D
r. Blades, what seemed like seven emaciated feet of him, slouched against a refrigeration bank in the morgue.
“Hey, Doc,” Nat said, walking into the Medical Examiner’s lair with Gray Fisher—Marley’s husband—at his heels. “Nice of you to ask us over.”
“I asked
you
over,” Blades said, giving Gray the evil eye. “If you want him here, it’s up to you.”
“Gray was in on the dragon case,” Nat said, damned if he’d sound defensive. “He may not be a cop anymore, but he thinks like one and it was his wife who came close to ending up as one more of the dragon’s tasty treats.”
“That thing wasn’t a dragon,” Blades said of the monster that had been responsible for the deaths of at least ten women. “It just had some Komodo traits.”
“You never saw it,” Nat said.
“I didn’t have to, I saw the bites,” Blades reminded him defensively.
“Not a dragon,” Blades said, giving Nat the kind of hard stare that told him Blades probably didn’t believe his own words, but he wasn’t going to admit that. “That’s the official word on the subject. You’d better accept it.”
“Yeah,” Nat said slowly, seeing Blades with a slightly fresh eye. The man was no more convinced that New Orleans wasn’t host to a rogue paranormal force than Nat was.
Gray was checking his watch, again. Nat figured his former partner didn’t like being late returning to the Court of Angels where the most important person in his life hung out, Marley Millet Fisher.
“I keep dead-ending on some questions I’ve asked,” Blades said, glancing at Gray as if he wished he would leave—or disappear. “The man and woman who were the dragon’s—I mean the pair who were there when the last lot went down. Your people got them. Where are they? No one’s saying anything about them, or not to me.”
“Eric and Sidney Fournier?” Nat said cautiously. The brother and sister were a thorn in his side. They had some kind of weird connection to the Embran Dragon, as Nat and those who believed New Orleans was under insidious attack called “the thing.”
Blades watched Nat and Nat felt Gray waiting for him to continue, too. “They were bound over,” he told them.
“So they’re in jail,” Blades said. The deep, purplish hollows beneath his cheekbones didn’t get more reassuring to look at. Neither did his dome of a head and pale eyes with no eyelashes. The lack of eyelashes went with the lack of eyebrows.
Nat cleared his throat. “In fact, they’re not in jail.”
“Where are they?” Gray asked. He and Blades had never gotten along, and he said as little as possible in the doctor’s presence.
“Well—” Nat pursed his lips and blew out in a
tuneless whistle “—I’ve been told not to ask more questions about that. But I don’t think they’re in custody anymore.”
“What?” Gray said explosively. “Don’t you think you should have shared that with me? We’ve got people to look out for. How can those two crazies be on the loose?”
Gray stepped back and Nat saw the instant when Gray’s attention shifted elsewhere. Gray, Nat could tell by the shuttered distance in his eyes, had mentally checked out of the morgue and the conversation going on there, at least for now.
“How did that happen?” Blades asked. Actual concern replaced his usually impassive expression. “I didn’t hear about it.”
Nat shook his head. “I said I don’t
think
the Fourniers are in custody. I didn’t get a definite answer.”
“Because they think they can keep the lid on this,” Blades said. He looked ruffled, not something Nat remembered witnessing before. “The fools, they’re shoving their heads in the sand. This is going to make things harder.”
“Why?” Gray said, returning to the conversation. “What kind of burr got stuck under your saddle? You didn’t get us over here to discuss—”
“I didn’t get
you
over here at all,” Blades said.
Nat cleared his throat. “You said there was something interesting you wanted to show me, Dr. Blades,” he said and winced when he heard Gray mutter what sounded like
“Dr. Death,”
under his breath. The last time Gray called the man that it had been out loud and had caused antagonism between them that had lasted for years and still continued.
Blades must have heard, too, but he set his jaw and ignored Gray. “We got a body in this afternoon. Heart attack.”
Nat’s own heart quickened. “You mean Billy Baker?”
“How did you know?” Blades’s frown bunched his hairless brow over his eyes.
“I was called in before they decided it was a heart attack,” Nat said.
“It
was
a heart attack.”
A rap on the doorjamb got their attention. “Excuse me,” Ben Fortune said. “I was told I’d find you here.”
It wasn’t easy for Nat to cover his surprise.
