by Rita Herron
A stiff fall wind made Annabelle’s skirt swirl around her ankles as she climbed out and hoisted her bag, complete with notepad, recorder, and laptop, over one shoulder. More vultures soared above, and she headed toward the building at a brisk pace, Quinton following close behind. Begrudgingly, she found it comforting to know that he was close to her, watching her back.
Though she still hadn’t figured out the reason. He was a hired killer. Had practically admitted it to her face.
Yet he hadn’t killed her and had saved her life.
Because he wanted to get laid?
No, he had a code—he’d told her that, and she believed him.
Besides, he could have any woman he wanted. All he had to do was use his potent masculine charm.
He opened the door for her, and after they cleared security, a receptionist behind a screened glass greeted them.
Quinton flashed his ID and introduced them. “We’d like to speak to one of the detectives in charge.”
The heavyset woman scowled but drawled, “All right,” then punched a button and five minutes later, a tall, brown-haired man with a warm tan appeared and ushered them to a small interrogation room. “I’m Detective DeLang,” he said. “Miss Armstrong. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve seen you on TV.” He scowled as he turned to Quinton. “And you’re the Homeland Security Agent who called?”
“Yes. Quinton Valtrez.”
The detective stiffened and gestured for them to sit down. “What’s going on?”
Quinton cleared his throat. “We have reason to believe that your city is the next target of the suicide bomber.”
New Orleans, the city of the dead—and more death was on its way.
The devil had spoken to him and told him his plan.
The vultures had already converged, the hint of panic and smell of blood and mangled flesh hanging heavy in the moss-covered trees and backwaters of the marshy bayou.
Reverend Narius had arrived in the devil’s city to gather more worshippers and lost souls.
So many lost here, just as in Charleston.
New Orleans posed a challenge. When the deadly storms had struck, he’d swooped in and gained numerous souls for his cause. The vile humans with crime on their evil minds, the once-chaste women and men now wanton with their sinful lusts and greedy acts. They had prayed and he had come to their rescue.
But there were so many more who needed him.
And there would be mass devastation again.
Such trying times. Such humbled, pathetic weak minds.
He could already smell the murky odor of sin and debauchery just as he had after the hurricane when bodies had floated through the streets in the vile floodwaters.
Oh, he understood the sinner’s mind because he had sinned as well.
But thankfully, no one knew his secrets.
The detective called his men together, and Quinton explained that they’d come to help.
“We need to pinpoint possible target areas,” Quinton said.
The detective nodded, then pulled up information regarding all the functions scheduled that day and evening on his laptop.
A sense of helplessness nagged at Annabelle. How could they prevent more deaths if they had no idea who was behind them? Especially if Homeland Security and the Feds were stumped?
“The Swamp Festival is this weekend,” Detective DeLang said. “The bulk of the celebration is at the Audubon Zoo. There was a five-k run this morning to raise money for the zoo, along with a parade and an arts festival. And tonight the zoo and several bars in town are featuring blues and zydeco music.”
“Sounds like there will be a lot of people on the streets,” Annabelle said worriedly.
“It’s surprising that more people aren’t staying home because of the Savannah and Charleston crimes.” He shook his head. “Holy mother of God, haven’t the people of New Orleans suffered enough?”
“I know, it’s true,” Annabelle said. “That’s why we’re here.”
He turned to Quinton. “Do you have any concrete information to help us nail down where this bomber might attack?”
“I’m afraid not,” Quinton said. “Now, what other major events are in town?”
“Tonight? No ball games, thank God. But Reverend Narius draws a big crowd and will be at the festival, and tonight he’s speaking in town. There’s also a big fund-raiser planned for the local charities. And a jazz festival at Woldenberg Park.”
Quinton nodded. “Then we focus on those events. Beef up security all over town, and install cameras everywhere possible.”
Quinton and the detective outlined a plan, and while the detective briefed his men, Quinton coordinated with the governor, Homeland Security, and the FBI.
But worry knotted his neck as the plan was put into motion.
What if he was wrong?
What if a different city was the target?
Quinton clenched his jaw. He couldn’t second-guess himself. The vultures were a sign.
Tonight there would be another bombing—and more deaths if they didn’t figure out the target before midnight.
“Do you think we’re on the right track?” Annabelle asked.
Quinton gritted his teeth. “I hope so. We have to beat him this time.”
He scanned the area as they rushed to the car. Was the killer watching them?
Of course he was. He was playing a cat-and-mouse game, laughing at them as they moved from city to city chasing him.
“You think he’s here, don’t you?” Annabelle asked. “Do you feel it, Quinton? Is that part of your power?”
He ignored her question. “I’m not taking any chances, not until this demon is caught.” His jaw twitched as if he’d just realized his admission. “I mean, the person behind the bombs. After all, only a monster would destroy so many lives.”
“You do think it’s a demon?” she said.
“We’ve been over this before.” He cut her a sharp look. “But you can’t print that.”
Annabelle sighed wearily. “If I did, no one would believe me. I’m still having trouble believing in the possibility myself.”
