’t believe you. Why are you doing this? Why are you making all this up?”

  “Who is Oscar’s father? Tell me.”

  Just then, the boy came racing up to the porch, shouting, “Did you see? Mama, Max, were you watching?”