[Bayou Gavotte 03.0] Heart of Constantine

by Barbara Monajem

  Jesus Christ. Why was she reading that tripe? On the other hand, it did show interest, right?

  Shit.

  Some damned bird or other cackled in the distance.

  He left the book in its bag on the kitchen counter and returned to the living room just as Marguerite and Gideon finished their tour. “I put your perishables away,” he said.

  “Oh. Thanks.” Clearly, her mind was elsewhere. Definitely not on him, or that he was trying to be helpful, or even… fuck. She looked tired, and worried, and all he could think about was kissing her, about whether maybe she could like him, even a little bit. You’re pathetic, he told himself.

  A soft flutter of wings descended into his mind. No, you’re cool, said the bird. You’re fine. It hardly ever did that anymore. When he’d been a screwed-up kid, the bird’s reassurances had kept him sane.

  Which just went to show how close to the edge he was now.

  “But why would he dig through the piles of Pauline’s stuff?” Marguerite asked, sinking onto the couch. “It’s mostly paper. Why leave the boom box by the door and the DVD player half-unplugged?”

  “He must think we’re idiots.” Gideon gave Constantine an exasperated look. “Not that I blame him. The chief has decreed that what happened on the mound was a publicity stunt, so that’s what I’m stuck going with.”

  “It’s better that way,” Constantine said. “This is my deal anyway.”

  Marguerite’s perplexed frown went from one to the other of them.

  “This is a search masquerading as a burglary,” Gideon explained. “If the dog hadn’t surprised him, you probably wouldn’t have known anyone had been here at all.”

  “Okay,” Marguerite said slowly. “But if so, what was he after?”

  “Even more important,” Constantine said, “did he find it?”

  “How are we supposed to know that, if we don’t even know what it is?” Marguerite demanded. “Pauline had nothing of value, and neither do I.”

  “Do you have an office at Hellebore?” Gideon asked. “Did Pauline?”

  “I have a small room,” Marguerite said. “We cleaned out Pauline’s office last week.”

  “We being who?” Gideon asked.

  “A lot of people,” Marguerite replied. “We left it unlocked so people could go in at their convenience and take anything that was theirs or that they could use. There’s a lot of loaning of books and so on that goes on, and I didn’t need any of her office supplies.” Her eyes widened. “You think this ransacking has something to do with Pauline?”

  “Since hers is the only room that shows signs of really having been searched, it seems likely.”

  “But why? She was just an ordinary person—a fiftysomething literature prof.”

  Gideon blew out a breath. “That’s what we have to find out. Make out a list of everyone you either know or think went into her office to go through her things and email me a copy.” He handed her his business card. “If you find anything missing from the house, let me know, and I’ll add it to my report.”

  But she wasn’t listening. Her eyes gazed at nothing, her thoughts clearly in the past. “I knew it,” she said. “I knew it when you spoke to me about Pauline the day you found her.”

  “Knew what?” Gideon asked, ever the cautious cop.

  “You thought it might not be a suicide,” she said. “I told you I didn’t believe it, and I insisted that she was better. You came up with a lot of standard platitudes, but you were uneasy the entire time.”

  “You’re right,” Gideon said. “I don’t know how you could tell, but I was.”

  “You think Pauline was murdered,” Marguerite said.

  Zeb closed the French text with relief. How could he be expected to concentrate on reflexive verbs? He was still surprised that Constantine had not only let him go home but hadn’t had him followed. Maybe when you could torture by telepathy, you didn’t need to know your victim’s address. He was pretty sure the rock star had sent him a twinge of pain back there in the Impractical Cat. He’d finally been in the Zone by then, somewhat protected by his folded aura, but he couldn’t keep it wrapped tightly around himself day and night.

  “That sure was a waste of time,” Juma said.

  Zeb liked Juma. She was the super-studious type, taking high school and college courses at the same time. She hired herself out to tutor almost anything, but she didn’t expect anyone else to care about the stuff she liked. While Zeb struggled with French verbs, she’d curled up with her laptop, translating love poetry from Old Provençal. She was also into goth, but it suited her raven hair, pale skin, and major attitude.

