by J. C. Wilder
He set down the page and selected the next. This one was written in a different language, one that he didn’t immediately recognize.
“The diary contains several different languages, some I don’t know.” Elena drifted closer to stand by him. “I haven’t read all of it, but there doesn’t seem to be any order to it. She goes from writing about her child’s early life to her own childhood, her marriage, then history of the preternaturals, then back to her child again.” She raised her hands then dropped them, her frustration evident.
Interesting. What exactly was the werewolf trying to glean from the pages of the diary?
Sinjin scanned the other pages, noting each was written in a different tongue. One was ancient Scots while the last was French. Why would Elsabeth have written the diary in so many languages? Or had the scribe who’d copied the book taken the liberty of changing the languages from the original?
He set down the magnifying glass. “I’d say the book appears to be genuine.” He caught the look of relief on her face before she masked it behind a haughty expression.
“Of course it is, I already told you that.”
He ignored her blustering. “How much money do ye want for the book?”
“Money?” Her voice was shrill. “Money doesn’t interest me where this book is concerned.”
“Then what do ye want if it isn’t money?”
“Oh, I want something.” Her gaze impaled him. “I want you to find out how to reverse werewolfism.”
He couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d walked up and slapped him across the face. She wanted what from him?
He must have said it out loud as she repeated herself.
“Let me get this straight.” He rose from his chair. “Ye want me to find a way to reverse a werewolf back to a human?”
She nodded. “And you have to do it now, first, before you delve into anything else in the diary.”
“I’m assuming this is for ye?”
Elena stood across the desk from him, her expression tight and she appeared to be unwilling to answer.
“Ye realize the preternatural world is in an uproar and thousands of lives are at risk. Even now, Mikhail is plotting his next battle. We need this book and the information it contains to hold him at bay.”
“As if I care about the preternaturals,” she sneered. “The werewolves have never joined leagues with the likes of you and we never will.”
“This isn’t about alliances, it’s about lives.”
“And what is the cost of my life?” she snarled. “What was the cost of my life when it was destroyed and I had no say in what happened?” Her eyes glittered with unshed tears. “I was but a child when I was violated by one of the unnaturals. I never wanted this curse and I want it reversed, now.” Her hand trembled as she pointed at the pages on his desk. “That book may hold the key to reversing this curse.”
“Aye. It may. Ye realize that even if it does, yer life will never be the same.” Sinjin rose and moved around the desk. “Ye’re irrevocably changed as ye’ve walked and lived in the shadows alongside us. Even if the werewolves refuse to join us, ye are still one with the shadows.”
She shook her head and backed away, holding out her hand as if to keep him away from her. “No, I can change back.” Her voice broke. “I have to.”
“I only wish it were true.”
She wavered as he pulled her into a loose hug, resisting at first, holding her body tense in his embrace.
“I can,” she whispered against his chest.
He stroked her back and heard her choke back a sob. “I’ll research yer quest but I can’t guarantee anything. I need to help the largest number of people as quickly as possible, but it will take time.” His heart ached for the child she’d been and the tormented woman she’d grown into.
Elena tipped back her head, her face streaked with tears. “You’re nice,” she sniffed. “For a vampire.”
He laughed and dropped a quick kiss on her forehead. A movement in the corner near the door caught his attention. He glimpsed Vivian’s shocked face before she spun around and tore back down the steps, trying to keep quiet, but his keen hearing noted her agitated rush.
“Now you’re in for it.” Elena pushed out of his arms.
“Aye, sure looks like it.”
“How much do you think she heard?”
“Verra little.” He hoped. Hearing Elena tell him he was nice for a vampire probably wouldn’t earn him points with Vivian, not that she would believe it.
“I’ll bring the diary here tomorrow evening.” She grabbed her coat and slid it on. “Promise me that you will do everything in your power to find the answers I need.”
“Aye, I promise.”
“Now, go find your woman and mend some fences. I think you’ve tormented her enough.” She gave him a sad little smile. “You would’ve made a good werewolf.”
Sinjin laughed outright. “Perish the thought.”
Anthony watched through the windows of the Chat Noir as Vivian closed up for the night. Imagine his surprise to find the head of Carrington International working as a hostess in a French Quarter nightclub. The photos he’d received didn’t do this woman justice. Killing such a lovely creature was a shame, but the money she’d bring would more than make up for it.
He reached into his light jacket and fingered the reassuring weight of the Sig Sauer snug in its holster. Soon, Vivian Carrington would be dead and he’d be a wealthy man.
He settled himself farther into the doorway to wait, his mind feverishly planning what to do with his newfound fortune.
Chapter Seven
Vivian seethed as she retrieved her bag and linen duster-style jacket from the employee break room. How dare that wretch kiss her, then turn around and have another woman in his arms barely twenty-four hours later. Vivian Carrington did not share her toys with anyone. Not now. Not ever.
Cad.