“Who are you?” Blades said.
“This is Ben Fortune,” Gray said, his eyes wide and innocent. “Sykes must have sent you over, Ben. I guess he couldn’t get here himself.”
“Right,” Ben said.
With any luck Blades wouldn’t figure out that neither Sykes nor Ben should know anything about this meeting, but Nat wasn’t fooled. He had just run into Gray on the street when Blades’s call came in. They had come straight here. Nat decided the dormant psychic ability Gray was rumored to have rekindled since he met his wife, Marley, was real. He had contacted Ben telepathically and got him here.
Nat had witnessed too much evidence of psychic abilities to dismiss their existence and both the Millet and the Fortune families—and who knew what others?—were legendary for their mystical gifts.
Blades didn’t shake the hand Ben offered.
“This isn’t a social gathering,” Blades said. “Archer, this is something very serious.”
“I’ll vouch for Ben,” he said, imagining a scene where he was stripped of his weapon and badge for flouting his superiors. “He’s an old friend with some experience around cases like this.” Once they were out of here, he’d have to nail Ben and Gray to find out what their deal was.
“Like what?” Blades’s face would have fitted right in on Mount Rushmore.
“Cases where we may be dealing with supernatural elements.”
“Did I say anything about that?”
“You’re going to,” Gray said, making Nat wince.
“Shut the door,” Blades said in a monotone. “I’ve got something to show you.”
“Surprise,” Gray muttered.
Blades let his eyes close momentarily. Beside Ben and Gray, big men who exuded vitality, the doctor resembled a wraith.
Following the ME, Nat went with Gray through another door into a smaller room where a covered body lay on a steel table.
Ben shut the outer door, caught up and immediately covered his nose. Gray and Nat did the same thing, but Blades’s expression never changed at the odor.
“What are you looking for?” Blades asked Ben, who had looked over his shoulders in both directions as if searching for something.
Ben shrugged, one corner of his mouth turning up. “I thought both bodies might be in here.”
“There’s only one,” Blades said, looking quizzically at Ben. “So far.” He pulled gloves from a container on the wall and snapped them on. “How come you were called to a heart attack?” Blades asked Nat.
“One of the officers at the scene thought I’d want to be there,” Nat said. “He saw one of the dragon victims.”
“And he thought this was another one?” Blades shrugged. “Surprising he’d make the connection.”
Nat hadn’t missed Ben’s remark about two bodies. This wasn’t the moment to press him about it, but plenty of explanations would be needed later.
Was there another body? One that raised suspicion? Nat kept his attention on the body, but his back tensed.
The overhead lights flattened everything in the cheerless space. White blended with steel and every surface gave off a glare.
“We’re between a rock and a hard place,” Blades said, plucking at the sheet. “The powers that be in this town are afraid of something and you know what it is.” He gave Nat a significant look. “General panic in the city. People are settling down a bit after the last lot. Short memory is a great healer, but if this new event gets out, it won’t take long for connections to be made. Then the rumors will fly.”
“Shit,” Gray said. “It’s happened again, hasn’t it?”
“Something has,” Blades told him, drawing the cover away from a body. “I’m glad your wife, Marley—isn’t that her name? I’m glad she’s okay. I know it got close there.”
Promptly, Gray said, “Thanks. I appreciate that.”
Blades waved a hand. “I think Molyneux and the rest of them will resist admitting this has anything to do with the earlier cases, don’t you?”
At first Nat wasn’t sure what he was seeing. He went closer and looked down on what had been Billy Baker. He identified the man from what was left of very curly blond hair.
“My God,” Gray muttered.
“What did that?” Nat asked, studying livid, exposed flesh that seemed to have bubbled.
“The skin’s peeling off,” Ben said, closing in. “From the ribs up. It looks like it lifted up in circles around the little red wounds.”
“It started up here.” Blades indicated the area of the forehead and scalp. “I don’t know what caused the wounds yet.”
“Maybe you won’t now,” Ben said. “Won’t the missing skin make it harder?”
“We’ll see,” Blades responded shortly. “The technicians said the skin was all there when they bagged him. It didn’t drop off in the bag, it just disappeared. I thought you’d want to know there were what looked like puncture wounds, Archer. Nothing like the ragged messes we’ve seen before, but still punctures.”