  “Before you do the lawn-mowing thingy, let’s go to PJ’s for coffee,” she said. “Zelda just texted me, and she’ll be there, too.”

  “Okay,” Zeb said, relieved to postpone going to Marguerite’s. She might just want her lawn mowed, but on the other hand, even if she’d been unconscious when he bumped into her on the mound, she might know by now that he’d been there. An article on Yahoo! News said she was going out with Constantine Dufray, but Dad had told him and Juma that Marguerite had been caught in the middle of a publicity stunt. Which was bullshit, whether Marguerite knew it or not. Regardless, she might have questions, not only about the knife but about why he hadn’t stayed to help her—questions he couldn’t answer. His life was beginning to feel like a game of Whack-a-Mole. No matter how much he tried to protect people, some other crap popped up.

  They took their time walking through the swelter of the day to PJ’s Coffee Shop. Zelda was already there, grumpy because every guy in the place had his eye on her. She seemed to grow more gorgeous every day, although if you analyzed her attributes separately—red hair, bright-blue eyes, a cute nose sprinkled with freckles, small breasts, no hips, and a truly lovely smile—she shouldn’t be any more attractive than any number of fourteen-year-olds. Not only was she underage, but she was also way, way younger than most of the guys who hit on her. She had explained it to him one day when he’d intervened between her and a jerk who was trying to convince her to sleep with him. Actually, she’d showed Zeb her fangs, surprising the hell out of him for a second or two. “They make me irresistible,” she said glumly.

  And how. She already gave off massive amounts of allure. She was trying to learn to control it, but the perv he’d beaten up in the bar the other day was only one of the many guys she had to fend off on a daily basis.

  He knew how that worked; his mom had been a hereditary vampire, too. Eaton Wilson still worshipped her even after she’d been dead almost five years, but Zeb didn’t resent him too much, because although he was a pussy and a bit crazy, he meant well. Oh, and he wasn’t responsible for her death. Every time Zeb thought about Lutsky, he burned up inside. Dad seemed to think playing practical jokes on Lutsky should satisfy Zeb’s urge to beat the dude to a bloody mess. He even encouraged the jokes and showed some appreciation afterward, but it wasn’t enough. “Get over it,” Dad had said. “I know you hate Lutsky, but nothing will bring her back.”

  He’d almost punched his father out over that one, only controlling himself because his mom would have wanted him to. She’d told him time and again that Dad needed lots of love and understanding. Not that it had done a lick of good; Zeb was still controlling himself, but just barely.

  Zelda scooted them right back out of PJ’s, carrying a cup holder with their iced coffees. “Let’s go to the park so we can have some privacy.”

  This made no sense to Zeb—it was hot as hell outdoors and cool in PJ’s, and he was more than able to protect her from other guys—but he walked the block to the park with the girls, who seemed in a jolly sort of mood. They settled themselves on a bench under a live oak near the playground, which was almost empty. Not surprising, at 90-plus degrees and 100 percent humidity.

  He slouched between them and stretched out his legs. “Why are we out here again?” Sweat was making his back itch. Why had Constantine let him leave? He’d finally gotten himself into the Zone, ready to ta
ke whatever came his way, and then Dufray had let him go.

  Regardless, Zeb couldn’t help but be glad of the reprieve. He had too much to take care of as it was. He couldn’t afford to waste his energy anticipating telepathic pain from Constantine Dufray.

  “Well,” Juma said and giggled.

  He stared. Juma never giggled. She wasn’t the type.

  “Well,” Zelda said. “The thing is, Zeb, we both like you a lot.”

  “I like you, too,” Zeb replied impatiently. He didn’t want to be here. He wanted to get some sleep. He wanted to figure out what to do next and then do it. Oh, hell, he wanted everything to be done. Over with.