She slid on the jacket and stalked to the front door. Sinjin was yet another example of what was wrong with most men. They were fickle, turning their attentions to any available woman—no, make that any woman—who happened to flit by. She should know as she’d done the exact same thing several times herself. While she’d never indulged in an affair with a married or involved man, on several occasions she’d discovered after the fact that they’d deceived her. One man, an oil company executive, had been married with a Park Avenue mistress. Both of whom he’d neglected to disclose to Vivian. He’d turned into such a cliché.
Men. They weren’t to be trusted.
A large crowd of people blocked her exit via the main doors. Annoyed, she turned toward the back of the restaurant. Behind the coffee stand, there was a small door that led to Bourbon Street. Flipping the lock, she slipped out the door and into the rowdy atmosphere before locking the door behind her.
She needed some space away from the handsome bar owner. Now was as good a time as any to contemplate her next move. Did she stay or go? Her research would be completed in another week and once she sent off the materials she’d gathered, she’d be a free woman. She felt a pang in the area of her heart at the idea of leaving New Orleans. In the short time she’d been in residence, she’d grown to love the atmosphere and people who inhabited the city, one resident in particular.
You’re in deep, my dear…
“No, I’m not,” she muttered. “I’m just horny.” She wove her way around drunken partygoers then turned the corner and moved away from the crowds, her agitated gait eating the sidewalk as she progressed north toward her hotel. “All I need is space to figure out what the hell is going on in my own head and—”
A sudden resistance halted her as something or someone grabbed her backpack and swung her sideways. Before she could scream in protest, she was slammed sideways into a brick wall as hands ripped at her bag.
“I want the book,” a voice growled in her ear.
Vivian struggled against her tormentor. “What book?” She was shoved against the wall, face first, a hand pinni
ng her neck as someone tore the bag from her back.
“You know exactly what book, whore.”
“No, actually I don’t.” Adrenaline and annoyance flooded her system. This was the second time in a week she’d been manhandled in this city and she was tired of it. Maybe it wasn’t a good place to buy a house. Who knew the crime rate would be so high?
“It isn’t here.” Another voice spoke.
Unceremoniously, she was yanked around to face her captors. She got the impression of height and menace as the one who held her hostage grabbed her by the throat. She reached for his wrist, her nails digging into his skin, but he didn’t seem to notice the damage she was inflicting.
“Where is it?”
The fingers tightened, threatening to cut off her air supply.
Her eyes grew wide as black spots danced before her eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she gasped.
The other figure came closer and this one was much smaller than the first. “This isn’t the right woman.” His voice was tinged with the flavor of the South. “She’s nothing but a fucking waitress.”
The tall, dark-haired man looked at the smaller one, then back to her. His eyes narrowed and Vivian’s heart leapt into her throat. “We don’t need her then.” He released her and shoved her toward the shorter one. “Kill her, but do it quietly. We don’t want her found anytime soon.” He turned and walked back toward the lights of Bourbon Street.
“No.” She rubbed her raw throat. “Please don’t hurt me.”
The man shrugged. “I’m sorry, beautiful. Tall, dark and brutal speaks and I must do as he bids.”
His eyes glittered in the darkness and Vivian had the distinct impression that he truly was sorry he had to hurt her. But not sorry enough to walk away and leave her alone.
“I beg you, please, don’t kill me,” she gasped. “I have money, I can pay you.”
He hesitated then glanced in the direction the other man had gone. Indecision was written on his face when he turned back to her. He raised his hand and contemplated her fate as he ran a slim finger down her cheek. She struggled not to shudder beneath his impersonal touch.
“You’re far too beautiful to kill.” His fingers tightened on her throat and she gasped. “There are so many other things that can be done with you.” He raised his other hand and brought it down in a sharp blow to the jaw and she knew no more.
* * * * *
“What do you mean, she left?”
Tracey set down a tray of dirty glasses on the bar and started unloading them near the sink. “I mean she left. I saw her sneak out the back door about fifteen minutes ago.”
“I told her to wait,” Sinjin grumbled. “Why dinna women e’er listen?”
“Well, maybe if men would quit telling us what to do and ask us what we really want, we might actually listen.” Tracey picked up the tray and continued to the kitchen.
Sinjin rolled his eyes. Only the female mind could conceive something as illogical as that. He tucked the portfolio containing the photos under his arm as he headed for the door. “Julius, I’m out of here. Have a good evening.”
The bartender waved in response, deep in conversation with a redhead and a curvaceous blonde. Sinjin grinned. Looked like his head bartender was in for an interesting evening.
He exited the restaurant and walked up Bourbon at a fast clip. He wanted to catch Vivian before she reached her hotel or else he wouldn’t get another chance until the next evening. He had a feeling she wouldn’t answer her phone if he tried to call.
Women. Who understood them?
For the past six months, the women he’d tangled with were beautiful on the outside with very little upstairs. Let’s face it. He’d only wanted to lose himself physically in the majority of them.
Other than annoyance that she’d left without him, he wasn’t sure what he felt for Vivian. He desired her. She was a beautiful woman and he’d have to be blind to miss the interested looks she’d received since she’d begun working at the Chat. Male eyes, both young and old, seemed to gravitate toward her as she’d walked about the bar. Even more important than her obvious charms, he genuinely liked her. She had intelligence and a quick wit and she wasn’t afraid to speak her mind.
