Under the Bones

by Kory M. Shrum

  No one spoke of death. Of dying. King himself added to the conversation where he could, adding his own adventures with Lucy to the proverbial pyre.

  Lou continued to deliver wood and feed the fire well into the night.

  “Do you have any regrets,” Lou asked her aunt, throwing another log onto the fire. This one was wrapped in yellow twine and King wondered who she’d stolen if from and if he cared.

  “You’d love it if I gave you a kill list,” Lucy laughed. The words were delivered sweetly, no hint of anger or cruelty. And King could tell that Louie was relieved by this. “But no. I have only one regret. I’m sorry that I didn’t marry you, Robert.”

  She placed a hand on his knee and squeezed it. She snuggled deeper into the crook of his arm.

  Without a word, Lou rose from her chair and disappeared through the woods. King wondered if it was to give them a bit of time alone. If she’d read some signal in Lucy’s tone, or if the affection going between them had simply left her uncomfortable.

  But a moment later, she reappeared.

  Lou emerged from the forest edge with a man in tow. For a wretched moment, King thought Konstantine. Lord help us, she’s brought Konstantine here.

  But when the man stepped into the firelight, it wasn’t the Italian at all. This man was much older and stately in his black robes.

  The priest looked nervously from Lou to the couple cuddled together by the fire. “She tells me that you would like to be married?”

  25

  Konstantine was restless. He stared out at the river, counting how many ferry crossings the old-fashioned boat made, overloaded with tourists and the occasional starburst flash of a camera sparking from the opposite bank. Families wandered up and down the boardwalk, one child holding a bright red balloon that bounced and bobbed as she skipped between her parents.

  He knew he should feel only gratitude. Her apartment, however small, was his sanctuary. Nico had nearly killed him. No matter what counter measures had been necessary, Konstantine would have had to hide until he was strong enough to retaliate.

  And what better place? No one knew this place or this woman. Not really. He’d circulated and encouraged overblown tales meant to keep his men alert and in awe of their supposed alliance. But none knew her name or her real identity. Unless…

  If Nico was smart, he would go through Konstantine’s possessions, leaving no mattress or safe unturned. Given enough time, and he had been given enough time, he would likely find the photos. That was a possibility—and a threat.

  All the information his old servant Julio has drummed up on her, in his initial quest to learn her identity—birth certificates, news reports regarding the murder of her parents, and school records—he’d burned it all.

  But he hadn’t had it in him to burn the photographs.

  On the nights when he craved her so badly, sometimes sitting at his desk in his dark alcove, a glass of Chianti at hand, he would thumb through the photographs. No matter how grainy, the sight of her was enough to put his mind at ease.

  Or if she did something to anger him…

  When she killed his best port liaison in Jersey, for example. He’d received the call the next morning that four distributors had gotten nervous and rescinded their shipments when Wallie Rambo never answered their calls nor gave them the information for the drop point.

  Some of the men thought Wallie had bailed. After all, he had quite a few gambling debts and had angered a local card shark.

  But Konstantine knew who had plucked him from the dark, and it was no card shark.

  It cost quite a bit of money and time to reconfigure the distribution line to his liking. Good, trustworthy men were hard to find in this business. And despite his penchant for gambling, Rambo was reliable, and did as he was told.

  In those moments when he found his anger and frustration rise, he need only look at the photographs, see the strong outline of her determined jaw and remember who she was. What she really was to him.

  Their destiny was so much bigger than either of their minor schemes.

  Her gift had brought her to him, long before she could have known who he was. No matter what else they were doing in this world, they were tied together for a greater purpose.

  Konstantine understood this.

  And Padre Leo had taught him patience. Some things cannot be rushed.

  Look at this great cathedral, Padre had said. Konstantine could still see Padre’s black pants and a black dress shirt that was open at the collar, a gold chain at his neck.

  They’d been decorating the church for Christmas and Padre had pulled Konstantine aside from the other boys when he heard him complaining about how long the work was taking. It felt as if they’d been decorating for days, and just when Konstantine thought they were done, another heap of red ribbons or garlands would appear.

  She is beautiful, isn’t she?

  As a boy Konstantine knew nothing of beauty. But he’d loved the high ceilings. The magic of a mosaic that had lasted centuries.

  It took six hundred years for this church to become as you see it, Padre had said. Remember that.

  You cannot rush greatness. You must be patient. You must build it brick by brick—

  A sharp sound yanked Konstantine from his memories. He turned away from the window, expecting the closet to open. But it didn’t. Then he heard a sound that he would recognize anywhere.

  A fist connecting. And it came from that secret room beneath the kitchen island.

  He was across the apartment before thinking. Then he had the latch flicked open and was descending the stairs.

  Lou must not have heard him as her fist repeatedly connected with the wooden post over and over again.

  He seized her wrist mid-swing and she redirected easily.

  But he’d expected this. He’d seen enough rage in violent men to know how they reacted if you dared interrupt them.

  What he hadn’t been expecting was the momentum. Though he’d seized her other wrist, deflecting the blow, her forward movement had thrown them both into the wall at the bottom of the stairs. They stood beneath the halo of lamplight. He held her wrists so she wouldn’t strike him.