Nat glanced away from the table. “Maybe they’ve been practicing,” he said, “and developed more finesse.”
He added, “So what did he really die of?”
“Heart attack,” Blades said, sounding annoyed. “Scared to death I should think. He must have seen whatever was coming and died before it could kill him.”
V
al Brandt behaved as if he didn’t know or particularly care to know most of the people at his own party. Handsome in a muscular, glossy, self-assured way, his charm was undeniable. But the smiles he aimed in all directions were not the kind that made people feel warm, or they wouldn’t if most people weren’t a little or a lot drunk.
Every inch of the Brandts’ classically sumptuous home was incredibly beautiful.
Rich
was the word that came to Willow’s mind. Nothing had been spared in putting together the best of everything.
Willow had spent almost two hours at Val’s side and still wasn’t sure why she was needed. The guests used the house and grounds, including a large oval pool and whitewashed, purple-wisteria-loaded cabana, as if they lived there.
Food and drinks loaded every surface in a honey-colored granite, blond wood and stainless steel kitchen where the visitors wandered in and out, helping themselves. More tables were set out in front of the cabana. Servers worked on refills, but Willow hadn’t seen any sign of a recognizable catering company. Supplies had already been there when she arrived.
“So, what d’you think?” Val said.
They stood in the foyer beside a table bearing a huge arrangement of tropical flowers. The front door stood open and a constant stream of arrivals and departures laughed its way past.
“Of the house?” Willow felt out of her depth and it annoyed her. She wasn’t usually intimidated.
“The whole place,” Val said, his blue eyes bright in a tanned face that made his blond hair almost surfer-white. “Chloe will be back before long I’m sure, and she’ll expect me to have entertained you.” He smiled widely. “You’re going to love Chloe. Everyone does.”
“I’m sure, but I came to do a job,” she reminded him. “It’s nice of you to want me to be comfortable, though.” In fact, she’d done very little other than repeatedly explain to those who didn’t know Val Brandt that she was not Val’s wife.
Willow reminded herself of the fall-off in her business and how much she needed one or two new and lucrative clients.
Val surprised her by slipping a hand beneath her elbow. He wasn’t a tall man, but she still looked up at him. The big smile had gone, replaced by the slight drawing together of his eyebrows and a serious intensity in his eyes.
“Let’s go back out to the gardens,” he said. “I’d like us to talk about what Chloe and I have in mind. First I wanted to watch you with people. See how you coped.”
“Really?”
Being watched, for any reason, was at the bottom of her welcome list. Lately she had a creepy feeling that eyes were trained on her whenever she was away from her office or flat.
She folded her hand around the cell phone in her pocket. Chris hadn’t called back and she wished he would, even if it could be inconvenient here. It hadn’t sailed past her that twice in one day a Mean ’n Green employee had been present at a death scene. That wasn’t a fact she wanted to get around.
“You fit in real well, Willow, real well,” Val said. He paused for a long kiss on the lips from a blonde in a green bikini.
They arrived outside the back of the house on the raised, white stone terrace again. Torches had been lit among beds of shrubs. A combo played mellow jazz that blended with the scent of warm flowers—and hot, perfumed skin. The night was cooling down, but a residue of humidity clung to the air.
Willow couldn’t miss the sexy cavorting in and around the pool, but behaved as if she hadn’t noticed a thing. She needn’t have bothered to put the swimsuit on under her dress since nothing would get her to take off any clothing here.
“You can see what our problem is, can’t you?” Val said.
Blank, Willow looked around.
“I see you do. We like the social life. Having the place filled with friends makes us happy. We pride ourselves on supporting the arts, and occasions like this are meant for those people to network. But we’ve had a bad time getting good help. For tonight Chloe hired some casual help we’ve used before and had everything delivered early, but we wanted to see you take over. Too bad she had to leave. She’ll be real pleased with you, real pleased.”
Since she hadn’t done anything, it was on Willow’s mind to ask why, but she resisted. “That’s good.”
“You’ve got a great, easy manner. You fit right in and know exactly the right note to strike. You’ve got a real calming manner, real calming. Most people couldn’t walk in here cold and start putting guests at ease. You’re a natural. And you look the part. A little arty yourself, maybe, and very easy on the eyes.”
