Hunter of Shadows

by Nancy Gideon

“Because I asked him. Because I need his help. I need all of your help.”

  Max nodded, understanding. “He needs our energy. Bring her into the study.”

  As they moved out into the hall, Giles approached, looking haggard and distressed. He said something to Max, then went to answer the door, admitting the priest.

  “You told me I could free her,” Silas called to Furness. “Make good on your word, Father. Help me do it now.”

  By the time he laid her on the leather couch in Jimmy’s office Nica was thrashing, drenched in a sweat of pain. Silas knelt beside her so she could focus on his face and his voice.

  “Shhh, Nica, I’m right here. Look at me, keep looking at me. Just listen to my voice and don’t be afraid. We’re going to do this together. I need you to trust me. Is he here?”

  “No, not yet,” she panted. “I’m trying to keep him out, but it’s so hard.”

  He smoothed his palm over her damp brow. “Don’t fight him. Let him in.”

  “What?” Panic crackled in her voice. “Don’t let me go, Silas. Stay with me!”

  “I’ll be right here. I won’t be far. I need you to relax and let him take over. Don’t fight, Nica.” He kissed her and whispered, “You won’t be alone. I promise.”

  Her breathing slowed and the tension eased from her muscles. He brushed his hand over her eyes to shut them, whispering in her ear, “I love you, Nica. Let go.”

  When he straightened from her limp form, he looked at Max. “I need to follow her. I need to know where she’s going. What do I do?”

  Max squatted down next to him, putting one hand on Nica’s shoulder and the other on MacCreedy’s. “Close your eyes. Relax. Big breath. Another. Big breath. Relax your shoulders, your arms. Slow your heartbeats. Breathe. Let . . . time . . . stop.”

  Dizzy from the hyperventilation, feeling weightless and disconnected from everything, Silas heard Max say, “Open your eyes.” When he did he sucked in a startled breath, because he wasn’t in the study anymore. He was . . . someplace else.

  “Take a second to get used to it. There are no boundaries here. Think your destination and your consciousness will follow. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Look for her, Silas. You’re connected. Feel her.”

  Nica?

  There were cold, strange flashes of light without color. When Silas glanced down, he saw himself bent over Nica and he faltered.

  “Don’t look back. You have to let go. Reach for where you want to be.”

  He reached out his hands, his fingers stretching, losing shape and solidity, becoming pure light, sheer energy. Then there was a tremendous rush of movement, like the plunge from the highest roller-coaster peak.

  Nica, help me find you.

  Silas?

  She was suddenly everywhere, her scent flooding into his pores, her breath filling his lungs, the whirl of her thoughts tangling with his in an instant of exhilarating chaos. He pulled back, easing away from her strong, vibrant signature. He could see her, transparent and slightly distorted against a field of explosive color. She was in a room, a sterile, clinical-looking place. Her mouth moved, speaking his name without sound as her hand stretched out to pass right through him with a blast of cauterizing cold.

  He gasped and withdrew, pulling back through the walls of the room, down corridors, through the shaft of an elevator, out through walls of steel and brick into space.

  Slow! Slow. Where is this place? Where am I?

  A city. He could see the skyline, the distinctive spires of Chicago.

  Signs. Look for signs.

  Streets. The building, glittering against the evening sky. Hard to see past the lights, so bright. Then a name.

  Silas, don’t leave me!

  MacCreedy opened his eyes. He was on his back, his heart was racing. A cold, cramping sensation twisted through him, bringing his dinner up in a rush into the waste basket Cee Cee held. Weak and shaky, he tried to sit up but he had no control over his muscles.

  “Give it a minute. It’s rough on you the first few times,” Max said.

  “Deveraux Clinic.” Was that his voice, so thin and strained? “Waverly and Plymouth. Chicago.” He was finally able to move his hands and dragged himself up to his knees. “It’s a medical facility of some kind. I have to go back.”

  “Not a good idea,” Max warned.

  “I have to go back to help!”

  Father Furness crouched down by the sofa. “You’ll need someone to channel the energy for you or it will scramble you like an egg.”

