Shivers Box Set: Darkening Around MeLegacy of DarknessThe Devil's EyeBlack Rose (Shivers (Harlequin E))

by Barbara J. Hancock

  Brynn nodded. “She’s been cleared of trying to kill me and murdering Matthew Langley. Maybe there’s proof out there she had nothing to do with the bodies in The Devil’s Eye if someone were just willing to look for it.”

  He grinned and her heart fluttered in her chest. “Is that someone you? Is that why you’ve decided to stay?”

  “Maybe.” She bit her lip struggling to hold back a grin of her own. With a deep breath, she hardened her resolve. After all, there was no point giving in to the warm flutters the man created. He would be leaving soon. He had no reason to stay. “How did you know I was staying?”

  “Hugh was railing about it to Mrs. Voyle when I came back from talking to Miller. I should thank you, really. He was so furious at you, he was too distracted to continue being angry at me for lying to him these past months.”

  “Glad I could help. He really can’t stand me. What about you, though?”

  “I don’t think he likes me very much either.”

  She laughed in spite of herself. A part of her wished Reece would close the distance between them, pull her in so she could feel his body against hers, and a part of her wished he’d move away, give her space to think. “I mean what will you do now? Langley’s killer has been caught, Harding has what he needs to go after Eleri and your cover’s blown. You’re finally free to leave.”

  He nodded slowly. “I am, but I’m staying. There’s nowhere else I want to be, after all.”

  “You want to be here?” Brynn asked, refusing to give in to that small flicker of hope burning in her chest.

  His gaze held hers. “I want to be wherever you are.” He let out a long breath. “I’ll never be that guy who’ll give you a nice, normal life. But I’m too bloody selfish to walk away like I should.”

  She shot him a faint smile. “Someone once told me normal is overrated. Besides, I’ve been accused of being so normal I’m boring.”

  He snorted softly, gripped her hand and pulled her closer. “There’s nothing boring about you.” His mouth brushed hers. “I love you.”

  His words rolled through her like a warm tide.

  “I love you, too.”

  He kissed her again, deeper this time, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her against him. All the tension and doubt drained from her. This was where she was meant to be. Whatever future they faced, they would have each other.

  Behind her, the surf rushed against the shore and Brynn barely noticed.

  Be sure to look for Dawn Brown’s next Shivers book, THE WITCH OF STONECLIFF, later in 2014!

  About the Author

  Dawn Brown’s first sojourn into storytelling began when she was nine. She would gather neighborhood kids into her garage and regale them with ghost stories, believing even then that atmosphere played an important role in a good story.

  Dawn has a diploma in journalism, but found herself pursuing a career in computer leasing. After the birth of her son, she gave up the corporate world to be a mom and write full time, trading in her dreary cubicle for a dreary room in the attic.

  Now Dawn spends her days creating dark, romantic mysteries with edgy heroes, clever heroines and villains she hopes will keep her readers sleeping with the light on.

  Dawn lives in Ontario, Canada, with her husband and son.

  To learn more about Dawn and her books, visit her website at www.dawnbrown.ca.

  Don’t miss Dawn Brown’s next book, The Witch of Stonecliff, coming soon!

  Black Rose

  Jenna Ryan

  Dedication

  For Denise, who made this book, and in fact this entire series, possible. Thanks for everything!

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  CHAPTER ONE

  Helene knew she’d had too much to drink. That wasn’t wise in a world so far removed from her own.

  The Louisiana bayou was her home. Nothing of New Orleans lived there. The city was a viper, a red-lipped lady of the night. She crooked a sly finger at unsuspecting souls, then stood back and laughed as those who dwelled in her dark dens and shadowy cellars crawled out to commit their crimes.

  It was overdone, Helene decided. The music, the noise, the lights. The masks, so happily worn by so many of the crazed inhabitants. She needed air and a moment to calm her spinning head.

  She needed help.

