by Nancy Gideon
Brigit sat rocking slowly on the glider, letting her thoughts drift up from their previous darkness to skim the surface, like cream. Thinking of music and laughter and no worries. She waited there until Giles and Silas came back out with Boyd, the trio paying her no attention as they gathered at Boyd’s trunk.
“Hi, Davis,” her brother said pleasantly to the man gagged and bound in silver. “Remember me?” He looked to Giles, his features all tense business. “Got someplace we can put him to keep him out of trouble?”
Giles pointed behind the house. “Got an old underground cold cellar in back that’ll hold him.”
Silas hauled the worse-for-wear Terriot up and over his shoulder and started for the back while Giles turned to his cousin. “Make yourself at home, T-Boy. We’ll be back in a few.”
Boyd smiled. “Thanks, Rob-E, but I didn’t come all the way here to spend my evenin’ in some stuffy parlor with women who have their clothes on. I’ll stop back when I run out of money.”
“Don’t do anything I’ll have to bail you out for.”
“I’ll be a model guest in your fine city.”
By the time Giles got back from securing their prisoner, Boyd was gone.
Brigit with him.
Few cities could match New Orleans for its pre-Mardi Gras energy level. The narrow streets were packed with tourists wandering from bar to club. Blues, jazz, and laughter poured from every open doorway, through which raucous floor shows offered eyefuls to the unwary.
Boyd kept Brigit hitched in close to his side so they wouldn’t be separated as they elbowed their way along Bourbon Street under the glare of flashing neon proclaiming: Girls! Girls! Girls! Live Shows! All Nude! Amateur Nite! Brigit rolled her eyes when her escort asked if she was interested in making some easy extra cash. His daring eyes said it was a compliment.
She enjoyed Boyd’s company. He reminded her of Daniel, with his dark, pretty good looks, careless grin, and strutty posture telegraphing that nothing could touch him. Though he was hands-on, those hands were carefully placed except for the occasional slip to the curve of her rump, a trespass he always followed with seeming surprise and a quick “ ’Scuse me.”
The noise and sheer dynamics of the party atmosphere lifted her spirits. Even Boyd’s “accidental” squeezing of her ass was quickly forgiven. He was a jovial companion, with his sister’s love of rambling conversation, and he kept her smiling as they stopped into a daiquiri bar so he could suck down colorful Jell-O shooters from plastic syringes.
When they returned to the sidewalk, Brigit found her neck draped in shiny beads by drunken passersby. She was ready to start letting her hair down if they could find room on a dance floor.
And then she felt the cool shiver of another Shifter presence.
It could have been one of Max Savoie’s clan, or a visitor, just like her and Boyd, out for a good time. She wanted to believe that was the case. But the tingle of apprehension kept getting stronger. How could the Terriots have found out so quickly that their plans had been unsuccessful?
A huge group of winter break–aged young people on a bacchanalian field trip came pouring down the street toward them in a riotous wave. And just like that, she lost sight of Boyd as he was swept around the corner of the wide intersection. She tried to follow, but there was no way to push through the wall of humanity that carried her along into the next block. It was like swimming against a hundred-proof current. Gradually, with liberal use of her elbows, she worked her way to the far sidewalk and slipped into the first alleyway she came across, thinking to cut down to the next street, getting there at the same time as Boyd so she could rejoin him.
During daylight hours, the alley would have been filled with eclectic art and local crafts hung on the blackwashed brick in tempting displays. But after hours, with the walls bare and cobbles empty of other foot traffic just beyond the reach of the gaslights lining the main street, the mood was less inviting.
Staying out of the shadows that crept up the structures on either side of her, Brigit continued with a brisk, confident stride, like a woman of purpose instead of a lost sheep cut from the flock and easy prey for hungry predators. She kept moving, listening, senses straining for sounds of pursuit. Nothing. Until they were there, two silent figures flanking her.