He gave her a cold, dark look, pinning her to the seat. “You can’t see the wind, but you feel it.”
She reluctantly nodded. He was right. “You could give me proof.”
He snorted. “Try naming me as a source, and I’ll tell everyone you’re crazy.”
“I have a picture of you moving that beam.”
“I can always say you rigged the photo.”
She glared at him, then crossed her arms, resigned. They’d finish this, then she’d decide what to do with whatever she learned.
“The VA hospital was demolished in Katrina, wasn’t it?” Annabelle asked.
He steered the car onto a side street. “Yes. There’s plans for a new one, but right now there’s no facility.”
“So there’s no way to find out if a local veteran might be involved.” She ran a hand through her hair. “Let’s stop by the largest homeless shelters, question the social workers, and see if Reverend Narius has visited. Then let’s talk to the good preacher. Maybe you can feel out the crowd at the Swamp Festival. See if you sense a demon there.”
He didn’t comment, confirming her thoughts.
And intensifying her fears. The authorities would eventually find the mastermind behind these bombings—if he was human.
But if a demon was involved, how would they identify him?
Only another demon could.
One more reason she needed to fear Quinton and keep her distance.
The screams of the dead and dying reverberated through the cavernous walls. Music to the Death Angel’s ears.
They belonged to him now.
His to do with as he pleased. Their pitiful lives as mortals were extinguished as they turned themselves over to him. Their souls would be in limbo until they completed his mission.
One touch, and he had easily put their feeble minds to bed for eternity. Then their bodies had fried from
the inside out.
He had offered them redemption and a chance to walk the earth one more time in exchange for immortality.
Tonight at midnight he would watch another kill in the name of his glory. And this time the Armstrong woman would lie in the rubble.
More bones to clean. More flesh to feed on.
The screech of his fellow vultures echoed to him, the anticipation of the feast to come stirring the air with the scents of death and blood—and soon, the end of humanity, as chaos and evil reigned.
Chapter Nineteen
The knowledge of the daunting task they faced today gnawed at Quinton as he drove to the Loving Arms shelter. He’d almost stopped the bomber in Charleston but failed.
He hated failure.
He parked in front of the concrete facility, a former office building that had been flooded during Katrina. Thanks to donations and government funding, the much-needed shelter now occupied the space.
As they climbed out, Quinton scanned the perimeter for a possible suspect. The area was on the outskirts of town, not in the best section of New Orleans, with other dilapidated and deserted buildings nearby.
A half dozen patrons loitered outside, huddling together to battle the heavy fall winds that threatened rain and brought the stench of the bayou and garbage swirling around them. Two women wearing worn housedresses glanced up at them suspiciously, while a white-haired man with a shaggy beard grinned, revealing a lack of teeth. Annabelle smiled and spoke to each of them, then rushed inside.
Quinton followed her silently, his senses honed, hunting for the smell he’d detected in Savannah, for the glassy eyes of a lost soul, the vacant mind of someone who’d been possessed by the demon.
Inside, a tall, exotically beautiful black woman with waist-length hair greeted them. “I’m Shayla Larue. How can I help you?”
Quinton introduced them both, then explained the reason for their visit.
Shayla’s gold tooth glittered as she smiled. “Yes. I’ve been expecting you.”
Quinton frowned. “You have?”
She gestured for them to follow her into her office, a cubicle off to the side of a large kitchen, where a plate of beignets sat the counter. “I have bad feeling. Especially when the vultures arrive,” she said, her Cajun accent heavy.
“Have you noticed anything strange lately?” Quinton asked.
Annabelle cleared her throat. “Anyone who seems suicidal? Maybe someone who talked of death or heaven or hell?”
Shayla smiled. “It not unusual for our visitors to speak of death and the future. Many are depressed or have failing health. As we age, we look at life differently.”
“How about veterans?” Quinton asked.
She pursed her mouth in thought. “Yesterday a man came through who seemed disoriented and lost. But again, that not normal.”
Quinton folded his arms. “Has a doctor named Gryphon visited the center?”
Shayla nodded “He come by early this morning. He say he trying to help. He talk about his experiments with memory problems and PTS. He say he get results with subjects.”
“He’s been honored for his work in helping the homeless and indigent,” Annabelle said.
“So nice, he was,” Shayla said, “when so many others trying to take advantage of these people.”
“Did he talk to anyone here?” Annabelle asked.
She frowned. “He do routine health checks. Then say he be back.”
Quinton cleared his throat. “What about Reverend Narius? Has he visited?”
“No, not yet. But he supposed to stop by sometime.” She paused, rubbing her hands up and down her arms. “I worry that he be too late.”
Her words made the hair on the nape of Quinton’s neck rise, and he studied her. Did she have some kind of power or second sense?
“My grandmother a voodoo priestess,” she said, as if she’d read his thoughts.
An unnerving idea. “I have her gift of the visions,” she said quietly.
“So what have you seen?” Quinton asked.
