by Nancy Gideon
“Working a case,” was her neutral answer.
“At Manny’s place? You on loan to Vice?”
Her surprise was followed by an appraising study. “No, just a crossover from Homicide. Have you heard anything about a couple of his working girls that turned up dead?”
Amber arrived with her Jack and water, and a bottled beer for her boss. She placed them on a small glass-topped table and was about to slip away when Jacques stopped her.
“Amber, you know any of the girls over at Manny’s?”
The waitress paused thoughtfully. “I used to know a couple. Friends of friends. But they took off about a month ago.”
“Any particular reason?” Cee Cee asked. Clues turned up in the strangest places.
“The money was good, if you can stand the work and the boss. So that wasn’t it. Can’t say I know why. Just packed up their stuff and disappeared. Might be . . .”
“Might be what?” Cee Cee pressed.
Amber met her stare without blinking. “That would be your job to find out.”
“Got names?”
She supplied them, and Cee Cee committed herself to finding out more about them. Starting with the obvious. “Were they your kind or human?”
“My kind. They were tight with a few of Philo’s crew, but were Upright groupies. Got off on being the wild things doing the wild thing, if you know what I mean.”
They both knew she did.
“And the Shifters on Philo’s crew? Maybe they have some information.”
Amber’s gaze slipped to Jacques, who nodded for her to go on. She supplied Cee Cee with four unfamiliar names, then left before more could be asked of her.
“You here just because of your case, cher?”
Something in his knowing tone had Cee Cee taking a wary mental step back. “Why else?”
“I don’t know. Maybe something to do with the reason that Savoie was crunching on glass when he left.” He waved a hand at the table with their drinks. “Have a seat. The doctor is in.”
She hesitated. It wasn’t her nature to share personal stuff, especially sensitive information that Max had specifically warned her not to divulge. Yet she longed to unload her fears. And she couldn’t go to her former shrink for advice on her out-of-species relationship.
Jacques patted the back of her chair with a huge hand. “Think of it as confession, and me as your priest.”
She laughed at that ridiculous image, but sat down. She had to talk to someone, and Jacques LaRoche had earned her trust and friendship.
“Things are different since we bonded.”
He dropped into his chair and took a long pull on his beer. “How so?”
“You were bonded, weren’t you?” she asked evasively.
“Yes.”
“Was there anything . . . special between you and your mate?”
“Besides the great sex?”
She squirmed a bit. “Aside from that. What made that relationship so different from your others?”
A melancholy expression appeared as he took another drink. “I’ve told you this before. There’s an awareness of one another, a closeness, a protectiveness. It’s like you become one heart, one soul. The thought of separation is like dying. Worse than dying,” he corrected quietly.
He’d lost his mate, and now Cee Cee understood how that had devastated him. His earthy response to females of either species was physical, just biology, he’d once told her. What he felt for his mate was spiritual.
Was that what she now had with Max? Something greater than self, deeper than love, stronger than chemistry? If so, why was she still so afraid?
The prospect of what they could become together— one heart, one soul—overwhelmed her with its enormity.
She shook it off. “Could you hear each other’s thoughts?”
Jacques stared at her sharply. “What?”
It was too late to take back the words, so she plunged on, needing to know. “Could you communicate with each other without words; feel each other when not together? I mean really feel each other?”
“You and Max can do that?” His words were barely a whisper. When she didn’t answer, his expression closed down tight. “Don’t talk about this to anyone, Charlotte. Not to anyone. Do you understand?”
“No, I don’t.” She leaned forward urgently. “Tell me why.”
“Because we can’t do that. None of us since the Ancients.”
That was a term she’d never heard before. “Who are they?”
“Just legend. Stories for children.”
“Then tell me a story, Jacques.”
He rubbed his palm over the top of his head, then he got up and shut the door. He looked spooked and anxious, as if the words themselves were dangerous.
“This goes no further.”
She nodded.
“This is the legend we’re told when we’re children, kind of our creation myth. When mankind was young and helpless, the gods mixed with beasts to create the Ancients—protectors for their people. These new creations looked like men so they could walk among them when necessary, but they could also take the shape of an animal to live unnoticed at man’s side. They were fierce, loyal, and intelligent because of the wisdom given by the gods, but in time they also grew arrogant. They began to wonder why they had to serve puny man when they were the far superior beings. And in that prideful arrogance, they began to destroy those whom they’d been created to protect.”
“And the gods were royally pissed off.”
Jacques smiled grimly. “So the story goes.”
“So”—she leaned on her elbows, attention rapt, forgetting about her drink—“what happened to these Ancients?”
“In their fury, the gods cleaved them all in two. But instead of that killing them, their spirits were divided and lived on as separate beings. One half remained beasts, able to change form, but without the courage to rise out of their role of servitude. The other half retained the mental gifts of instinct and manipulation, but were frail, without the physical ability to challenge man for control. The beasts fled to the wilderness of the Celtic shores, becoming the Shifters. The others hid among man in France, calling themselves the Chosen Ones.”
He told how the Chosen Ones became spiritual advisors, sages, priests, and soothsayers, influencing with their special talents, but never having enough strength to take control themselves. Until they found their other savage halves, and used them like weapons to crush their enemies and force kings to bow before them.
