[Bayou Gavotte 03.0] Heart of Constantine (16 page)

Nathan smirked, clicking more pictures. “Why aren’t you worried, Marguerite? Nobody believed me when I first reported it, but now it’s obvious. Your roommate’s death wasn’t suicide. Constantine sent her nightmares. He induced her to kill herself, just like that cop in Baton Rouge. Next he’ll do it to you.”

Tony growled low in his throat and moved in to do some serious damage.

“Wait.” Marguerite crammed her disgust back down her craw. She raised her voice, which might with luck be overheard above the music. “Nathan, the only dreams I’ve had since meeting Constantine are about sex, and believe me, they’re very, very good ones.”

This evinced a number of giggles and oohs from the women in Nathan’s audience.

“That’s only for starters,” Nathan retorted. “Look what happened to his wife.”

Marguerite rolled her eyes. Maybe without Constantine around, she could get some useful information. She lowered her voice again. “Nathan, who’s feeding you this garbage?”

“Someone who knows how dangerous Constantine is,” Nathan said dramatically. “Someone who knows he has to be stopped before someone else dies.”

“What a load of bull,” Tony said. “Come on, baby. If you don’t want me to deck him, let’s go.”

“Tell me who!” Marguerite repeated, and then the flickers in Nathan’s aura told her. “You don’t even know who your informant is, do you? Then what in God’s name makes you think you can believe him?”

“I’ll find out who he is soon enough,” Nathan said. “Work a story from all angles, and the whole truth will come out.”

Not necessarily, thought Marguerite, reminded of her father and the vampire actors whose secret he hadn’t betrayed, regardless of the cost to him. She recalled something Constantine had said up on the mound, and her stomach gave a nauseating little flip. “Be careful, Nathan. Maybe your informant doesn’t want to be found out, especially since he’s not telling the truth at all.”

Nathan shook his head mournfully. “Nah, he’s just scared of Constantine, and who can blame him? Don’t say I didn’t try to warn you, but I’m still on your side, Marguerite. Smile for the camera again!”

They left him at the bar and made a slow circuit of the club, but again there was no sign of Zeb. In the dance hall, where entirely modern music clashed with seventeenth century decor, Marguerite burned off some of her frustration with vigorous exercise. Unfortunately, Nathan didn’t choose to reappear until later, when she was plastered against Tony in a slow dance. She tried to put a bit of distance between them, but Tony held her tight. “Ignore him,” he said. “If you want to be with Constantine, you’ll have to get used to it.”

“The whole world will think I’m a slut,” she muttered, although given her parentage, they’d probably already passed judgment on that one. “Anyway, who said I want to be with Constantine?” And then, “Damn it, Tony. You have a hard-on!”

“Why not? It’s fun being turned on.” Tony moved a big hand down to cup one of her ass cheeks. Nathan snapped
another picture. “Maybe these pics will convince Constantine to get his act together.”

Marguerite slapped his hand away. “Stop fondling my butt. Let’s go sit down.”

But the instant Tony sat still, women flocked around him. Marguerite sketched the costumes, some of which were fabulous, but her heart wasn’t in it. Nathan stopped by to take another photo of Marguerite (as he put it) pouting.

And then, at last, at last, she saw what she’d been waiting for all evening. She mightn’t have recognized Zeb except for the tight, uneasy aura that was his trademark. That he didn’t try masking it told her what she needed. She gave Tony’s shoulder a brief, meaningful squeeze. “I’ll be right back.”

Zeb was waiting for her just past the restrooms in an alcove that held a neglected-looking pay phone. He’d chosen a good spot; music from the dance hall penetrated, but they could speak together in low tones. Black and white greasepaint sectioned Zeb’s face into four equal parts; she supposed, by the powdered wig, that he was meant to be eighteenth century. His shirt hung partway open to reveal a well-muscled chest and a silver chain from which hung a heavy cross studded with purple stones; he also sported a matching ring and an ankle chain. His knee breeches were as revealing as a ballet dancer’s tights.

“Good God,” she said faintly.

“Dressed for success,” he said with a crooked grin, but fatigue and anxiety pervaded his aura. His dark eyes searched her, as if assessing her motives.

“Sorry about this afternoon,” Marguerite said. “Constantine wasn’t supposed to be there, but my house got burgled,
and he’s friends with the cop who came to do the police report.”

He frowned. “Someone broke into your place? What did they take?”