  Drinking herself into a catatonic state wouldn’t bring her sister back, and it wouldn’t do her already damaged liver any good either. Despite the bourbon that clouded her mind and the layers of fog that shrouded the entire French Quarter, she wove an unsteady path through the back rooms of the seamy club that had lured her through its doors three long hours ago.

  A small exit opened to a narrow alley. The brick walls and wrought iron blurred from the liquor she’d consumed. The air, cool and damp, slid like soothing fingers over the careworn lines of her face.

  A stone archway to her right came and went at the whim of the thickening fog. Tiny balconies with stingy lights and bare, black railings peered down at her. Maybe empty, maybe not. The fog refused to keep still and let her see.

  She tried not to stumble as she attempted to follow the music and traffic noise to the street. There were answers to be had here about her sister Madeleine’s murder. Somewhere in this wicked city, there was one person who would listen to her, who would hear her. One person who’d believe.

  A rift in the pavement almost sent her to the ground. Although something in the alley began to drag and scrape behind her, a faint glow of light ahead relieved her mind. So did a break in the fog that widened to reveal a single cheerful balcony. There, two levels up, blood-red petunias spilled from a shiny planter box. She smiled, delighted by the fluted heads that hung over the sides, as if waiting to greet passersby.

  Different music reached her now, a blend of smoky jazz and cabaret, heavy on the saxophone. Madeleine had loved saxophones, she recalled. And petunias.

  A crunch of pebbles close behind her stopped the memory cold. Alarm feathered over her skin. She clutched her sweater tight and forced herself to turn. To look. To see with her eyes what her mind couldn’t make out.

  “I have no abilities,” she said to the shadows that shifted and stirred. “I’m not gifted with the sight as my sister was. I am unarmed.”

  “So you say, old woman.”

  The man’s voice was a distortion. It came from nowhere and everywhere. It chilled her blood and caused her flesh to prickle.

  The knuckles holding her sweater whitened. “My name is Helene,” she said clearly. “I mean no harm to anyone.”

  His chuckle seemed to crawl right inside her. “That’s not the story I got, Helene.”

  She heard a sharp click, felt her heart thump and her organs turn to jelly. More pebbles crunched underfoot.

  “Not that I care, you understand.” He chuckled again. “I make it a point not to care.”

  She saw his right hand and gasped. Clawed fingers sank into her hair and gave a ruthless yank. A knife blade gleamed. So, for a moment, did his eyes.

  The fog ripped apart—a curtain snatched to one side. She spied the petunias again, their deep red color a perfect match for the blood that spilled from her throat onto her desperate fingers.

  Those pretty hanging heads watched her slide to the ground. They were the last things her terrified eyes took in.

  Except…

  Just one glass of wine, Mia thought. Merlot, partly because she was in the mood for plums, but mostly because the undisputed expert at her club had given her a bottle of 1965 from his personal cellar.

 
; The gift told her plainly he wanted a raise. Anticipating him, she’d authorized a 15 percent salary hike that very afternoon. A wine connoisseur who did double duty as her assistant and excelled in both areas was simply too valuable to lose.

  She took the carpeted back stairs to the second floor of her sexy French Quarter lounge. The Rose Noire had what she called “layers.” Mia had backlit over twenty subtle alcoves and niches, created atmosphere with lush plants, to-die-for seating and tossed in enough scented shadows to make her Creole aunts weep.

  Mellow jazz trailed her up the staircase. Mia wore black because it suited her, but disliking severity, dressed it up with scarlet nail polish, red lip gloss and a pair of ruby-red earrings that peeked out from the long, straight sweep of her dark hair. Razor-cut bangs, also long, framed eyes the color of a Caribbean mist and highlighted the slashing cheekbones she’d inherited from her bayou-born grandmother.