Just a myth, he said. But after all Cee Cee had learned and seen, it was completely plausible in her mind.
“Why didn’t the Chosen Ones and the Shifters mate? Wouldn’t that blend their abilities again?”
“Even if you get beyond the fact that they detest one another, such matings always proved barren. The Chosen Ones viewed the Shifters as brutal, offensive beasts, too inferior to be worthy of their DNA. And the Shifters loathed and would devour those who had enslaved and slaughtered their kin for centuries. Once the technology was available, they tried artificial means and even gene splicing. But nothing . . . normal ever came of it.”
She shivered. The same result as between Shifter male and human mate: a genetic dead end.
“So the Chosen Ones can’t change shape, and the Shifters can’t do mental manipulations.”
“No.”
“And Shifter females can’t shape-shift?”
“No.”
But Max’s mother could. And Charlotte and Max had shared more than just thoughts telepathically.
So, what did that make Max?
“How do you know all this, Jacques? And don’t tell me you learned it at your mama’s knee.”
“I never knew my mama. I never had a family, at least that I can remember.” His gaze was evasive. There was more that he wasn’t saying.
“And yet you retained this knowledge. How is that?”
Jacques regarded her through eyes dark with demons. “Because my mate wasn’t Shifter. She was Cho
sen.”
He set down his empty bottle and got up. Discussion over.
They both retreated behind their secrets as he walked her to the exit.
“Thanks for the bedtime story.” She smiled up at the big man as he paused at the threshold. “Perhaps someday you’ll finish it for me.”
“Perhaps.” He returned her smile faintly.
“Jacques,” she ventured suddenly, “what do you think Max is?”
He considered her question for a long moment, then told her somberly, “Our salvation.”
CHARLOTTE PONDERED THAT as she headed down the sidewalk toward where her car was parked several blocks away. Though Max and Oscar shared a father, her guess was it was Marie Savoie who was the deciding factor. The female who could shape-shift. It had to be through her that Max inherited his unique abilities. Rollo had told his son that his mother, Marie, was of pure blood, of rare untainted heritage. Now Cee Cee suspected there was more to her history than even he had realized.
What would that make Max?
She could see her car beneath a streetlight. Though there was no one else on the one-way street, a sudden sense that she was no longer alone quivered through her. An abrupt shove of energy hit her between the shoulder blades, making her stumble. She jumped into the shadows with her back to the darkened storefront, her ankle piece in her hand.
Four shapes moved in on her, quick and low. Two on her side of the street, two on the other, maneuvering to flank her. Definitely not human, but lacking the smooth gliding menace of the Trackers. Members of Max’s clan. Following her for what reason?
“Back off,” she called out gruffly, her eyes darting from one silhouette to the next. “I don’t want to take you down, but I will.”
They’d shifted just enough so that their faces weren’t recognizable. Sharp teeth and feral eyes gleamed. They were dressed like dock workers with heavy boots, jeans, and open shirts over tight undershirts. She glanced toward her car, calculating the odds of making it in time, deciding they were too slim. So she adopted a wide stance and tried to bluff her way out.
“What do you want? If you know who I am, you know messing with me is stupid and maybe fatal. I know what you are, and I’m not afraid of you. I’ve kicked your kind’s asses before, so back off!”
She saw movement from the right and swiveled that way, shooting off a quick round. A sharp yip and the figure reeled back, letting her know she’d hit the non-vital area of his shoulder she’d aimed for. But the other three had closed fast, approaching in different directions too quickly for her to safely take another shot.
She clubbed the first one’s misshapen snout with the butt of her gun, but the next hit her hard and low, knocking her to the sidewalk. Snarling as fiercely as they were, she battled back with fists, elbows, and knees, finally connecting with a throat punch that snapped the gaping jaws together and sent the assailant tumbling back to choke in the gutter. Before she could roll into a more effective position, another slammed into her, flinging her head back against the stuccoed wall. The night exploded with lights, then went alarmingly dark.
Hot pants of breath seared her throat and Cee Cee tensed, expecting a fatal slash of teeth.
Instead, her attacker suddenly backed away. As she struggled to sit up with the wall at her back, her hand groping her gun, she could hear a shuffling of footsteps, then the sound of them running away.
“Are you okay?” A woman’s voice, shaky and slightly breathless.
Blinking to clear her vision, Cee Cee saw a large, blurry hand reaching for her and instinctively struck out at the massive shape looming over her.
Her blow was easily blocked, and LaRoche’s voice said, “Easy, Charlotte. They’re gone.” His concerned features filled her foggy vision. “Someone sent out a damn strong alarm just as I heard your shot, but this brave young lady managed to scare them off just before I got here.”
The woman laughed huskily. “I don’t think my can of mace was all that threatening. They probably heard you coming.”
The instant Cee Cee struggled to stand, Jacques’s big palms scooped under her elbows to assist her. She wobbled for a moment, then focused on the woman.