This might not be one of the new customers she wanted to take on, Willow thought. Only weeks earlier, Chloe Brandt had contacted her with an offer she wouldn’t consider. Chloe wanted her to consider becoming their full-time assistant, and Willow wasn’t interested. She was hoping, however, that she might be able to pick up smaller jobs from them.
A tall brunette with a fabulous figure shown off in a low-cut, one-piece white swimsuit, strolled up, tying a length of white chiffon around her hips. “I am so late, Val, honey,” she said. “My shoot ran long. Tell me you forgive me. Where’s Chloe?”
“Willow, meet Vanity,” Val said. “Friend of the family since we were children. She’s a model. Chloe had an engagement, darlin’. She should be back anytime.”
“Poor Chloe,” Vanity said. “I’ll look after her when she does come home. She’ll be interested in meeting your new friend, Val.”
“Willow is a professional,” he said rapidly. “And she’s very good at what she does.”
Vanity, who had lovely Mediterranean features with deep brown eyes and olive skin to complete the package, gave Willow a speculative glance. “I’ll take your word for it,” she told Val.
“I’m Willow Millet.” Some things needed to be made clear and fast. “I own a company that caters to domestic needs. We take care of everything from shopping, cleaning and generally maintaining households and gardens, to large catering jobs and special events. We can also deal with personal assistant work—theater tickets, restaurant reservations—you name it and we can probably do it.” Willow considered her network of go-to people her greatest strength.
Vanity looked interested now. “How many regular employees do you have? It’s always the casual staff that make me nervous.”
“We have a full-time staff of six and several regular part-timers. We employ a large pool of what you call casual workers, but they are all well-vetted and we rarely have to call in first-time employees.”
Vanity smiled approvingly. “So you did the catering tonight? The food looks yummy.”
“I didn’t—”
“Willow also makes sure her events run smoothly,” Val interrupted. “She’s a natural hostess and you know how often Chloe isn’t up to all the noise and fuss. Look around. Everyone’s having one hell of a time.”
“I shall steal you away from Val and Chloe then,” Vanity said. “I have the worst time getting good help.”
“We found her so she’s ours,” Val said, laughing. “We’re going to keep her so busy she won’t have time for you or anyone else.”
Willow grew more uncomfortable by the second. This wasn’t her scene. She was happy supervising staff at an event like this, but she realized that she had no interest in playing hostess.
“Millet,” Valerie said suddenly, snapping her fingers. “Not
the
Millets? The voodoo ones?”
“Psychic,” Willow said reflexively. Darn her carelessness. “That’s the story they tell about us, anyway.”
“Mmm,” Vanity said, giving Willow a piercing look. “But you say it isn’t true? All the red-haired, green eyes stuff? You are all red-haired and green-eyed?”
This could get boring. “Actually not. But a number of us are. It’s just worked out that way.” She forced a little laugh. “The family has a penchant for a certain look in the people they choose as partners.”
“You did admit the psychic bit,” Vanity said and her dark eyes sparkled with interest.
“I said that’s the story about us,” Willow told her. “That’s all. New Orleans does love its little myths.”
Screams from the pool demanded attention. Two men held a streaming beauty aloft while she stripped off the top of her bikini and flung out her arms. Torchlight flickered over her large, white breasts before she kicked free and landed back in the water. A great deal of splashing and screeching followed, and a lot of underwater action. Willow turned hot.
Vanity bent to whisper in Willow’s ear. “Women like her embarrass me. How about you?”
“I’m not supposed to have opinions when I’m working,” Willow said. “But I agree with you.”
A shadow passed over her and she felt as if it slipped away into a group to the right. Willow’s skin tightened and she shivered. She looked to see what or who had caught her attention, but couldn’t make out anything remarkable.
Her throat tightened, as if a big hand had gripped her there and she dragged in a breath.
A subtle shift in the atmosphere, almost nothing at first, made it hard to concentrate.
Anger?
In every direction she saw apparently gleeful partygoers, yet she felt growing anger around her. A harsh current buffeted her, and she glanced from Val to Vanity, neither of whom registered anything unusual.
“Look after Vanity, will you,” Val said to Willow. “I want to run inside and see if there’s a message from Chloe. She should be here.” He went toward the house.