  “Can you do that?”

  “It’s been a long time, but I should be able to filter it. You’ll have to tell me if it gets to be too much. Believe me, you’ll know when it’s time to pull back.”

  “Fine. I will.” Anything to get him back there before Nica thought she’d been abandoned. He took her limp hands in his and closed his eyes.

  Nica, don’t be afraid.

  And he was instantly there, the transition so abrupt, he had mental whiplash. He was back in that searingly white room where Nica huddled in its center as a hallucinogenic collage flashed across the walls. Brainwashing? Was she even now being fed images that would direct her actions against her will?

  He went to kneel beside her, unable to touch her as her vacant stare fixed upon the poisonous pictures. Of Nica calling his name, him turning toward her, her slashing his throat, over and over in a brutal loop. Of Charlotte spinning, her weapon drawn, firing with cold accuracy, the bullets tearing through him and the blond-haired boy on his shoulders. Their child? Oh, Nica, he’s so beautiful!

  And then that voice, soft and sinister. “She’s going to kill them, Nica. They’re going to die unless you get to her first. She’s going to murder them right in front of you. If you don’t act now, you won’t be able to save them. Their blood will be on your hands. She’s going to steal your future from you unless you stop her. Do it now, Nica. Do it now.”

  “Wake her up when I tell you,” Silas called to Furness, “and keep her from Charlotte. Give me that boost now.”

  He felt energy snap and sizzle through him like a jolt from jumper cables. He waited until the voice began again, latching onto that wave of psychic power, then cried, “Get her out of here!” as he rode that whip of energy back to its source. To a trendy apartment filled with art and music, to a neatly dressed middle-aged man with thinning hair, a pencil mustache, and a soft midsection, seated at his dining room table twirling spaghetti on his fork, who stared, jaw dropping, eyes bulging.

  “Are you Hawthorne? My name’s MacCreedy. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Silas let the image he projected shift, becoming huge, with intimidating muscles and fur and fangs. His claws sank into the tabletop, ripping through the cherrywood inlay.

  Hawthorne shrieked like a little girl as a gigantic paw snatched him from his chair, shaking him as the monstrous face loomed, drooling strings of saliva onto his petrified features.

  “Who hired you to kill Charlotte Caissie? Tell me!”

  Hawthorne continued to scream and struggle against a demon his mind told him wasn’t there, even as razor-sharp claws shredded his designer shirt and skin.

  The effort of holding the illusion built pressure inside Silas’s head as inside an egg boiling in the microwave. He pulled more strength through Furness’s conduit, drawing from Max and Tina and Oscar, ignoring the pain and scalding heat surging through him. He stared down into the frightened eyes, looking through those huge pupils, tearing through the splinters of memory, digging determinedly even as his absent body began to seize and shudder.

  “Silas, come back now!”

  He fought against the summons, his eyes rolling back, blood streaking like tears from their corners, streaming from his nose and ears as he burrowed into Hawthorne’s brain, powered by the unstoppable energy that was ripping him apart. Searching as Hawthorne tried to elude him, tried to hide that truth as his system sizzled and scorched. Because he couldn’t stop until his prom
ise was met. Even if it killed him.

  Nica’s eyes snapped open, wild and glazed with fury. They fixed on Cee Cee like a missile and with a snarl, she lunged. Max’s elbow caught her in the forehead, dropping her onto the couch cushions with stunning efficiency. His hand went around her throat, pressing her down as her eyes blinked and cleared. She immediately began to thrash and fight him, but in her weakened state she was no match for him. Until he understood the reason for her frenzy.

  “Silas!”

  Released, she scrambled to the other end of the couch where MacCreedy sat on the floor, his head lolling against the seat cushion as Furness shook him. His eyes were open, pupils blown, swimming in blood.

  “I can’t bring him back!” the priest said. Nica shoved him aside to take the colorless face between her hands. She calmed the terror banging in her chest to speak to him softly, firmly.

  “MacCreedy, I don’t want a dead hero. I need you to keep your promise. I need you to stay with me. Stay with me.”