  “So,” Juma said, “Zelda and I have come to an agreement. We’ve decided we want you for our first.”

  “Both of us,” Zelda said, as if that clarified something. “We both want you for our first.”

  “First what?” He was dealing with matters of life or death. What if Marguerite had overdosed on that drug she’d been given? What other innocent person might be next? He didn’t have time for women acting all mysterious. “What are you talking about?”

  Across him, the girls exchanged glances. “You tell him,” Juma said.

  “No, you,” Zelda said. “You’re older.”

  “And you’re a vampire,” Juma said. “It’s your specialty, right?”

  Zelda scowled. “I’m only fourteen!” she whispered. “I shouldn’t even be thinking about this!”

  “Oh, all right,” Juma said. “Zeb, we want you for sex.”

  “Both of us,” Zelda said again, with her dazzling vampire grin.

  What the hell? He sat up. His sweat-soaked shirt made a sucking sound as he pulled away from the bench. “Are you nuts?”

  Juma giggled again. “Not both at once, silly, although by what I’ve heard, most guys would go for that.”

  Zelda rolled her eyes. “Guys can’t help being twisted.”

  “Thanks,” Zeb said, trying unsuccessfully not to imagine being in bed with both of these crazy girls.

  “Even if we wanted that, which we don’t, the timing is all wrong,” Juma said. “I need to have my first sexual experience soon, and Zelda has to wait a couple more years.”

  “Almost three,” Zelda said, “unless we go to Mississippi to do the deed. The statutory age there is sixteen.”

  “Ideally, it would be the other way around,” Juma said. “Zelda first and then me, because I’m not interested in sex at all.”

  “And I’m already getting way too interested,” Zelda said. “I get horny a lot, but Mom said that’s only to be expected in a vampire.”

  Zeb tried pulling his head together. Reluctantly—lately he’d had little or no sex drive—his dick was reacting. “Um… why me?”

  “Mom said my first guy has to be someone stable,” Zelda said. “Someone who won’t get all obsessed with me. A guy I can trust.”

  The last thing Zeb felt these days was stable, but he let that pass. “And you?” he asked Juma. “Seeing as you’re not interested in sex, why bother?”

  “I’m seventeen, so I’m legal. I have to get it over with sometime, and Zelda’s mom agrees you’re safe.”

  Just what a guy wanted to hear—how goddamned safe he was.

  Jesus. If they only knew.

  “Safe for women, we mean,” Juma added. “If I were a guy, I wouldn’t want to tangle with you, but you’re a good friend for a girl.”

  “Sort of like Constantine,” Zelda said.

  Like Constantine? Zeb leapt up off the bench. Zelda and Juma knew Constantine Dufray, of course, what with Zelda’s mom being a club owner and Constantine a vigilante, but… He glared down at the two girls. “In what way could I possibly be like him?”

  “He’s a great friend for a woman,” Zelda said. “Scares all the other guys away, but he’s totally safe. He was my Aunt Ophelia’s best friend when she’d given up guys and was super horny, and he never, ever hit on her.”

  Yesterday, Zeb would have been flattered at this comparison. Today, not so much.

  “Also, you’re really cute, so it won’t be too much of a hardship,” Juma said.

  “Good to know,” Zeb said sourly. He glowered at them over his plastic cup and sucked up the rest of his coffee. At any other time, he might have considered getting Juma interested in sex a worthwhile challenge, and although at the moment Zelda felt sort of like a little sister, in a few years that might change. He’d definitely go for the experience of sex with a vampire.

  Except that he might not have a few years. Vampire sex was only one of the many, many life experiences he might just have to do without. Too many people needed protecting, and he was taking so many risks lately that he had begun to fear for his own life. Along with that came the big question: if it came right down to a life-or-death situation, would he kill or be killed? He didn’t want to think about that. Not yet.

  “Well?” Juma said. “Will you do it? Me, sometime soon; Zelda, when she’s old enough.”