Brigit didn’t waste time with small talk. She threw an elbow into the midsection of one and a fist into the throat of the other and began to run. Her shoes weren’t made for a fast getaway, the low heel catching on an uneven cobblestone, pitching her down on knees and palms, skinning both. Ignoring the pain, she scrambled forward in a sprinter’s dash for the light at the end of the alley. If she could just reach Boyd and the safety of the crowd.
A strong arm cinched about her waist, yanking her off her feet. She writhed, all teeth and nails, but one hard, rib-bruising squeeze momentarily crushed the fight from her. She went limp, gasping. Real fear had her in a tighter grip as the second assailant approached. His harsh features transformed into an even more frightful visage of gleaming red eyes and wickedly sharp teeth.
They were going to kill her right here, right now.
She threw her head back, rewarded by a muffled cry and the sound of cartilage breaking. The second her feet touched the ground and planted firmly, she angled her body and used the curl of his arm around her as the means to pitch him over her shoulder and into the oncoming threat. Breathing hard, Brigit refused to recognize the impossibility of escape. Not yet.
She turned abruptly, prepared to run back toward the street, but her way was blocked, forcing her to draw up in surprise.
“Hello, Brigit. We missed you at Danny’s funeral.”
seventeen
If Isaac Thorne had come himself to see her dead, Brigit was out of options.
The man had always terrified her, with his immobile features and colorless eyes that locked on like a targeting site. Mercy wasn’t something Thorne subscribed to, so she didn’t waste her last minutes appealing to it. But she wouldn’t cower without making her case, either.
“I did everything I could to talk him out of an attack on Savoie. I told him it was foolish and would get him killed.”
A chilly smile. “Danny wasn’t much for taking advice.”
“His death wasn’t my fault.”
“And yet here he was. Are you trying to tell me you weren’t the reason for him slipping away from his guards to come to New Orleans?”
“No.” Because she was sure he already knew that. “Daniel wanted to be with me, and I needed to be here on family business.”
“Family business,” he sneered. “Some sneaking treachery, no doubt.”
Her eyes narrowed fiercely. “What would you know about family?” She was tired of the banter and fast losing her battle to keep the tremors of fear at bay. Goading him in his only vulnerable spot would hurry her end before she weakened. And then he’d have no reason to remain here, endangering her loved ones. “The only family you ever had was the one that took you in for their pet.”
His expression never altered, but she saw her death in the glitter of his eyes and braced for it with a haughty tip of her chin.
He took a step toward her.
Suddenly, they were surrounded by a half-dozen frolicking humans stumbling down the alley, carrying plastic cups filled with Hurricanes. One of them bumped into Brigit, leaning a little too cheerfully against her.
“Hey, beautiful. We’re trying to get to Decatur. Do you know the way?”
Without breaking eye contact with Thorne, she began moving away from him. “Sure. It’s right down there. I’ll show you. Where y’all from?”
“Minnesota.”
“Ooh. I bet it’s cold up there this time of year.” As cold as the gleam in Thorne’s stare. She looped her arm through that of the wobbling young man’s, noting his letterman’s jacket. “Are you an athlete? I just love men in sports.”
The kid beamed at her. “Tight end.”
“I just bet you are.”
She let him pull her along with his
jovial companions, leaving Thorne and his attack dogs unable to act.
“Rueben wants a reckoning,” he called after her. “There’s no place you can hide.”
Shivering at the promise in that claim, Brigit clutched her young escort close and hurried away.
“Where the hell did you get to?”
She limped up to Boyd, waving off her absence and bedraggled appearance with an exasperated “I got pushed down in the crowd surge.” She smiled at her new companions. “I’ll have to take a rain check on that drink. Just keep going straight along the Square until it T’s. You’ll hear the noise.”
She stretched up to press a wet kiss on the collegiate’s lips, leaving him too stunned to offer objections. Then she looped her arm through Boyd’s, urging him away. He was staring at her, eyes filled with questions that would get him killed.
“I’ve got to get off my feet for a minute.” And off the street, where she might be found again. The last thing she wanted was to pull Boyd into her troubles. “I know just the place where we can let our hair down.”