  He took a sharp breath, blinking several times until his eyes were once again clear. “I’m right here,” he told her, voice hoarse. When he spoke, smoke wisped from between his lips. Then he looked at Max and Cee Cee, and said, “Petitjohn.”

  Francis Petitjohn sat at the desk in his small office at Legere Enterprises International, scanning the early edition as was his daily habit. His lips curled in a contemptuous smirk as he read about the fire at the Trinity Towers. Arson. No shit. No casualties. Too bad. Possible criminal negligence for cutting building costs in violation of code. Try talking your way out of that one, you son of a bitch.

  There was a tap at his door, and it opened to that huge dumb stump of a bodyguard who followed Max around.

  “Morning, Mr. Petitjohn.”

  “What do you want, Giles?” He stabbed a finger at the article he’d been reading. “Looks like I’ve got a lot of damage control to get to, so make it quick.”

  “You sure do, so let’s get right to it.”

  T-John scowled as the big thug set several sheets of paper in front of him. “What’s this?”

  “Something the boss man wants you to sign. I’m to make sure you do before we go.”

  “Go?” He glanced at the top sheet and went very still.

  I, Francis Petitjohn, being of sound mind and free of any coercion, do hereby confess . . .

  “What the hell is this?”

  “Just a little something Max put together to explain why you all of a sudden up and disappeared. I’d read through it if I were you.”

  Nervously, Petitjohn moved his gaze from the casually lounging muscleman to the damning list. Pocketing kickbacks after changing spec codes Max had agreed on for the Towers, changes that resulted in extensive damage due to substandard materials, faulty sprinklers, and a failed alarm system. Conspiring in human trafficking with Carmen Blutafino. Hiring an assassin who died in an abortive attempt on Max’s life.

  “These are lies.”

  “Maybe in actual fact, but not in the spirit of things.”

  “I didn’t keep two sets of books on the Towers,” he argued. “Max signed those invoices.”

  Giles shrugged. “Let’s see what turns up.”

  “I didn’t hire anyone to kill Max,” he sputtered furiously.

  “Maybe you should have. He’d have been a lot more forgiving if you’d gone after him instead of Charlotte. They’ll find your wire transfers leading to that crispy fella in the morgue.”

  When Petitjohn said nothing, Giles continued, “Why go after Charlotte? I put a lot of thought into that when I was driving back from Baton Rouge yesterday morning, after dropping off a real nice lady and her little boy. It’s a shame there was a fire in her hotel room in Memphis. Kinda like the one at the Towers, except this time there were casualties. Nice place. The receptionist made the reservations at Charlotte’s request. She told me you were asking about the arrangements. I bet Mr. Blutafino was right grateful for that information.”

  Petitjohn stopped reading, his face very pale.

  “Anyways, I figured if you went for Max, everyone would know it was you and that it was business. But if Charlotte’s killed it would point to Manny because of her undercover work, and Manny’d have no choice ’cept to take out Max to save his own skin. Leaving you free and clear.”

  Petitjohn remained silent.

  “But you know how I knew it was you? Because being the sneaky, vicious little spider you are, you’d want Max to suffer as much as possible before stealing LEI from him. And that’s what would do it.”

  Francis sneered. “I’ll be damned. You’ve got a brain along with that brawn, after all.”

  “Yeah, I do. Sign that paper so we can be on our way.”

  “To where?” He was starting to sweat.

  “If I was still working for Mr. Legere and he told me to pick someone up, I’d know exactly what he meant. One-way trip, no return. But this being Max, he’s gonna give you a chance to run. I figure you’ve skimmed enough from LEI to live real comfortable in some nonextradition country. Signing those papers will make Max a lot more charitable about it.”

  Petitjohn picked up his pen. “No one will believe it.”

  “That letter was composed on your laptop and printed up on that printer right over there. And you’ll be gone. What’s not to believe?” Giles checked his watch. “Let’s get a move on. I’ve got things to do.”