  “Unless you fall in love with Juma or someone else in the meantime,” Zelda said. “I won’t hold you to it if you already have a woman. That would be contemptible and totally unworthy of a vampire.”

  Zeb took the top off his cup and drained what was left. “Tell you what. I’ll think about it, and you think about it too, and—”

  “We’ve already thought about it,” they said in unison. “We want you.”

  “We’ll discuss it again, if and when I’m available.” He tossed his cup into a nearby trash can and walked away, adding under his breath, “And if I’m alive.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Constantine watched the dawning of both understanding and indignation in Marguerite’s eyes. “If you suspected it wasn’t a suicide, you should have told me,” she said.

  “I don’t like to jump too far ahead in my thinking,” Gideon said. “There was every reason to believe it was suicide, and yet… it didn’t feel right.”

  “Of course it didn’t! She was better. She was doing fine.” Marguerite jumped up. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Feelings aren’t evidence,” he said. “Why voice something that upsets people and leads nowhere?”

  “But… but why would someone kill poor Pauline?” Her gaze sought inspiration in the untidy room. “What could someone have wanted that was worth killing her for?”

  “At the moment, your guess is as good as mine.” Gideon shrugged. “Probably better.”

  “Right now, I have no clue, but it’s a relief that she may have been murdered.”

  Constantine let out a whoop of laughter.

  She colored, eyes wide. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that I have to be able to trust my, uh… instincts.”

  “The same instincts that refuse to accept that I’m a wacko stalker?”

  “Yeah, those ones.” Pointedly, she turned to Gideon, who was watching them with ill-concealed amusement. “Fine, but how did he do it? She overdosed herself with her own prescription meds. There was no sign that she’d been attacked, restrained, or anything of the sort. Right?”

  “None,” Gideon said. “The only physical damage occurred when somebody ran over her after she was dead. No surprise if someone didn’t want to report that.”

  “Especially if the killer did it just to make good and sure,” Constantine said. Marguerite shuddered, but he couldn’t even congratulate himself on finally freaking her out because it was the Enemy who’d done that. All he got credit for was putting what might have happened into words. He began picking up the books and sorting through them.

  Marguerite made an agitated turn through the relatively small clear area in the middle of the room. “It makes no sense at all.” She threw up her hands. “She had nothing of value.” She made another turn. “No enemies.” Back again. “Well, she hated…” She rounded on Constantine again, who stepped back. “You don’t need to do that. In fact, shouldn’t Detective O’Toole be dusting for fingerprints?”

  “Not for a burglary without the
chief’s approval,” Gideon said. “Yes, I know it’s not really a burglary, but we can’t tell the chief that.”

  “Why not?” Marguerite demanded.

  “Long story, but the chief won’t accept our murder theory without real evidence. He has already decided the episode on the mound this morning was a publicity stunt.” He shrugged. “We’re not likely to find any prints, Ms. McHugh. This guy is no slouch.”

  Marguerite grimaced. “Maybe, but—”

  Constantine interrupted. “She hated…?”

  Marguerite glared at the two of them. “Men,” she said baldly. “Absolutely loathed them.”

  “Doubtless with good reason,” Constantine said. “We’re not a pleasant gender.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Gideon said. “Why did she hate men?”

  “An abusive father followed by an abusive husband, and no, neither of them could have killed her or done this because they’re both dead. Her dislike of men made for quite a bit of constraint with her male colleagues at Hellebore, but she’d learned to keep it to herself. In any case, none of them had reason to kill her or ransack her house. Would you please stop cleaning up?”

  Just standing there would drive Constantine crazy. He had to do something. “It’s that or play the cello.” She blinked, and he added with a tilt of the chin, “The one in Pauline’s bedroom.”

  Gideon, damn him, was shaking with suppressed laughter. “Constantine has a lot of nervous energy,” he said. “He’s also compulsively tidy, and it does him good to be useful.”

  With great difficulty, Constantine roped and hog-tied his annoyance. He didn’t need the help of this well-meaning cop. He didn’t need anyone’s help.