“You don’t need to look after me. I’m not Chloe.” Vanity sounded somber enough to make Willow stare at her. Somber, but not angry. “Chloe isn’t strong—I don’t mean physically—and I watch out for her. I’m like the sister she never had. All of this is something she hates, all the noise and fuss. And she can’t stand anything lewd, which is getting harder to avoid these days—particularly with the circles they move in. He’s worried because she’s late.” She nodded after Val’s retreating back.
“Oh, dear.” She wondered why Val had lied about Chloe liking big parties.
Vanity shook her head. “It’s okay. She’ll have found somewhere to be alone until she can cope. She has her places.”
More parts of swimsuits landed beside the pool. And more guests jumped in, most of them naked before they reached the water.
“And a good time was had by almost all,” Vanity said, sounding impatient. “Fortunately, they’ll start peeling off before long. Just as soon as they have to crash—or whatever else they have to do. Don’t open any closed bedroom doors or look behind bushes.”
Willow decided she liked Vanity’s commonsense attitude, even if the party was already out of hand and scary. She didn’t like the thought of going down the driveway and out to the street in the dark on her own when the time came, but she had parked the scooter out there to avoid getting blocked in.
A man in an orange aloha shirt and relaxed silk shorts confronted Vanity and held out his arms. “There’s my best girl,” he said. “And they’re playing our song.”
Vanity smiled and let him dance her away to the area near the combo where couples clung together and swayed in the colored puddles from fairy lights around an awning.
Willow decided she would go into the kitchen and see if she could help freshen up any of the platters. What she really wanted was to be back in her flat, preferably with Winnie curled up beside her if that could be managed. Keeping busy was the next best thing. She nodded and smiled approvingly at a man replenishing jugs of sangria.
A flash of dread wiped away her smile.
Slick, cool awareness opened her mind until she saw everything as if by floodlight. The warning signs of the so-called power she unwillingly shouldered were familiar. Until a few months ago they had come to her rarely, but the frequency was increasing.
“Leave me alone,” she whispered fiercely, feeling wild. “Go away.” Then she felt ridiculous talking to nothing and no one in particular.
Her eyes met those of an elegant man lounging on the cushions of a wrought-iron chaise. Immediately, she lowered her gaze—to his well-made body clad in dark gray, his long legs and bare feet.
She had to see his face again.
Younger than she’d thought at first, perhaps much younger. In his twenties, but with mature, confident features.
Anger.
Wincing, she barely stopped herself from whirling away. Was it this man who caused the anger that swirled around her? Why would he?
Vibrations, like an intermittent stream of air blasted against a thin rubber membrane, blocked out the voices, the music.
Not just anger, but rage. She felt it more strongly by the moment. And it was all around her, pushing at her, tossing her hair and plastering her skirt to her legs.
Someone touched her and she knew it would be the young man from the chaise. “Are you okay?” he said, inclining his head. Up close he looked a little older, perhaps in his early thirties. His concern showed.
“Fine,” she said. “I was thinking about some things I have to get done.”
He inclined his head. “It’s a party. What do you have to do except enjoy yourself?”
Pretense didn’t sit well with her—it always seemed pointless. “I’m an employee,” she said pleasantly. “I’m helping out, overseeing things until Mrs. Brandt gets here.”
He raised arched brows. “Val Brandt has good taste. Don’t hold your breath for Chloe to show up—poor girl hates parties. She may come when just about everyone else has left.” He took stock of the surrounding activities. “This isn’t her scene. She’s quiet—distinguished, I guess you’d say.”
“So why have parties like this?” she asked before she could edit herself. “Forget I asked. It’s not my business.”
“What’s your name?” he said. “I’m Preston Moriarty.”
“Willow Millet.”
“Well, Willow Millet, it is your business if you’re supposed to make sure a party is a success. Not that these parties are what you’d call theme affairs, or even guided revels.”
“Is it always like this?” Willow asked.
“Not always. The crowd varies.”
“But you’re often here?”
He dazzled her with a smile. “Uh-huh. I hope you’re going to be here often, too. I’d have more to look forward to.”
“Why do you come if you don’t like it?”
He looked away. “I didn’t say that. I’m part of the trappings, the expected hangers-on. Val and Chloe have been very good to me, and they like having me around. There are never enough single men—or so they insist.”