  After a little frantic thought, Francis figured, why not? He did have plenty of cash, and things were getting dicey with Manny now that Max had shut down his transportation avenues. Better to run while the getting was good. That was a mistake Jimmy never would have made. He never let his enemies escape him. But then Max Savoie was no Jimmy Legere.

  He signed. Why not? He’d had a good run. He’d be sipping champagne in South America by dinnertime on LEI’s dime. He’d just bide his time until someone else did him the favor of taking his nemesis out.

  “Let’s go out the back way,” Giles suggested. “No need for anyone to see us.”

  Thinking about the calls he’d have to make to get a fake passport and a new ID, T-John rode down in the service elevator and followed Giles to the big town car with tinted windows. Giles opened the rear door for him, waiting for him to slide into the dark interior before getting behind the wheel.

  As the car pulled out of the dim parking garage Petitjohn saw that he wasn’t alone, and he gasped.

  “Hello, Francis,” Max drawled from where he sat at the other end of the seat. His eyes flickered eerily. “We’re going to play a game. You’re going to run, and I’m going to chase you. I’ll even give you a head start.”

  And he smiled, his manner and attitude very Jimmy Legere—except for the very sharp teeth.

  Charlotte Caissie sat in a pew at St. Bart’s, hoping to find some comfort. But Mary Kate wasn’t here. The ever-present smells of candle wax and polish didn’t evoke her spiritual presence any longer, they only brought sorrow. With so much weighing on her heart, Cee Cee was desperate for counsel. Max had gone before she woke or she would have turned to him, something she’d been doing more and more often. And Nica had left to take MacCreedy home after dropping an unsettling bomb.

  “You asked me about Mary Kate,” Nica had whispered to her. “I think I know someone who can help you.”

  But just because she could do something didn’t always mean she should. Cee Cee’s desire to bring her friend back from the coma where she hovered crossed all sorts of moral lines Mary Kate might not appreciate. But if there was even the slightest chance to bring her back, why was she hesitating?

  Then there was the other news she received in her phone call with Dev Dovion.

  “Lottie, this is a nice surprise,” Father Furness said.

  She looked up, her expression guarded. “I’ve had all the surprises I can handle, Father. Thank you again for your help.”

  “Why do I get the feeling you’re not here to thank me?”

  Cee Cee struggled to keep her voice level. “Y
ou were always like a saint to me, Father. My rescuer, my friend. I couldn’t believe the things Nica was saying about you, that you were a manipulator, a liar, a deceiver. But now I’m beginning to think she’s right.”

  She closed her eyes to shut out the look of dismay on the priest’s face. Or was it guilt she wondered, as Dovion’s conversation came back to her. Two things had been discovered from the blood sample she’d given the lab.

  She was pregnant.

  And the Ancient gene present in Nica’s blood was also in hers.

  Charlotte opened her eyes and looked at the priest who had guided and possibly misdirected her entire life. “Why didn’t you tell me about my mother?”

  Twenty-seven

  He was either dead or dreaming. MacCreedy couldn’t decide which.

  Then the warm figure pressed against him in their cozy feather-filled nest moved, stirring up proof that one part of him was very much alive.

  A light touch stroked his unshaven cheek. “Are you awake?”

  He turned his head to take in the most beautiful sight imaginable. “I hope so.”

  Nica smiled, her eyes softening to a deep, just-before-sunrise blue. “Feeling better?”

  “Than what?” He’d experienced a world of pain he never wished to revisit, as if he’d been lying at the bottom of a vat and enthusiastic vintners were stomping away, trying to mash his blood and bones into wine. He had no idea how she’d managed to get him home.

  Home. Where this delightful bed and this delicious woman resided.

  “Did I hear the phone earlier?” He looked at the clock. Nine a.m.

  “Your partner called. He wanted to remind you of some meeting this afternoon. I told him if he showed up at our door I would vivisect him on the spot. You think that was a little over the top?”

  “I think I love you.”

  He closed his eyes. Alain Babineau: his sister’s husband, his friend, the human who had his back on the streets. A problem he wished he didn’t have to deal with. A bad cop? Instinct said no, despite the damning evidence.

  “And your sister called.”

  “Tina?”