“No cops, I promise,” Priscilla said, giving him her best smile.
Gabriel’s mouth opened as if he’d protest. She squeezed his arm until he grimaced. Zachary glanced between them, trying to read the lie on either of their faces. Finally, his shoulders slumped and he nodded.
“I’ll go home, Priscilla. But if you use this information to hurt her, I swear—”
“I won’t,” she said.
Zachary left the shop, looking equal parts exhausted and downtrodden. Priscilla felt the insistent urge to stuff a cookie into his hand and assure him things were going to be all right. Perhaps it was a latent mothering instinct that had remained dormant until now. Maybe it was all the months of exposure to Dean.
“You can’t promise him that,” Gabriel said.
“Yes, I can,” she said sweetly. “No cops.”
“Chief Sharp will have some words to say about that,” Gabriel said. “And I never made the boy any promises.”
“I said I wouldn’t involve the cops,” Priscilla said, continuing as if he hadn’t spoken. “I never said anything about federal agents.”
Gabriel’s brow quirked upward and he gave her a dubious look. “What is that smile for, Pratt?”
“We’ve got a little while before dawn,” she said. “And I think we should make use of it.”
“Dare I even ask what hairbrained scheme you’ve come up with now?”
She explained her plan to him. He didn’t look happy.
“This idiocy is going to get us killed,” he said with a scowl.
“We’re already dead,” she countered. “What else is there to be afraid of?”
The Sons of Adonai’s compound had looked a lot less intimidating when she’d viewed it at a distance. Now that she was standing directly in its shadow, it seemed more formidable. The compound wasn’t made of stone, the way that a prison would have been, but it did resemble a penitentiary in almost every other respect. The walls were high, and built to keep people out—or in. Barbed wire adorned the tops of thick wooden walls like a parody of a child’s tiara. She could probably break through these defenses if she were very determined. After all, she could lift a man who was well over two hundred pounds and toss him across a room. A wooden door wouldn’t last long against her strength. But it was a waste of energy that she desperately needed, and she doubted the Sons of Adonai would respond well to their intrusion.
The sky had lightened to gray, and soon the sun would peek above the eastern horizon, bathing the world in light. The front door faced east, and the sun would be at their backs as they walked. She wasn’t sure if it was by design on the Sons’ part, but she was grateful that at least they wouldn’t be walking into the light.
“Remind me why I’m listening to you,” Gabriel muttered.
“Because you want to catch the killer as much as I do, and you can’t discount my theory with the current evidence available,” she said in a tone of manic cheer.
“You can’t prove your theory with it either,” he pointed out.
“True, but do you honestly believe that these people aren’t guilty of something?”
Gabriel’s lips pursed. It was distracting, she had to admit. He had a full mouth, and was a little too good-looking for comfort. She’d caught Anna staring at him the few times they’d been in the same room. She wondered if she’d have to give her assistant a talking to about pursuing vastly older, nigh-immortal men. Priscilla thought what she’d shared of her own personal history would be a cautionary tale about dating vampires, but apparently not.
“I’m sure there are unethical things going on,” he said at last. “The ATF has been trying to level charges at them for years, but they can’t make anything stick. There’s no definitive proof.”
“Then let’s get proof,” Priscilla said in an undertone as they reached the front doors. The two men who stood outside it watched them approach warily. Neither of them was as tall as Gabriel, though they were definitely more solid-looking. She offered them a smile and lifted the tub of thumbprint cookies she’d made to bring along. Gabriel hadn’t been happy about the delay, but she’d insisted.
When you showed up uninvited at people’s doors, it was always best to be bearing gifts. She’d found people were far less likely to turn her away when she had something sugary in hand.
“Hello boys,” she greeted in the same manically cheerful tone she’d used with Gabriel. “I was wondering if you might be so kind as to take us to Amos Buckley.”
“Your kind aren’t welcome here,” the first man said.
