Steele City Blues: The Third Book in the Hell’s Belle Series (Hell's Belle 3)

by Karen Greco

  "Excellent news," Bertrand said as he settled behind his oversized ornate desk. "Please have a seat." He motioned to the club chairs across from him. Preferring to keep a wide berth between us, I settled on the couch, sitting on the edge. Frankie sank into the deep comfortable leather beside me.

  "Suit yourself," he said before turning to Gramps. "So, my old friend, I see your daughter's return gave you sufficient motivation to break that old curse."

  "Daughter?" Gramps spat out, his hand still protecting his neck. "That pox on humanity is no daughter of mine."

  Bertrand’s laugh was like rich milk chocolate poured over ice cream. "Since when did you care about humanity?"

  "You think I am going to stand by while she turns my kind into monsters?"

  "Then we have something in common," Bertrand said.

  "Since when do you give a damn about the witches?" I interjected. My grandfather gave me a sharp glance and then straightened his posture.

  "All matter of supernatural entities are of my concern," Bertrand said, a flicker of annoyance dancing across his chiseled face.

  "Since when?" I challenged.

  "You'll see she is spirited as your other daughter, Babette," Bertrand cooed. "Pity we lost her."

  I fell silent, tears stinging at my eyes. I stared at my boots to keep anyone from noticing.

  "Leila will pay for what she did to—"

  "Didn't you exile Babette when she took Nina in as a baby?" Bertrand pointed out.

  Gramps glanced at me. "I had my reasons. Just like she had hers for taking the baby."

  "Love and loyalty, those were her reasons," I said, keeping my eyes trained on the floor. "What were yours?"

  Bertrand rubbed his hands together, not bothering to hide his delight at the question I posed to my grandfather. But he interceded anyway. "Perhaps we should let bygones be bygones," he said. "I am sure you both agree that Leila poses a threat to the delicate balance that has kept all of us coexisting with humans for millennia."

  "I think that steamer has left the port," Frankie quipped, squeaking against the leather as he leaned forward, elbows on knees.

  I nodded in agreement. "That balance is gone. CNN covered the entire thing. Remember?" The national news networks descended upon our tiny state in a few short hours, with Leila's raging bonfire leading most of the broadcasts.

  "All the more reason why we need each other," Bertrand said. His grin shot through me like pins.

  "Keep your friends close," Frankie muttered to me.

  I leaned into him in agreement when the office door opened again. Max stopped dead when he saw us all in the room.

  "I didn't know you were throwing a party," he said to Bertrand, hesitating in the threshold.

  "I didn't either," Bertrand said, extending his arm out in welcome. "But I'm glad you are here. We could certainly use your expertise."

  Max gave a fast shake of his head and then stepped aside. A tall, slim woman skimmed past him, her walk confident considering the height of her heels, which were silent on Bertrand's thick carpet. Even Gramps sat up straighter as she clipped past him and headed straight for the couch. Her tight smile iced over an attractive face.

  "Nina Martinez," she said, and her voice carried the same authority as her appearance. "Lovely to finally meet you. You are everything I expected you to be."

  She moved the Prada attaché she carried to her left hand and extended her right hand to me. I ignored it, keeping my ass firmly planted on Bertrand's leather couch.

  I scowled. “How about leveling the playing field and tell me who the hell you are."

  "Of course," she said, her lips edging a grin that did not convey happiness. "I am Mary Jane Colton, the special envoy to Secretary of Defense Elliot Hagel. He sent me."

  Frankie stilled beside me as a ball of lead dropped into my stomach. "I'm sorry, Secretary of Defense?"

  "We know about Blood Ops, Nina," she said. "Secretary Hagel sent me here to contain the situation."

  Bertrand stood and extended his own hand. "Ms. Colton, welcome to Providence. I am—"

  "I know exactly who you are, Mayor Bertrand," she interrupted, her voice edged with impatience. "And I expect your full cooperation."

  "Of course," he said, covering his anger at her slight with a slick politician’s grin. "Anything you need, I will personally see to it that you have."

  She nodded, eyeing Gramps, who had slipped from his seat to a corner of the room to blend into the wall. She settled primly into the club chair Gramps abandoned.