Brigit had heard her brother talk about Cheveux du Chien, the Shifter club owned by his friend Jacques LaRoche. If there were a safe place for her in New Orleans at the moment, it was within the embrace of her own kind.
The renovated warehouse was filled with her brethren enjoying loud music and packlike camaraderie. She and Boyd drew some curious looks as they found an empty table, but no one seemed overly interested.
LaRoche was a huge mountain of a figure sharing the behind-the-bar space with an odd choice for a bartender: a little girl Brigit guessed to be about six or seven. When he spotted them, he made a beeline for their table, toting the child on his hip.
“You’re MacCreedy’s sister, aren’t you? Thought I recognized you from the wedding.” He put out a massive hand to Boyd as Brigit made the introductions.
“And who’s this?” she asked of the inquisitive girl studying her so intently.
“The brains of the outfit, my daughter, Pearl. She’s babysitting me while her mama puts in some late hours. She’s good with the cash drawer but tends to be stingy with the liquor.” He winked at the child, and Brigit felt a strange clutch at her heart. “Is Mac joining you?”
“He’s putting in late hours, too” was her evasive answer.
“What can I get you? It’s on the house.”
“Just an ice water for me and a place to wash up. I took a bit of a tumble.”
He assessed her for a moment, then, instead of pointing her to the public restroom, directed her up the stairs to his office, where she’d find first-aid items under the sink in his private bathroom. She was very aware of his gaze following her as she hobbled away.
The sting of cleaning the scrapes to her knees and palms distracted her from other painful realities, but only for a moment.
If Rueben Guedry had sent his fierce enforcer down from Memphis to find her, she could be certain Isaac had no plan to return alone.
Isaac Thorne had been Daniel’s childhood friend. Of unknown parentage, he’d been reluctantly accepted by the family for their young heir’s sake when his talent for the family business became apparent. Thorne was a coldly clever killer, proving himself to Crisis Management, Inc., at the age of sixteen, while his gregarious friend was busy squiring around would-be music starlets in his top-end sports cars. Thorne had moved his way up to personal bodyguard for Rueben Guedry, Daniel’s cousin, the CEO of Crisis and now head of the clan.
Thorne had done his best to discourage Daniel from his interest in her. Daniel should have listened.
There was nowhere she could run that he couldn’t find her. No one who could protect her without the forfeiture of his or her life. The Terriots were dangerous school-yard bullies with bestial mentalities, thugs who used cunning and brute force to get their way. The Guedrys operated like a corporation, utilizing a network of skilled contactors so they could keep their hands clean. Hands that were no less deadly. Isaac was the direct approach, but if that failed, the clan would employ a systematic flanking assault on everything she held dear until she was the last one standing. After savoring the agony of her defeat, Rueben would crush her.
She couldn’t run. She couldn’t hide. The only thing left was surrender on terms of her choice, while she had the chance to name them. Rueben was a heartless man who couldn’t have given a damn about his reckless cousin’s demise, but he was also a businessman who understood the importance of appearances. He would have to make a show of exacting retribution. A reckoning. Brigit shivered.
But like the Terriots, the head of the Geudry clan could be reasoned with if she could find the proper tool for leverage. She would have to act fast. Being dragged before Rueben as Isaac’s prisoner would cost her any bargaining advantage she might find. That she would have to avoid if she were to survive.
The important thing was to lead them away as quickly as possible before they looked for ways to flush her out in the open. She had only a few vulnerable points. Kendra was probably safe in the center of the Terriots’ compound. Cale would throw every one of his pack at them if they thought to reach her. Her other weakness was annoyingly out in the open here in New Orleans, and with him, his bride and baby-to-be.
A weakness she found waiting for her at the table when she returned.
Brigit shot the bar owner a sour look, then addressed her brother coolly. “That didn’t take long.”
“I was in the neighborhood,” Silas drawled. “Figured you’d want a ride back.”