If he was going to be completely honest with himself, that was what attracted him. It had nothing to do with her fabulous legs or wicked laugh. It was her confidence and bearing. Vivian was the type of woman who would be at home in almost any situation. So, they had issues to work out between them, but they could accomplish it. They were two mature adults who—
The flashing strobes of emergency vehicles caught his eye when he turned the corner. A large crowd had formed, blocking his view of the incident then he saw Detective Draven ordering the crowd to part. The mass shifted reluctantly as several uniformed officers stepped in to encourage them. As the gurney moved into view, Sinjin saw the woman strapped to it.
He slowed to a stop, his heart in his throat.
Dark hair, white shirt, black skirt, duster and a narrow band of red silk around her throat were all he could see as her face was turned away from him. He ran the forty or so yards separating them, shouldering mortals aside as he reached the crowd. As he neared, Vivian was loaded into the ambulance with Draven following, a battered backpack in his hand.
“Dra—”
“Where do you think you’re going?” A loud voice jerked his attention away from the activity inside the ambulance. A police officer stood next to him, his face mere inches from Sinjin’s. “I told you people to break it up, there is nothing to see here.”
“I just need—”
“Look buddy, I asked nicely.” The officer placed his hand over the butt of his holstered gun. “Keep moving, don’t make me arrest you. I’m getting off in an hour and I don’t want to process the paperwork.”
Out of the corner of his eye Sinjin saw the doors shut and the ambulance pull away. While he realized the officer was only doing his job, it took a great deal of restraint to keep from lashing out. Sinjin ground his teeth as he gave the officer a curt nod and turned away.
He dodged the remaining stragglers and began to run in the direction of his house, already calculating how long it would take to reach Vivian’s side.
* * * * *
“You’re a lucky young woman.”
Vivian gave a raspy chuckle. “I don’t feel very lucky or very young right now.”
The emergency room doctor patted her on the shoulder. “Well, you’re alive and that’s what counts. Your headache will fade as will your bruises in a few days.”
“Do I have a concussion?”
“Possibly a very slight one. Your CAT scan came back normal, so I don’t think we have anything to worry about.”
“Maybe you don’t.” She forced a smile.
“We’re about ready to release you, all I have to do is sign on the dotted line. In the mean time there’s a Detective Draven hovering outside the door. Can I admit him?”
“Please, and thank you for taking such good care of me.”
“You’re welcome. I hope to not see you again under such circumstances.” The doctor gave her a wink then exited.
Vivian let her head drop to the pillow. Every inch of her body ached, her head the most. What had happened on the street? One minute she’d been walking to the hotel and the next she’d been pushed around.
The curtain was whisked aside and Brent stepped into the cubicle. His gaze was assessing as he scanned her from head to toe before finally settling on her face. “How are you feeling?”
“How do I look?” she countered.
“Battered,” he acknowledged.
“That’s pretty much how I feel.”
His expression turned serious. “Feel up to answering a few questions?”
“Personal or professional type questions?”
“Professional.”
She gave a tentative nod. “I don’t know what I can tell you. It’s a little fuzzy now.”
“What time d
id you leave the club?”
“I think it was around two.”
“And you left alone?”
“Yes. I was supposed to wait for Sinjin, but—”
She stopped, not wanting to go into why she hadn’t waited for him. She’d sound like a complete ninny if she told him the truth.
“But what?”
She pleated the sheet with her fingers, her gaze fixed on the nervous motions. “I didn’t want to. I changed my mind, so I left.”
Brent made a note in his book. He didn’t say anything, but she had the feeling she’d disappointed him in some way.
“Then what happened?” he asked.
“I was walking back to the hotel and someone grabbed me and shoved me against the wall. He pulled my backpack off and went through it.” She frowned. “I think there were two of them.”
“You think?”
“I remember two different voices, one had a slight southern accent.” She looked up at him. “How can I remember that and nothing else?”
“Just take it slow.” Brent laid his hand on her arm. “Vivian, two days ago you made a theft report that your purse was stolen. Do you think this incident could be related?”
She frowned and shook her head, stopping when the pain sent a warning jolt. “I don’t see how they could be. I mean, they happened in the same general area, but that time the guy just grabbed my bag and ran. He never tried to hurt me.”
“Have you ever thought that maybe someone might be stalking you?”
She gave a startled bark of laughter then covered her mouth when she saw he looked very somber. She cleared her throat and schooled her features into a more serious expression. “Why would someone do that?”
“You’re beautiful and you’re very wealthy.”
“You’ve been doing your homework.” She waved his words away. “I’m hardly a public figure. Ninety-nine percent of the people on the streets have probably never heard of Carrington International.”
“How well do you know Damien St. James?”
She frowned. “What does he have to do with this?”
“It’s just a question.” He folded the notebook shut and tucked it into his jacket pocket.