She was as tall as Cee Cee. Wearing a hunter’s orange vest over a black hooded sweatshirt and skinny jeans, she appeared slender as a boy. Black hair was pulled back in a heavy braid, revealing strong, angular features bare of any makeup. Piercing blue eyes, a hawkish nose, and the wide mouth were too bold for her to be attractive, until she smiled. She beamed with genuine pleasure as she passed Cee Cee her gun, holding the trigger guard between two fingers.
“I think this is yours. Quite an exciting welcome for a newcomer to your city.”
“And well timed, for my sake.” Cee Cee extended her hand. “Charlotte Caissie.”
“Monica Fraser.” Her grip was firm and as aggressive as her stare as she assessed the big bar owner. “And you are?”
“Jacques LaRoche, grateful friend of Detective Caissie’s, and future employer if you’re looking for a job.”
Cee Cee’s surprise at his offer eased when she noticed the hum of recognition between the two of them. Her new acquaintance was a Shifter, too. Could she have been the one to extend that warning push?
“I’ll consider that after I’ve had a chance to unpack. I’m staying at a friend’s condo in the Quarter House. I was looking for an all-night grocery to pick up a few things when I got turned around. Maybe you can point me in the right direction.”
Jacques responded with a gallant, “There’s one on Royal. I’ll walk you there myself once I make sure my friend is all right.” His flirtatious manner dropped away when he looked to Cee Cee. “Did you get a look at them?”
“Fangs and claws and work clothes. Not much to go on. Winged one of them in the left shoulder.” Her voice lowered. “I think they followed me out of your place.”
Their new friend looked nervously between them. “Should you notify someone? I mean, you were attacked by . . . by . . .”
“I know what they were. And I won’t be writing up any report. I’ll leave that to Jacques. It’s his jurisdiction, not mine.”
Monica looked relieved and curious.
“Charlotte is an NOPD detective and an Upright,” Jacques explained. “But we don’t hold that against her.”
“Okay.” She smiled, even more confused.
“Four Shifters come after me right after Amber gives me four names?” Cee Cee mused. “A coincidence, Jacques?”
“I’ll find out,” he assured her. When she put her hand to the back of her head and grimaced, he grew concerned. “You want me to call Max to come get you?”
“No,” she said quickly. “I’m fine. No need to worry him until we find out what’s behind it. It might have been a random robbery.” Or not. They’d shared secrets before to protect the same man. “Let me know if anything interesting turns up. I’m parked right there. Thanks again,” she added, turning to the stranger.
Monica nodded. “Glad to have happened by.”
But as Cee Cee climbed into her car, she began wondering about the coincidence. Had Monica Fraser just happened by, or was something more calculated behind her appearance?
Geez, when had everyone become suspect? Couldn’t someone have done a good deed for no other reason than it was the right thing to do?
She put the car in gear. It would be nice to think so—but she wasn’t an optimist.
__________
UNDER THE COOL light of the moon, Max took a slow breath and a step of faith.
His foot touched the glassy surface of the garden’s reflective pool. Focusing inward, he centered himself in the mental plane his father had shown him. He closed his eyes, imagining his physical form weightless, like a whisper of evening breeze drifting across the water without a ripple.
He breathed in, filling his lungs with air that could hold him aloft, letting him float free like an untethered balloon. The tread of his high-tops never broke the surface as he advanced, not thinking of the steps
themselves, but of the destination. No substance, no weight, drifting lightly.
The sound of a door closing in the house behind him caught Max’s attention, his concentration faltered, and he dropped. Water flooded into his shoes as he stood knee deep in the middle of the pool.
He slogged back to the retaining wall and climbed out. Progress, but not as quick as it needed to be. He took a savage breath of frustration, hearing his father’s warning: “You don’t know who they are. You’ll never know what to look for. You’ll never know when they’re coming. Let me do what I can to save you.”
Too late for that now. He had no one to depend upon but himself. But he knew where to find the answers, thanks to his father.
“Where am I?” he’d asked.
“Wherever you want to be. Focus. You can control it. Let down the walls around your mind so your spirit can fly.”
“How far can I go?”
“Find out.”
Max studied the water’s smooth surface once again. Time to find out.
THE SINGLE-STORY MOTOR court was stripped of amenities, with none of downtown’s slickness or the Quarter’s charm. Their neighbors came and went, often several times nightly, and no one paid attention to the flashy redhead and her greasy boyfriend who pulled in near dawn and slept all day.
It was one A.M., and the hourly clientele were slipping in and out with furtive regularity. Her wig in place and head tipped down so it swung forward to shield her features, Cee Cee assessed those she passed and saw no threat to their operation. Just sad, lonely people trying to steal away from their sad, lonely lives for a moment of artificial happiness.
The door to one of the rooms opened, revealing a slouching figure with a cold cigarette.
“Got a light?”
Stan Schoenbaum looked like shit.
“Sorry. Trying to quit.”
“Where’s your better half?” he asked, glancing behind her down the empty walk.
“Looking for some action on his own. Was hoping to get a little privacy for the next half hour or so.”
Stan cocked a brow as she asked him to shut down the surveillance in her room. It was strictly against procedure, but he shrugged. “Can’t blame a girl for needing a bit a downtime between one and two.”