  She opened her case and pulled out a laptop. Her knee-length skirt rode up as she shifted in her chair to place the empty bag on the floor by her Christian Louboutin shoes, revealing long, lean thighs. Her straight blond hair was set in a neat, low ponytail and extended down the back of her suit jacket to her shoulder blades. The way the dark grey fabric fit her body told me that this was not an off-the-rack purchase. The suit fit her body like it was supposed to, no boxy shoulders or lopsided hems. The woman oozed power. I noticed Max couldn't take his eyes off of her. Nor could Frankie, so I landed a sharp elbow into his middle.

  "What can we do for you, Ms. Colton?" Bertrand asked, breaking the uncomfortable silence. His solicitous nature was at odds with the rank smell of sulfur that danced through the air. The demon was rattled.

  "Secretary Hagel and our team have managed to turn the news media away from the situation here in Rhode Island," she said, brushing at imaginary lint on her skirt. "They think that the episode a few weeks ago was from a terrorist attack."

  "Terrorist attack?" I repeated, raising my eyebrows. "Leila lit my aunt on fire in front of an angry mob. All they needed were pitchforks and we could have been a goddamn Frankenstein reenactment."

  "We blamed the behavior on mephedrone poison," she explained. "Terrorists tampered with the water supply."

  "Mephedrone? What the hell is that?" Uncle Tavio asked.

  "White Magic," Max said.

  Uncle Tavio looked confused. I was too.

  "M-Cat," he tried again. “Meow Meow?”

  "Meow back at you?" I offered with a shrug. Was this some weird flirty thing he was doing? It was like a foreign language.

  "Those are street names for bath salts," Max said, his voice heavy with exasperation. "And not the literal kind. You've heard of those, right?"

  Frankie looked incredulous. "Bath salts? And the Americans believe you?"

  My laugh was hollow. “If it’s on T.V. it must be true, right?”

  Mary Jane glared at both of us. "It's not outside the realm of possibility."

  "Remember that episode in Miami? It made the news a few years ago. That drug turned users into living zombies, chomping on human flesh," Max said, his biceps flexing as he crossed his arms. God, he looked enormous. "Not much of a stretch to explain away the behavior seen here a few weeks ago."

  I did remember Miami. The incident happened while I was still in training. Blood Ops mobilized and sent a team down, but it turned out to be a human problem.

  "We have closed the state borders in an abundance of caution," Mary Jane said.

  “You closed the boarders?” I asked. “I thought that was Leila, locking us all in.”

  “Of course we closed the boarders,” Mary Jane sniffed at me. “Do you really believe we would allow this to spread to the rest of the country?”

  While her makeshift boarder walls contained the spread of Leila, it didn’t allow the innocent safe passage either. But I kept that point to myself.

  "How long do you think you can keep this pretense up?" I asked instead, wrinkling my nose as the rank air assaulted my nostrils.

  "Not much longer," she admitted, her face stoic. If she noticed the peculiar odor, she didn't let on. "We've created television footage of the CDC coming in and treating the afflicted. We've dispatched medical talking heads to go on cable news to confuse everyone with hard science. And we've deployed troops in the Middle East to have a show of boots on the ground."

  She flipped her lapt
op open and began moving her fingers on the touchpad.

  "Sounds like you've got it all covered," I said, waving my hand in front of my face. Why didn't anyone else seem bothered by the smell?

  "Look," she said, placing the computer on the edge of Bertrand's enormous desk. She tilted it towards us, forcing Bertrand to get up and walk around to see the news footage of some balding guy dressed in doctors’ scrubs tossing out impressive sounding medical terms. The anchor woman's head bobbed in agreement, but her hair didn't move. Then images of troops taking mortar fire in some far away desert replaced the dull talking heads.

  "Do you smell something?" I whispered to Frankie when an argument broke out between in-studio guests. The air in the office was now thick with the sulfuric smell. I glanced at the airtight windows lining the wall, wishing I could open one.

  He nodded. "You do too?" he replied, his voice low. "Bertrand is pissed about something, and he's releasing a wank-load of pheromones. But I thought only vampires could smell it."

  "Well, I can too," I said, glancing at Bertrand as he leaned against his desk, arms crossed, staring down Mary Jane. "It's not bothering you?"