Priscilla gave him a once over. The man wasn’t very broad or beefy, even by human standards. If he tried to reach for the knife she could spy in his boot, she could probably beat him to the punch. Literally. He seemed to know it too, because his pale face grew even whiter in the early morning light. Between that and the thatch of pale blond hair on top of his head, he looked like a scarecrow.
“We can do this without any fuss, or I can make trouble for you,” Gabriel said calmly. The two men flinched back when Gabriel reached inside his coat. Instead of drawing out a gun, as they’d been anticipating, he revealed his badge.
“I’m Gabriel Winthrop and I work for the paranormal division of the FBI. I have enough clout to bring down a squadron of men to comb this place over. There’s not a judge in the world who’s going to ignore my request for a search warrant. Now, you can let us past, and save everyone a little trouble, or you can turn us away, in which case I’m going to rain down hell on this compound.”
Priscilla had to admire the steel in his tone. Though he doubted that Amos Buckley had had a hand in Absalom’s death, he had an excellent poker face when the time came to bluff. The two men exchanged glances. They weren’t very old. Early twenties at the latest. They really didn’t stand a chance against Gabriel.
The blond man nudged his partner. “Go get Amos, Joshua.”
“I’m not going,” Joshua whined. His voice was unpleasant and reedy. “I’m not going to be held responsible for letting filth into the temple. You go tell him.”
The blond man pushed Joshua a little more forcefully, turned toward the large, roughly-hewn doors, and knocked several times. The beat was too fast for Priscilla to pick up to replicate for later. A moment later they opened a crack and another man stuck his face in the opening.
“Your shift isn’t over for another two hours,” the man grumbled. “What do you want?”
“This vampire claims he’s FBI and he wants to talk to Amos. Now do you want to tell him, or will you stand out here while I do it?”
Apparently the prospect of telling Amos anything wasn’t a pleasant one, and the man opened the door wider and stepped through. This new man was short, round around the middle, and sported an unpleasantly thick neck beard. He eyed her with beady-eyed suspicion.
“Cookie?” Priscilla offered, lifting the lid off of the tub she’d brought along. She’d made several dozen, just in case. She had a sinking feeling they’d be burned or buried when she left. The scent of vanilla and jam floated out to meet her, and she heard the man’s stomach grumble.
Still, he turned his nose up at it.
“I’m not touching something unclean,” he said.
“Your loss,” Gabriel said.
Then he, apparently only in an effort to be contrary, reached into the tub, snatched a cookie, and took a bite out of it. Vampire taste buds weren’t geared for anything but blood, so it had to be disgusting. Priscilla hadn’t tasted anything she’d cooked in centuries. Still, he manfully chewed and swallowed and gave the men a smirk, as though he’d enjoyed it.
The scandalized looks on the men’s faces might have been funny in any other circumstance. Not today though. Today they were here to investigate a cult that was responsible for harassment and a possibly murder. It stole the mirth from the situation.
The blond man didn’t return for several minutes, and when he did, he didn’t look pleased.
“Let them through,” he grumbled.
B
eady-Eyes scowled. “He can’t mean to let them into the temple,” he hissed.
“They’re to be let no further than the mill,” the blond man said. “And they’ll touch nothing.”
This last bit was directed at them. They both nodded. So far, so good.
If Priscilla’s heart had still been beating, she was sure it would have adopted a gallop that a race horse would envy. As it was, the only indicator of her sudden nervousness was a hitch her breathing. Gabriel caught it, but fortunately no one else did. Unbidden, he took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. She gave him a small, grateful smile and stepped inside after him.
The entire compound appeared to be out of phase with time. It was a forceful step back into an era that Priscilla didn’t remember fondly. After all, she’d hated the restrictive rules of the Puritans so much, she’d taken the chance of damning her immortal soul by becoming an undead creature of the night. And worse. She’d married a Frenchman.
The houses were almost as crude as the compound walls. They were made of slats of unfinished wood, and the rooftops were made of thatch. She could only assume the floors were made of sod or packed earth, because no one had bothered to pave the compound.