  To his surprise, she let him.

  With each breath her body grew softer against his, until she was simply leaning against him. He was pinned against the wall under the weight of her.

  She looked so slight and no more than 5’7 or maybe 5’8. But she was solid muscle and he supposed that made up the weight. Or maybe it was something in that gift of hers. Perhaps gravity was different for this one.

  He loosened his grip on her wrists cautiously.

  “What happened?” he breathed into her hair.

  At first she didn’t speak. And he considered that she might not answer him at all.

  Then she said, “She was sick for a long time and didn’t tell me.”

  He understood then. He’d known about the aunt’s illness. Tracking her had been easy compared to the woman now leaning all her weight against him. Lucy Thorne wasn’t a ghost. She had as many public records as anyone, including some private ones, which Konstantine had accessed with ease.

  He thought of Padre, of how again it seemed like this woman’s life echoed and intersected his own. Padre too had hidden his illness until nothing could be done but say goodbye.

  Konstantine turned her wrist so he could inspect the damage. The knuckles were split and bloody, but on a whole, it looked all right. He wondered how often she might have rages like this, and how conditioned her hands must be as a result.

  “Did you get to say goodbye?” he asked softly, running one thumb over the back of her hand.

  She nodded.

  “Good,” he said, finding his voice dangerously calm. He was hiding his own emotions well enough. He hoped. When he felt more in control of himself, he said, “We should clean this up.”

  She mounted the stairs without a word, taking all that heat and weight of the moment with her. Konstantine turned off the light behind them.
/>
  She was already sitting on the edge of her bed, the kit open before her, cleaning the wound by the time he latched the island door closed.

  He knelt before her and helped her wrap the hand carefully. Then it was done.

  As soon as he fastened the lid back onto the box, she pulled him into the bed with her.

  She rolled him onto his back easily, her legs sliding down on either side of his waist. It felt even more delicious than he’d always imagined it would. Her muscles shifting. Her heat.

  She wanted him. He could see it in her eyes, a look of hunger as easy to identify as his own. But it wasn’t tender. It bordered fury.

  His eyes slid over her body, his hands on each of her hips. He wanted his hands to be right here when she slid herself down onto him. He had only to undress her first. He reached for the hem of her shirt but she slammed his wrists back into the mattress, pinning them on either side of his head.

  He was fine with this. He would give every ounce of control to this woman, if she wanted it. Whatever she needed to trust him.

  But when he met her eyes again, tears stood out in the lashes.

  He bucked her forward with his hips and flipped her over. She hit her side, then her back, until he was rolling her away from him.

  Her tight body pressed into that perfect seat of his lap and his arms went around her.

  He lay still behind her, holding her against him as snug as that vest she wore so often. “If you need to take care of—”

  “—it’s done,” she said. Despite her tears, her voice remained perfectly steady.

  “It’s dangerous to fight when you aren’t yourself,” he said.

  Her power and abilities would be his greatest ally in the fight against Nico and his army, but he wouldn’t want her to truly endanger herself. He knew firsthand that pain in the heart and mind were more crippling than pain in one’s body.

  She remained motionless in his arms. So warm. He thought of kissing her neck. Her hair. Of sliding the hand on her abdomen down to find that place where her legs met.

  He didn’t.

  You must build it, brick by brick.

  “With so many bastards in one place,” she said, her neck luminous in the moonlight pouring over his shoulder. Her breath hot on his arm. “I’ll be more myself than you can stand.”

  26

  Lou rose from the bed without making a sound. Konstantine never woke. He’d fallen asleep where she’d left him, on his back in her bed. Lou however couldn’t sleep. Not because she didn’t understand what was happening between them, but because she wasn’t sure she had enough sense left to be cautious. She’d almost slept with him. And she would have if not for the sudden, bright memory of Lucy’s dying face flashing across the screen of her mind.

  Her bony hand cupping her cheek. Forgive me, Louie.

  The last thing she would ever say.

  By now, no doubt, they’d found her body in the hospital room where she’d returned her. She’d placed the body back into an empty bed just after sunrise Hawaii time, and pressed the call button. She didn’t wait to see who would come, or if this was even the correct room.

  What they would think of the sand, of the smell of smoke in the dead woman’s hair, and her lack of shoes…Lou didn’t know. She took the blankets and departed, certain King would fill in the gaps sooner or later.

  He’d insisted on being returned to his apartment where he could change and wash the smell of smoke from his hair and errant sand from his body. He thought if it looked as if they had both been to the beach, it might’ve been enough for them to push an inquiry, even if there was no way they could prove anything.

  So shower first, and then he would return to the hospital, prepared to receive the news he already knew was coming.

  She suspected that it was possible he could’ve been tied up at the cancer center for a while with some kind of bureaucratic bullshit. But he should be at his apartment by now.

  Lou stepped into her converted linen closet and let her compass whirl in the dark, searching for King.

  When it locked onto him, and the walls melted away, she wasn’t greeted by his familiar red couch or beast of an armoire. Not by his king-sized bed nor his tiny bathroom.

  It wasn’t his apartment at all.