  "Seven hundred years, love," he said with a wink. "You get used to all manner of foul odors."

  I shook my head in disgust at the idea of my olfactory glands working over time for 700 years. One more reason not to want to turn anytime soon. I pulled the collar of my shirt up over my nose like a five-year-old and glanced at my silent grandfather, who eyed me curiously. Mary Jane snapped the laptop shut.

  "It looks like you have the situation under control," I said, pulling my shirt back down.

  "This is simply a Band-Aid," she said, pulling the computer onto her lap. "And it's starting to peel off. The truthers are unraveling bits of our story. We are going to have to reopen Route 95 to interstate commerce soon. We need this situation dealt with."

  Bertrand returned to the chair behind his desk. He steepled his fingers and gave her a curt nod. "What does Secretary Hagel propose we do to contain the situation?"

  "He doesn't care what you do," she said, leveling a knowing look at him before picking up her bag. "He said Blood Ops should use whatever means necessary to get this dealt with as quickly as possible."

  "Blood Ops is over," I said. "Dr. O is being held hostage, and Secretary Hagel ripped the operation out from our Vegas base. Our operatives are in the wind."

  "That's your problem," she said, tucking her computer into the opening in the supple leather.

  "Actually, it sounds like it's your problem," I said, anger seeping into my voice. Tavio chuckled, but one glare from Bertrand shut him up.

  "Not really," Mary Jane said. "We don’t want to have to drop a bomb on this state.”

  “A bomb? You wouldn’t…” I started, narrowing my eyes. She didn’t look like she was bluffing. “You can’t just drop a bomb on your own citizens. You’d have anarchy.”

  “Cuba could launch a nuclear missile at D.C. or New York and...misjudge."

  "You'd wipe out the entire northern coast," Max said, his eyes wide. He was so certain that his employers, the federal government, wouldn't commit mass murder against its citizens. Frankie and I, on the other hand, knew that she wasn’t bluffing. Hiding all preternatural species was that important to the government.

  "Collateral damage," she said before getting to her feet. Man, she was tall. "We don't care how you do it, you just do it. By any means necessary." She strode to the door before turning and facing us one final time. "You have one week to get this under control. Then we re-evaluate our options."

  "You can't just drop a bomb on innocent people," Max protested.

  "I’m not saying that we would. But do you really want to test us?" she asked, turning on her spiky heel and walking out of the room, leaving an uneasy silence in her wake.

  "She's bluffing," Max said, his voice betraying his uncertainty. It was more like wishful thinking.

  Bertrand cocked an eyebrow. "Are you sure, Agent Deveroux? You’re willing to take that chance?"

  I glared at him. "What do you care? You can just pull up stakes and find a new city to ruin. There's no shortage of urban wastelands in this country."

  "Yes, but I’m rather fond of this urban wasteland," Bertrand said with a lopsided smile. "So, do you have a plan to contain your mother, or are you just going to wing it?" His fingers formed air quotes at the final two words while I shot him a venomous look.

  "They’re breaking into Steele City," Max said as he tossed me a curt nod.

  "Are you psychic, Agent Deveroux?" Bertrand asked. "You know this, how?"

  I jumped in. "He was with us when we scoped out the prison."

  Max gave me a side-eyed glance. "I was there when you all blew it scoping out the prison."

  I pressed my fingers along the bridge of my nose. A headache was coming on again.

  Frankie dropped a protective arm around my shoulders. "You okay?" he whispered, his lips brushing along my ear.

  "I'm fine," I muttered, shrugging his arm away.

  The edges of Max's mouth twitched up when Frankie’s arm slipped from its perch. Frankie flashed an icy glare in Max's direction.

  Gramps emerged from the shadows and relaxed into Mary Jane's abandoned club chair opposite Bertrand, observing the whole exchange with amusement. He leaned back and kicked his Huarache-adorned feet up on Bertrand's expensive desk.

  Bertrand’s mouth puckered. "So, old friend? We agree to a truce, then? For the greater good?"

  “Truce? With this one?" Uncle Tavio asked as he charged forward, his thick Italian accent boomeranging through the room. He shoved Teddy's feet off the desk and stood between his boss and the old witch who’d made himself at home.