There were twelve homes scattered around the compound that she could easily see. There were probably more hiding in the shadows. She’d be able to spy them if she tried, but didn’t feel like straining herself with daylight coming on. If she tried, let her pupils take in more light to ascertain what she couldn’t see, and was exposed to sudden, unexpected light, she’d lose her vision for a time. No need to blind herself, however temporarily.
“This place is a fire hazard,” Gabriel muttered, glancing around.
Priscilla could see what he meant. Without modern amenities like air conditioning, the Sons would have to light and heat their homes with fire. And with all that straw around ... well, it would only take a spark to send the whole place up in flames.
Their guide stopped in front of what was unmistakably a wood mill. Priscilla’s sire and one-time husband had once worked in one. The scent of sawdust and sweat made her unexpectedly nostalgic.
A familiar man waited in front of the mill. She’d only seen Amos once, but that was enough. He had one of those faces that was hard to forget, even if you wanted to. Time had not been kind to him. He had a grizzled gray beard, and his hair was more salt than pepper. He bore the unmistakable signs of suffering some kind of pox. It appeared that the Sons also thought of vaccines as unclean, because he wasn’t the only one bearing scars. The light of the lantern he clutched threw odd shadows onto his face.
“What does the FBI want with me?” he asked, glaring at Gabriel. He stared past Priscilla as if she didn’t exist. It was annoying, but not particularly surprising. The two heaviest influences on the Sons’ belief system—the Amish and the Puritans—didn’t place high value on the opinions of women.
“Ideally, justice for the Carson case,” Gabriel said. “But for now, just some answers to a few questions.
Priscilla winced. Did he have to bring that up now?
The Carson case had made national headlines. The Carson Coven had been settled in downtown Chicago, living out of a converted warehouse. They’d been well-liked by everyone in their neighborhood, except for the Sons.
They’d carried out a campaign of terror against the Carson Coven, which culminated when the warehouse was burned down, with all members of the coven trapped inside.
The police suspected arson, and the only witness they could find was a homeless man who claimed it had been the Sons. But he’d also claimed that the government was bouncing radio signals into his brain to read his mind, so his testimony had been far from credible. It had become a benchmark case in the need for equal rights. Almost everyone thought they were guilty, though every chapter of the Sons would swear to the grave it hadn’t been one of their people that set the fire.
“We have nothing to say to you,” Amos said frostily.
Gabriel raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging the corners of his lips. “No? I’m fairly sure your holy book says something about guests. What was it? ‘And if you turn away those who knock at your front gate, you forsake your brother and sister? Give them safe quarter and preach to them the mercy of our Lord?’”
Amos Buckley bared his yellowing teeth at Gabriel. “How dare you speak the word?”
Gabriel’s smile faded a little at the edges. “Oh don’t act holier-than-thou, Buckley. I’ve been a practicing Catholic for longer than you’ve been alive. I’d be a poor excuse for one if I couldn’t quote a little scripture.”
That shouldn’t have surprised Priscilla, considering how often England fluctuated in its faith. Still, she didn’t quite understand how Gabriel could have practiced after the change. If they believed, holy ground was very dangerous for vampires. He must have had a very accommodating priest.
“We just need to ask a few questions,” Priscilla interjected.
“Like?”
“How did you skip the review process and become leader of the flock?” Gabriel asked, glancing at the people who’d begun to gather around. He didn’t appear intimidated by the press of bodies, though it was making Priscilla feel claustrophobic to have so many people around her and no way out.
Amos Buckley blinked and some of the righteous fury that he’d been gathering fell away. “What?”
“I’ve done brief stints with a lot of government agencies and their subcontractors. One of the benefits of living such a long life,” Gabriel informed him. “That included a stay with deprogrammers. I know how the structure is supposed to work. There’s supposed to be a vote and a deliberation of seven days ... unless you took the vote before Absalom was dead? Is that why you killed him?”
Amos face grew ruddier with every passing second. “Get out! You barge into our home and question our ways? Who do you think you are?”