“Nothing, as far as I can tell, but I think Lawless surprised them into leaving in a rush.”

“Huh,” he said. “Well, I don’t suppose it has anything to do with anything, and I don’t think you’re in danger, but maybe you should leave town for a while just in case.”

“I can’t go anywhere right now. Classes start next week, and I’m teaching two this semester.” She paused. “Constantine believes I
am
in danger.”

Zeb’s aura bristled. “Constantine needs to butt out of my business.”

“Why not enlist him as an ally?” she said. “I don’t know what you’ve got yourself mixed up in, but he’s used to handling dangerous people and situations.”

“He’s used to hurting people, you mean.” His aura sparked, and he glanced warily in the direction of the dance floor.

“He’s not here,” Marguerite said. “I told him I needed to talk to you alone.”

“And he agreed?” He sounded incredulous. “I still don’t get why he let me go.”

“Just for tonight,” she admitted. “He thinks I’m wasting my time.” When he said nothing, she plowed forward. “What’s going on? Is there anything I can do to help?”

Zeb’s face twisted. Zigs and zags of agitation spat like fireworks around his form. He swallowed. “No. If Constantine hadn’t shown up this morning, everything would have
been fine. It was just a stupid practical joke. I would have handled it.”

“I’m sorry, Zeb, but for me getting drugged and dumped unconscious up there is a lot more than a practical joke.” She hated to ask this, but… “Did you drug me? I find that hard to believe.”

His aura quivered and wept. “Of course not!”

“But you know who did.”

Now his aura surged with flames of misery. “Yes, but I’m sure it wasn’t meant to harm you.”

“Constantine said you told him the person who did it knows and likes me.”

“That’s why I know he didn’t mean you any harm. It has nothing to do with Constantine, and if he’d just stay out of the frigging way and leave me alone—”

“Constantine says it does have to do with him, and I agree. Otherwise how would a reporter have known about that little scenario and shown up just in time?”

Zeb shrugged. “It’s just a coincidence. Everybody knows the mounds are one of the places he hangs when he wants to be alone.”

This was true. For a while last year, fans had haunted the mounds day and night, but they’d never found Constantine and had finally given up.

But this morning wasn’t a coincidence. Someone had sent Nathan there.

“Just believe me, will you?” Zeb said. “The scenario had nothing to do with Constantine. Nothing at all.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

T
here was a long silence. Marguerite knew Zeb was wrong, but she also knew he meant every word. To confirm it, she said, “You’re certain of that, aren’t you?”

“Positive,” he said. “I swear. Will you please tell Constantine?”

“Yes, but it’s not that simple.” She hesitated, and his eyes widened, each eye contrasting oddly against the two colors of paint.

He lowered his voice even more, but it bit all the same. “You’re going to tell him I can control my aura.”

“What? Of course not,” she whispered indignantly. “And I trust you not to tell anyone I can see auras either. The problem is that Constantine may not believe what you’re telling me. If it was a practical joke that had nothing to do with him, who was it aimed at?”

Stubbornness descended like a cloud. “I can’t tell you that.”

“Okay,” she said, unsurprised. That would have been too easy. “How about the knife you took? Would it have implicated the person the joke was aimed at?”

He made a dismissive gesture, his ring winking in the light as a restroom door opened and closed. “Yeah, but don’t bother asking where it is. I separated the blade from
the handle and threw them away in different places. Nobody’s going to find them. It’s over.”

“It’s not over,” Marguerite said. “You don’t believe that either.”

His eyes evaded hers. “I’ve got to get back to work.”

This totally sucked. He’d trusted her once upon a time. Maybe if she confided in him, he would consider trusting her again. “Listen, Zeb. I’m going to tell you something else, but you have to keep it to yourself.”

“What?” His voice was impatient; his eyes flicked down the corridor. “I’m working. I can’t just hang here.”

“The police don’t think Pauline’s death was really a suicide,” she said.

“Huh?” The paint cut his frown in two, black wrinkles and white. “I thought she overdosed on her own meds. That’s what Lavonia told my dad.”

“Yes, but they suspect someone forced her to take them.”

“Wouldn’t there have been signs of a struggle?” Suspicion descended again on his brow. “I don’t believe it.”

Marguerite took a deep breath. “I don’t know how it was done, Zeb, and neither do the cops or Constantine, but I
do
believe them. Pauline was doing fine up until the day she died. She was reasonably happy, and she was definitely not suicidal.”