  "Crawl back to the desert, lo stregone," Tavio spat out. Literally. Twice. Then Tavio made a devil horn sign, which was pretty rich coming from a vampire in league with a demon.

  Gramps didn't let up. "You can call me whatever the hell you want. Doesn't change the fact that I was right."

  "Right about what?" I interrupted.

  "The sham marriage between your parents," he said. "Was never meant to be a happily ever after."

  Tavio leaned in and gnashed his fangs at Gramps, aching to take a bite. "It was your daughter who killed my brother—"

  "Never said who was at fault, now did I?" Gramps asked, kicking his feet back up on Bertrand's desk.

  Tavio's teeth snapped dangerously close to my grandfather's neck. "And now you show up to ruin the child too?"

  "What child?" I asked.

  "What child?" Tavio turned to me, his eyes wild. "You, of course."

  "She is no child." Gramps’ protest cut off my own. "She is a witch."

  "I will stake her before I let that happen," Tavio roared.

  I scrambled to my feet, but Frankie was faster. He blocked me with his body. "No one is staking Nina."

  "Hey, I'm right here," I said, elbowing my way around Frankie. "I can speak for myself. And I'll stake you right back, uncle or not."

  "Enough! All of you," Bertrand barked as the aroma of sulfur whipped through the room again, tipping me off that he was losing his temper. I covered a small cough. "We are nothing if not forgiving. Right, Tavio?"

  Tavio withered under Bertrand's glare. He shuffled to the far corner of the room, which also happened to be where the whiskey cart was located. He took the top off a crystal decanter and poured out a finger, downing the amber liquid in one swallow.

  Gramps was a different matter. He pulled out a pack of Faros from the pocket of his worn jeans. Once he tapped out the cigarette, he took a matchstick tucked into the pack and struck it against Bertrand's expensive desk. A blue cloud of smoke enveloped his head as he puffed. Bertrand waved at the acrid smoke creeping towards him. Gramps just puffed harder.

  The old man's assuredness around the demon was astounding.

  Max cleared his throat. "How about we discuss the prison break now?"

  "Excellent idea," Bertrand said, clapping his hands
together. "Thanks to Ms. Colton, we now have a timeline. And a tight one at that."

  My grandfather worked over Max with his eyes. "But first, how did you turn Berserker? Doesn't come naturally, does it?"

  Max clenched his jaw, which kicked off a chain of tension through his entire body.

  "We really do need to focus on springing Dr. O," I said, snatching a candy bowl from the side table by the couch. Vampire speed kicked in and I had the bowl under the line of ash on Gramps' cigarette before it fell to the plush carpet.

  "Berserkers are extinct," Gramps continued, ignoring me. "Who made you this way, boy?"

  I slumped into the club chair beside him and balanced the bowl on my knee. He ignored all the vitriol in the room that was building towards him.

  Max opened and closed his fists repeatedly, causing veins to pop along his forearms. I licked my lips and watched the veins throb at the buildup and release of pressure. The blood pumped faster as Max’s adrenaline spiked. My stomach ached for the blood under those veins. I closed my eyes, ignoring the hunger, but my keen hearing picked up the sound of blood rushing through him.

  "Can we get on with the plan?" I snapped, eyes still closed. “I’m starving.”

  The room went silent so I opened my eyes. My grandfather's stern expression softened.

  "I see we don't have much time," he said.

  "No, we don't," I agreed, relieved that we were finally focused on the task at hand. "Max, I am not sure how much longer you can keep a lid on the Berserker. And if Leila finds out...." I shuddered.

  "You mean she doesn't know?" my grandfather asked.

  "No," Max said, running his hands through his mess of overgrown curls, his cheeks taking a ruddy hue. Keeping his Hulk under control made his skin blotchy. One New England winter and his California sun-kissed skin turned to paste.

  "How do you keep this from her?" my grandfather asked.

  "Because she's not looking for a Berserker," Bertrand said, his voice edged with impatience. "She's focused on something else."

  My grandfather nodded. "Of course she is. But you are on the inside with her, correct? You're able to control la bestia que vive dentro de ti."

  "The what?" Max asked with a shake of his head.