  The Rose Noire Lounge, together with the Midnight Moon Tearoom next door, had been her grandmother’s vision. The dream, not quite realized in her lifetime, had been dismissed by her daughter and only child. Mia’s mother had married young to escape the swamp, produced a child of her own to seal the deal, put seven years of half hearted effort into a loveless marriage, and then traded her husband and daughter in for a lesbian affair that had drawn her cross-country from New Orleans to San Francisco.

  Mia had no idea where she was now and, frankly, no longer cared. Her father and grandmother had raised her. Although they’d died several years ago, she still had five aunts, her French Quarter club, her tearoom and, currently, a glass of vintage Merlot in her hand. Life could be a great deal worse.

  She spotted the fog the moment she entered her office and, pleased, left the overheads off. A mauve bulb burned soft and low on a balcony that invited her to sip her wine in a cocoon of relative silence.

  Opening the double French doors, she stood for a moment absorbing the night. It was like stepping into a film noir, a black-and-white world with a punch of red, courtesy of the petunias she’d coaxed from seedlings into a riot of beautiful summer blossoms.

  Pleased with a green thumb she hadn’t realized she possessed, Mia took a savoring drink. Because the air smelled delicious, she slipped off her stilettos and gave her hair a liberating toss. Then she caught a muffled thud and lowered her gaze to the alley.

  Time froze. The scene below condensed. A single black-and-white frame separated itself from the rest of the film. Nothing and no one moved. Until she blinked. Then finally, slowly, the clock began to tick once again.

  She saw blood, a fountain of it, pouring from an old woman’s throat. She spied the terror stamped on the woman’s face. She glimpsed a hand, a man’s. One of his fingers was missing. So, her shocked mind realized, was most of his face.

  No, not missing. Covered. Invisible in the darkness of the alley. He had a black cap pulled low over his forehead and a black scarf tied across his nose and mouth.

  But his eyes… Now those were clearly visible. Deep gold and exquisitely shaped, they sharpened to a diamond gleam as they followed a line from the old woman’s dying gaze straight to hers.

  * * *

  Her visitor knocked once. As a token, Mia imagined. She hadn’t had a moment of actual privacy all day.

  “Ms. LeMay?” A man’s head appeared around the edge of the door.

  Seated in her plush office chair, legs crossed and seemingly at ease, she met his chocolate-brown eyes. “If you’re Crucible, come in.”

  He stepped inside, surprising her with his size. At six-five plus, he was large boned, broad shouldered and fit. African American, for the most part, and dressed head to toe in black. Not a flicker of concern registered for the Magnum she held in her lap.

  She indicated a deep chair angled across from her. “Have a seat.”

  A smile touched his lips. “You’re keeping the desk between us, I see. In the event I’m not who or what I claim to be?”

  “I know what you are. Who sent you is more of a mystery.”

  His gaze didn’t falter as he set what appeared to be a business card on her desk. He turned it so she could see the sketched outline of a man’s profile.

  “We believe this is the calling card of the person responsible for the murder of Helene Dubose, the woman you saw die last night. We have no name. We have no information at all, other than the fact that a card like this has been left at the scene of several murders.”

  “How many murders exactly?”

  “Including the one you witnessed, six.”

  “This was a serial killing then.”

  “I would say yes to that and qualify it by adding that the killings have spanned two years and three states. The victims are generally unconnected. The one link we’ve recently established does connect two of the victims. They’re sisters. But even with that knowledge, we’re baffled. On the plus side, we located a witness after the fourth death, which occurred right here in New Orleans.”

  Mia’s eyes remained steady, though her gun hand threatened to tremble. “Captain Martin told me about your witness. He was shot in the back of the head while climbing into the police car that would have taken him to the parish precinct. Guess that makes me luckier than him. Or maybe just less of a risk.”

  The man called Crucible sat back to study her. “Do you really believe the murderer will assume you didn’t see his face, Ms. LeMay?”

  “I didn’t see his face. He knows it, and so do you.”

  “And yet you’re holding a gun.”