“How can you be so sure?” Pause. “Oh. Her aura, I suppose. Still, why would anybody want to kill Pauline?” Finally, his aura flickered a little: uncertainty.

“I have no idea.” She tried again. “Zeb, you know something, something that matters, something that might mean the difference between life and death. I can’t believe you’d willingly endanger anyone.”

Zeb sagged, definitely rattled now, but all he said was, “Sorry. I have to get back to work.”

“Listen to me!” she hissed. “If she really was murdered, and you’re keeping back something that might identify the murderer, it makes you an accessory!”

“I don’t know who did it,” he said, but his aura wavered again.

He might not know for sure, she thought, but he could probably make a good guess. “Zeb, please—”

“Oh, fuck,” he said softly. “My dad’s here.”
Relief
, she thought, in spite of his curse. Being chewed out by his father had the merit of being familiar and relatively safe.

“Where?” Marguerite began, and then she heard Al, too.

“I got a call that he was here,” Zeb’s father said loudly over the music. “He looks older, but he’s underage, and if you don’t find him and give him to me, I’ll make big trouble.”

Zeb’s aura folded tidily into tolerate-the-parent mode. He turned toward the wall, dug into the pocket of his knee breeches, and took out a roll of bills. “Keep this for me.”

Apparently he still trusted her in some ways. She took the money at the same instant a camera flashed behind her. “Gotcha!”

“Hell,” she muttered and stuffed the roll down her bra. Could it get any worse?

“Oh, Marguerite,” Nathan said gleefully as she turned. “Propositioning babies now? Your daddy would be proud.”

She rolled her eyes and went past him down the hall. “I don’t know why Constantine puts up with you.”

“I’m not a baby,” Zeb said plaintively behind her. “I’m legal for sex, just not for being in the club. Unfortunately, in spite of her gorgeous tits, all she wants is for me to mow her lawn.”

Nathan hooted. “That’s one way to put it,” he said, as Al Bonnard came around the corner, looking pained.

“Marguerite, call me when the lawn mower’s fixed,” Zeb said helpfully, “and I’ll be right over. Okay, okay,” he said to his father. “I’m coming.”

Tony appeared behind Al. “Now do I get to deck the asshole?”

“No,” Marguerite said, flapping what she hoped look like an indifferent hand. She would play along and act cool and sophisticated if it killed her. She slipped her hand into the crook of Tony’s arm. “Let’s have a couple more dances and then move on. The night is young, and we haven’t hit
all
the clubs yet.”

They escaped shortly afterward. The dense, damp night enveloped them like the maw of a fearsome, panting beast. The heat made her itch. Tears stung behind her eyes as she visualized the headlines.
Rocker’s Girl Robs the Cradle
. Next they’d be calling her Nympho McHugh. She just wouldn’t turn on her computer in the morning. Wouldn’t surf the Internet. Wouldn’t open her emails. If she didn’t know what they were saying, it wouldn’t hurt her. She took a deep breath. Soon this would be over, and she’d never have to be stuck in the limelight again.

“Get anywhere with the kid?” Tony asked.

“No.” She scowled into the darkness. “Sort of. He wouldn’t tell me who he’s protecting, but he insists the scenario on the mound had nothing to do with Constantine.”
She scratched one itchy palm and then the other. “I’m sure he meant what he said.” Now her cleavage was itching, too. “But I’m equally sure Constantine won’t believe him. Tony, he’ll hurt Zeb! What am I going to do?”

But Tony had no answer for that, merely informing her, after checking out her entire house, that Constantine would have someone keeping watch in her neighborhood all night. “Do you have his number? He says to call him if you need him.”

“For what?” she cried. “I wished I’d never—wish he’d—” She didn’t know what she wished.

Tony grabbed her cell phone and programmed in Constantine’s number. “Calm down, baby. He’s only doing what he has to. He’s a good guy at heart.”

“A good guy wouldn’t have to hurt Zeb,” she said.

Tony gave her a hug and left. She showered off the sweat to get rid of the itching, but even clean and cool, she lay awake far too long. Either the scenario was meant for Constantine or it wasn’t. Either Zeb was lying or Constantine was deluded. As for whoever had killed Pauline, that was just another complication in what already made no sense. Regardless, Constantine was going to go after Zeb, and she couldn’t stop him. She resolved to call Gideon O’Toole in the morning and tell him what Zeb had said. Maybe he could talk some sense into Constantine or go talk to Zeb himself.