“Answer the question.”
“Absalom was weak and Joella was a thief,” Amos hissed. “The flock is better off without them.”
That sounded suspiciously like motive to Priscilla. But the thing that stood out to her was his emphasis on Tilly Hall, formerly Joella. She’d figured out in the interim that the glare she’d caught at the funeral had indeed been meant for Tilly. What exactly did he mean by thief? That made no sense. Did he think she’d killed Absalom, stealing him from the flock? Or was it something she’d done in the past?”
“Tell her to keep off our land,” Amos continued in the same irate tone. “Her and that preacher of hers. They aren’t welcome here.”
Pastor Jameson had been here? When? For how long? And for what purpose?
“Edward Jameson visited you?” Gabriel asked, following her train of thought. “When?”
“A few days ago. She came with that man and told Absalom to leave. The nerve of that girl,” he huffed.
“And after that? Did she see Absalom after that?”
Gabriel must have been remembering Zachary’s words. Tilly hadn’t liked it here. She’d run away, changed her name, and made life impossibly difficult for herself by doing so. She’d been desperate. Why had she gone to confront Absalom in the very place he was most powerful, with only a middle-aged Baptist preacher as an ally? Why not take her fiancé or her soon-to-be mother-in-law?
“Out!” Amos thundered, and he reached for his belt. Gabriel stiffened automatically, reaching for his sidearm, but Priscilla stopped him. She set the Tupperware container on the ground at Amos’ feet.
“We’re going,” she said in her best soothing tone.
She had to tug Gabriel along by the arm to get him to leave. The guard who had escorted them in kept close until they reached the gates. Once she and Gabriel had filed through the doors, they were slammed shut behind them.
“He’s dirty. I can feel it,” Gabriel said, glaring at the closed doors as though he could bore a hole in them with his gaze alone. “He’s got something to do with this.”
“Antagonizing him in his stronghold isn’t a good idea,�
� Priscilla said. “We did learn something valuable. Pastor Jameson and Tilly were both here. Let’s go tell Arthur.”
Gabriel agreed grudgingly and they tromped back to her van. It was a tense, silent ride back to the precinct. She parked in what was quickly becoming her usual spot and exited, Gabriel close behind her.
When they entered the precinct, they were nearly bowled over by Arthur, who was shouting at his men. Every single member of Bellmare PD was here, even though most weren’t scheduled to be.
“Watch it,” he snapped, before he actually got a good look at her. When he did, his face contorted into a mask of fury.
“What the hell took you so long to get here?” he snapped. “I’ve been calling you for the last hour!”
Had he been? Her phone hadn’t rung.
“I’m sorry,” she stammered. “We were out at the Sons’ compound. There isn’t any signal out there. Arthur, you have to listen to me. A few days ago, Pastor Jameson—”
Arthur waved dismissively. “Jameson and his dog are innocent. The blood on his shirt was Cameron Sheppard’s. Apparently Absalom wasn’t the only person he punched. He broke the guy’s nose and he was a gusher. It had nothing to do with Absalom’s death.”
“But—” she began.
“But nothing, Pratt,” he barked. “I need you to be here and on the case, now.”
“What’s going on?” she asked, gesturing helplessly around them. Gabriel had shuffled a few feet away to ask Jack Riggs a question. She wished he’d stayed, so she’d have someone to act as a buffer against Arthur’s anger. “I’ve never seen you all so stirred up like this. What’s the matter?”
“I’ll tell you what the matter is,” Arthur said, jabbing a finger into her shoulder. “Tilly Hall has been missing since this morning, and no one has seen hide or hair of her. And if that weren’t bad enough, your vampire son, ward, or whatever is in cell number two.”
“Dean?” Priscilla asked, completely derailed by this news. “Why? What’s he done?”
“Becca Peckman found blood in your fridge, and a Tupperware container with Dean’s fingerprints on it. It was full of the victim’s blood.”
Holy Crepes Page 10