“You figured wrong.” Smarting over his harsh words at the house, she was in no mood to be agreeable. “Boyd and I were just starting our evening together.”
Boyd cleared his throat. “Slight change of plans, darlin’.” He slanted a sly smile at their waitress. “I believe I’m about to be otherwise occupied for the night. If that’s all right with you?”
Great. Go to the john, and the boys write you out of the picture.
“Fine,” she snapped. “Who am I to get in the way of someone’s good time?”
Boyd caught her hand and pressed a kiss to it. “It might be true love. You never know.”
She laughed. It was impossible to stay annoyed with him. Her brother, on the other hand, wasn’t so charming. She glared at him. “We might as well go now, Mr. Buzzkill.”
“Actually, your ride’s out front. I’m joining Nica at the house as soon as I’m finished talking with Jacques.”
“Well, I’d better be on my way, then, since everyone seems to have important plans to get to.”
Silas stood, placing his palm at the small of her back. His features tightened when she flinched away. “I’ll walk you out.”
“I can find my own way, thank you.”
“I’m sure you can.” But he was steering her toward the door before she could protest again. He noticed her limp. “What happened? Are you all right?”
“Fine. I went hand-to-hand with a couple of would-be assassins in an alley but managed to beat the crap out of them.” At Silas’s startled glance, she amended, “I fell down.”
He paused at the door to touch a kiss to her brow. When she didn’t respond, he said softly, “I’m sorry for what I said.”
“No need to apologize. The truth hurts, but I’ll get over it.”
He frowned at her cavalier attitude. “Bree—”
“Seriously, it’s forgotten already. Go back to your business. All I’m interested in is a warm tub and a good night’s sleep.”
He smiled, believing her because he needed to. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Impulsively, she stretched up to wrap her arms around his neck, hugging tight. Hoping he wouldn’t notice how unsteady her voice was, she whispered, “Be careful out there, Silas. You’ve got a family to go home to.”
Before he could react to her comment, she pushed away and was out the door.
Where the situation went from bad to just plain awful when she recognized the big black Town Car and its driver.
Giles straightene
d from where he’d been leaning against the side of the vehicle, moving with a casual ease to balance out the race of his pulse when he saw her.
He’d yet to come to terms with the fact that he’d gone a bit mad when he discovered she’d left the estate with Boyd. His first instinct had been to follow and drag her back by force if necessary. It had taken all his self-control to keep himself from plunging over that edge of inappropriate action.
She wasn’t his.
He’d tossed away whatever shot he might have had back there on his family’s dock. When he’d unforgivably crushed her like a no-deposit can.
She had her brother to look after her now. He was officially off that watch. She could do whatever she pleased: go into the city, dance topless, get horizontal with his cousin in some seedy dive, stay out all night, and he couldn’t say word one about it. Nada.
But he couldn’t think of anything except that good time he wasn’t having with her.
Boyd would watch out for her and keep her safe from any mischief. Any mischief other than that of his own making.
Dammit, he knew how Boyd was with women!
So he’d paced and smoked until he pictured the disgusted wrinkle of her delicate nose. Storming inside, he’d thrown out every last one of his cigarettes and showered under water as icy as that backyard spray until his heart and mind stopped chasing each other in a crazy spin.
He’d leaned against the wet tiles and closed his eyes.
She did not now, nor would she ever, belong to him. Time to get the fuck over it.
Dressed in clean jeans and a bulky knit sweater, he was heading to the garage to rip something down to bare metal when Silas called to him from the porch.
“Got time to follow me and Nica into the city and bring my sister back? She’s not out of danger until I set up a parlay with the Terriots.”
“Sure. Why not?” He almost choked on that nonchalant answer and could barely move his feet fast enough to get to the car.
All the way there, keeping a close tail on Nica’s little sports car, Giles smiled to himself, thinking of the blowup to come when Silas showed up to rain on his independent-minded sister’s parade. The fierce blaze of her eyes, the luscious flush to her cheeks, the magnificent indignation . . . so much better than the scary empty shadow who’d haunted him through dinner.