  “I grew up in the bayou,” she said simply. “I’m not naive. Look, Crucible—Is that what I’m supposed to call you? By a code name?”

  “I’m a government agent.”

  Mia thought his smile had a definite gator-like quality.

  “I’m one of several agents,” he explained. “Collectively, you could call us an integrated group of uneasy allies.”

  “And as ‘uneasy allies,’ you expect me to believe that whatever plan your integrated group has devised will keep me alive?”

  “Uneasy isn’t a synonym for inept, Ms. LeMay.”

  “Obviously you haven’t met my cousin Franklin.” At Crucible’s mildly curious expression, she shrugged. “He’s a chiropractor. He creates more spinal problems than he cures. He had a nervous breakdown three months ago.” She swept a hand toward the door. “Judging from the five police officers downstairs, the seven on the street and the three in the stairwell, are we talking about a safe house?”

  “That would be standard procedure. Unfortunately, in situations like these, safe houses have a less than acceptable rate of success. Somewhere in the neighborhood of sixty percent.”

  Mia tipped her lips into a cool smile. “Not the best odds, but possibly better than my chances of climbing into and out of a police car alive.”

  “Yet you did both quite successfully last night. Twice in fact. Once going to the station, and again on the ride home.” He sat forward in his chair. “We have a somewhat different plan in mind for you, Mia. May I call you Mia?”

  “It’s my name.” Long lashes veiled her eyes. “Does this plan involve me leaving New Orleans?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  Apparently he wanted to dance. Obliging him, she relaxed her smile. “Oh, I think you could, Crucible, if you put your mind to it. Don’t leave all the dirty work to whatever watchdog or dogs you’ve chosen to stick me with.”

  “One dog,” he said. “We call him Rogue because that’s precisely what he is. An agent without an agency, so to speak.”

  “Like a rogue shark?”

  “More like a lone wolf. We trust in his ability to keep you alive and safe.”

  “From a serial killer whose face I didn’t see.”

  Crucible stared for a moment, before sitting back once again. “Leave nothing and no one behind. Do you know that expression?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Though she had to admit it did make a certain macabre kind of sense. “I’ll admit, I saw his eyes, but I’m ass
uming the missing finger on his left hand, the hand that held the knife, makes a somewhat stronger statement.”

  “Not many left-handed murderers would be minus their left ring finger and have gold eyes, to boot. You know it, and he will, too. You’re the first person who’s been able to provide us with any kind of description. The killer won’t appreciate that. Now, do you want the rest of this straight?”

  Did she need the rest of this at all? “I prefer straight to sugar coated,” she replied.

  Crucible’s dark eyes bored into hers. “We’re not sure that what we’re dealing with here is a single killer. We do however believe that three of the six murders were committed by the man you saw last night.”

  “And the other three?”

  “Weren’t carried out quite as efficiently.”

  Zydeco music, a lively accordion-washboard mix, reached her from the club across the alley. Mia’s heart rate rose to the beat while images of bloodstained corpses formed in her head.

  “Are you saying the man I saw was hired? That he’s a hit man?”

  “I’m saying there’s a strong possibility we’re dealing with more than one killer.”

  “More than one killer, but both or all leaving the same calling card behind.”

  “Some people prefer shadow to light, Mia. They also like to pretend their hands are clean. For the moment, we know what we know. We have three efficient and three much cruder murders. We also have six cards with the same silhouette on them, possibly indicating one controlling entity. A shadow, if you will. If such a shadow does indeed exist, he or she is part of a larger picture, one I hope to damage via the removal of the man you saw from your balcony.”

  The zydeco tempo picked up. Mia shut it out and calmed her suddenly churning pulses. “You said straight, Crucible.”

  “I did, yes.” He backed off, giving her room to regroup and breathe. But only for a moment. “Chances are you’ll be the murderer’s next target, Mia. You think that Magnum in your lap will protect you, but it won’t. You think standard police protection will work, but while it should, it won’t. Standard’s too—”