“Death. Satan. That you here to find the demon come to N’awlins. I try to put protective spell around the city.”
He searched her face. “What do you mean, you know who I am?”
“Those in the magic community know of your father’s power. That you and your brothers are Dark Lords.”
He tried to telepath for her to be quiet, that Annabelle didn’t know his story. But she gave him a sad look, and he read her silent message. She thought Annabelle deserved to know the truth, that she could handle it. That she could even help him.
“You believe in demons?” Annabelle asked.
“I am born of a family of voodoo priestess,” she said, her odd-colored eyes flickering with shadows. “A demon-slayer as well.”
“Then tell me how to recognize a demon,” Quinton said.
“Utilize your sense of smell,” Shayla murmured. “And your other senses. When you begin to use them more, your powers will grow. Although some demons are better at covering their odor than others.”
For a brief moment, Quinton frowned. He already knew this but had hoped for more and glimpsed into Shayla Larue’s mind. He saw her creating magic potions and spells, battling evil ones and walking through the cemetery with the dead.
“You must protect the woman,” she said, a low, ominous hint to her voice as she gestured toward Annabelle. “She is in great danger. They will use her to get to you.”
Annabelle bit down on her lip but refrained from commenting.
“The ancients say the Death Angel turn people into the Walking Dead,” Shayla continued. “They die but they come back from grave. They gots a gray color and carry the smell of death on they skin. They be brought back by the devil to do harm.”
A dark aura engulfed her, her eyes glowing in the dim lights of the shelter. “Who’s doing this?” he asked.
Her dreads swung as she shook her head. “I can’t say who the bomber is, but the Death Angel has possessed him. There are many demons among us now, walking in the shadows. I met two vampires just last week, and a shape-shifter with the power to change into human form at will. This demon is for you to find. The vultures mean death, and they here to stay.”
Annabelle shivered as she fought the wind on her way back to the car, Shayla’s warning echoing in her head.
She is in great danger. They will use her to get to you.
Quinton climbed into the driver’s seat, his face a wall of granite, then steered the vehicle onto the highway toward the Audubon Zoo, where the Swamp Festival was to be held. Annabelle folded her arms, the gray cast to the sky adding to her dismal mood. A thick fog blanketed the bayou, the gnarled and twisted branches of the giant live oaks sweeping the ground with their spidery gray moss, the crocodiles and snakes slithering through the muddy Mississippi, their beady eyes piercing the darkness like silent stalkers ready to pounce.
The vultures normally didn’t like woods, but they hovered there now, ready to feed off the smaller animals seeking refuge inside.
The air felt oppressive, the stench of death and blood wafting from the depths of the backwoods, the local legends and folklore of the gators, of voodoo, and of satanic rituals rolling through her head.
Annabelle had seen the book Deadly Demons, had even witnessed Quinton use his power. But to have this woman confirm what she suspected and speak of the demons’ being after her made her stomach cramp.
What other demons were walking the earth? Shayla had said there were shape-shifters and vampires…
She’d read about them in books, but were they real?
And what if they couldn’t stop this demon? What if he continued to wreak death and destruction?
* * *
Vincent Valtrez plugged into the FBI databases to search other possibilities for the bomber while he waited for Agent Blackwell to join him at the local office near Blood-Core to discuss the stolen blood vials.
He searched for connections between the bombings, along with the homeless sh
elters, looking for anyone who might have donated to all the shelters. Insurance agents, charities, politicians… the list was endless. He also plugged in the names of social workers, medical personnel, neighboring hospitals, then police and investigators who might have worked more than one scene.
McLaughlin had been assigned to the Charleston case, while another agent, Davis, was sent to Savannah. Reverend Narius’s name popped up, along with various charities and churches he was affiliated with.
Then Dr. Sam Wynn’s name—the Bureau’s resident specialist in forensics and identifying bones. He was working all the bombings.
Vincent scratched his forehead in thought. Was it possible?
Agent Blackwell rapped on the door then poked his head inside the room. “Valtrez?”
“Yeah. Any news?”
Blackwell shook his head. “No concrete terrorist cells. We’re watching a couple of small cells, but we haven’t found any conclusive evidence that connects them to the bombers.”
Vincent gritted his teeth. He wished to hell they had, that he was wrong and it wasn’t demonic. “What about the missing blood vials?”
“Other than the lab techs and doctor, the only finger-print we found in the research facility belongs to a dead man.” Agent Blackwell massaged the back of his neck with one hand.
Vincent’s mind spun with questions. “Who did the print belong to?”
“A man named Jerome Huntington. He was a sadistic man who drank blood from his victims.”
“Jesus. Where is he now?”
“He was given a lethal injection on death row last year.”
Holy shit. What if he had gained immortality as a demon or a vampire and had stolen the blood to feed his bloodlust? They needed to check the grave, see if his body was still there.
“There’s something else,” Blackwell said.
“What?”
“According to our information, Reverend Narius didn’t exist until three years ago.”
Vincent punched in Quinton’s number to relay the news. Maybe they’d caught a break.