  She emerged from the shadows onto the street. A woman screamed, immediately falling into giggles, one hand on her chest.

  “Christ,” she said, her voice high. “I didn’t see you.”

  She wobbled past Lou with her plastic cup, her heels unsteady beneath her.

  She read the street sign, the corner of St. Peter and Bourbon. She took one look at the neon bar sign, noted the thudding bass blaring through the open door, vibrating her chest, and knew exactly where King was.

  The doorman motioned her forward. She didn’t bother. Rounding a corner, she took the alley in. Alley to the bathroom. Bathroom into the bar itself.

  It was easy to spot King.

  Mostly because he was such a massive man. Also because he was making a fool of himself.

  A man beside him was talking shit and King had turned on his stool to eye him with a wrathful gaze. Before Lou could even cross the dim bar and reach him, the basket of pickle chips had been overturned, and the first punch thrown.

  A brown beer bottle was knocked over, pouring frothy booze over the lip of the wooden bar.

  She reached him in four long strides, stepping between him and the other man. It was a man in a leather jacket with his fingers wrapped in fingerless studded leather gloves.

  He was at least a hundred pounds lighter than King. He was built like a soccer player. Tall, thin.

  When Lou stepped between them, she gave King her back. She’d hoped that at least he wouldn’t hit her.

  When the biker threw his second punch, Lou was there to intercept it. She deflected it with her rotating wrist and struck the man in his throat. His eyes bulged, both hands going to his neck.

  Before his anger overrode his surprise, she gave him a swift kick in the knee to think about. He toppled.

  Lou turned, ready to haul King from the bar and was greeted with a fist. She moved at the last moment, sparing her face from the wild hook. But because she’d stepped back, she’d put her wounded shoulder right in the path of his blow.

  Her arm sang. Furious, waves of pain radiating up her arm, she seized him with her good arm and yanked him from the bar. She didn’t head toward the exit, but rather the bathrooms. As piss-scented and filthy as they were, they were far darker than the streets.

  King howled the whole time. Hellbent on defending his honor.

  “What the hell did you do that for?” he screamed. “I was fine. I was handling it fine.”

  He no doubt had more to say but the slip swallowed his words whole.

  When they appeared in his apartment, the first thing King did was fall to his hands and knees and puke onto his rug.

  The acrid scent of sour vomit and booze bloomed in the room. Lou opened the balcony door, hoping the breeze would overcome it. Watching him sit back on his heels, his eyes glazed, she realized how drunk he was. Quite. And a man his size didn’t get drunk like that quickly.

  “Did you go back to the hospital?” she asked.

  “No,” he shouted. She wasn’t sure if this was on purpose or if he had no idea how loud his voice was.

  “Why?”

  “Because I didn’t have my car,” he said, even louder. “I didn’t have a car. It’s still in the parking lot. I drove to the center yesterday. And it’s still there.”

  “So you went to the bar instead? Because it was walking distance?”

  “So what if I did? What if I fuck-ing did!”

  No doubt he’d been drinking all day. He smelled like it. He looked like it. What time did bars in the French quarter open? She had no idea. But she was sure that he’d been there when someone unlocked the door.

  Drunk revelers stumbled through the streets, their laughter rising up through the window, mingling with the whine of a viol
in.

  King seemed to regard the vomit on the rug as if he wasn’t sure how it’d gotten there. Then he threw up onto the carpet again.

  “What the hell is all this?” Mel appeared in the kitchen, closing the door to the apartment behind her. “What is he going on about?”

  “He’s drunk,” Lou said.

  “I’m not drunk,” King said.

  “The hell you aren’t. And in my house!”

  Mel saw the vomit and wrinkled her nose. “What in the world would Miss Lucy think of you carrying on like this?”

  King laughed. Laughed, maniacally until the rolling laughter gave over to tears and he covered his face with his hands.

  “The hell,” Mel murmured. She looked to Lou, hoping for answers. Lou noted her fortune teller get-up. The long purple skirt. The scarf tied around her head and gold bangles on her wrist. The deep kohl lining each eye.

  “Lucy is dead,” Lou said, finding the words foreign on her tongue. Her grief made the words heavy and unreal in her mouth.

  Melandra’s rage softened. “I see now.”

  Lou couldn’t bear to look at the concerned face. “I’ll go get his car.”

  “No need,” Mel said, going to the freezer and fetching a frozen bag of peas. “I’ll send Piper to get it. Can you help me get him onto the couch?”

  Lou lifted him and plopped him on the sofa.

  Mel looked a little surprised. “Thanks.” She placed the peas over the worst part of King’s swelling face.

  Lou couldn’t stay here. Not with the scent of vomit, not with Mel’s concerned, mournful face. She turned to leave, and a bony hand caught her wrist.

  Her instinct was to swing. To throw a fist into whatever wanted to pull her back into the misery. But she’d already done that to Konstantine tonight. Now having seen King do the same, it left a taste in her mouth. If she’d looked half as ridiculous as he had, she’d never lose control again.

  “You going to be all right?” Mel asked. The hold on her wrist loosened. “Is there anything you need?”

  Yes. She wanted to choke the life out of a man. Any bottom-feeding scumbag would do.