[Bayou Gavotte 03.0] Heart of Constantine (18 page)

In a haze of fear, Marguerite scrambled up, abandoned the ruined bike, and plunged past a fence too high to climb into a vacant lot. She dodged around trees and stumbled through the remains of a demolished house, bruising her knees and scraping her hands on old bricks and concrete supports.
He’s supposed to kill me with the van
, she kept telling herself.
That’s what happens in the dream
. But it was just a dream, and she didn’t know anymore what was real and what wasn’t.

Finally she had to stop. She heaved her lungs full again and again, gradually quieting her breath, and listened. The night was noisy with tree frogs and katydids, but even so, a vast silence and emptiness seemed to surround her, and for a while she heard no foreign sounds. She should call the cops, but she had no idea where she was. She crept through another vacant lot and more woods to the huge open parking lot of a church. Which church? She didn’t know, but if she crept around to the front, she would be all too visible in the ghastly light of the moon. She retreated to the edge of the woods and got out her cell phone.

And froze. The engine purred its threat, and the van drifted around the corner toward the front of the church, quietly, patiently, without headlights. The moon lit up the driver’s head, smooth and horrifyingly featureless but for the eyes staring her way. Had he seen her? His aura roiled, flared, lunged with murderous intent. The church—dark, empty, and doubtless locked—offered no sanctuary. She dashed back across the corner of the vacant lot. There were houses on that side, but a six-foot fence surrounded the first yard. The van stopped in front of the church, and she
heard, clearly as a shot, the sinister click of the closing of the driver’s door.

Once again terror took over. She heaved herself at the fence, scrabbling and sobbing, and fell back. Much too high. Back through the vacant lot or along the fence?
Quick, quick, decide!
No sound but her own breathing and the thundering of her heart. Then a crow, its slumber disturbed, cawed loudly overhead, and around the side of the church came a flurry of bats, swooping and diving. Marguerite fled before them along the fence. One bat flickered close enough to touch her, and then another, and she shied violently aside and fell through an unlocked gate at the far end of a yard.

Marguerite scrambled up and with shaking hands locked the gate behind her. The bats wheeled back toward the churchyard. She crept through the dark, quiet yard, out the front gate, and across the deserted street into a garden. Yet another fence, a low one, and a bevy of barking dogs a few doors down. She slipped around the back of an empty house damaged by a fallen tree, forced herself across a tangle of wire fence and creepers, and turned into the next road in the opposite direction from the dogs. Under a tree in another yard, she caught her breath again and listened for the sounds of pursuit. Silence, except for the insect chorus and a few lagging yips from the dogs. She got out her phone, trying to figure out where she was so she could tell the cops.

Then the engine purred its approach, and the van rolled around the corner toward her.

Marguerite took off again through a maze of yards. A screech owl flitted from tree to tree ahead of her, calling tremulously. If she made a ruckus knocking on a door and
calling for help, would anyone wake or come in time? What if she endangered someone? No, she had to go on, find someplace bright and public. And safe.

Finally,
finally
lights showed in the distance, and the thin sound of voices raised in an eerie chant. Marguerite heaved herself over another fence into a wooded area without much underbrush. Maybe it was another abandoned lot; there were so many since the hurricanes. She threaded her way through the trees, fending off low branches, leaping fallen logs. Her pursuer scrambled over the fence behind her, breathing heavily but not desperately, bursts of sound like tiny chokes of laughter issuing nastily from his throat. Possessed of a demon, she thought stupidly as she ran.
Almost there, almost there…

Before her chanted a circle of people in flickering robes, surrounded by a shimmering dome of light. His breathing rasped close behind her. He touched her, grabbed at her shirt. Bats swarmed and dove, and the man grunted in rage. The owl screeched, the circle widened toward her, and Marguerite took one last desperate leap. She burst through the dome of light with a crack loud enough to rend the sky and blacked out before she hit the grass.

CHAPTER NINE

Z
eb ran through the streets of Bayou Gavotte, searching for the black van. It felt as if he hadn’t slept in days. After playing suitably contrite while his dad ranted the whole drive home, he’d cleaned off the greasepaint and collapsed into bed, setting his cell for an hour later. These days and nights, nastiness was afoot, and he was the only one who could stop it. When he woke, he dressed, checked his dad’s room, and pocketed his ring of copied keys. It was getting pretty heavy, seeing as he’d copied any key he could get ahold of, but he never knew which vehicle or building he would need to open. A quick reconnoiter showed that the van wasn’t in Eaton Wilson’s driveway where it belonged. He set off to find out what tonight’s mischief would be.

It looked like more than mischief, though. If anyone but Marguerite had fed him that story, he wouldn’t have even considered believing it. But Marguerite was safer than most people, and when she’d told him, months ago, that he didn’t need to keep his aura folded with her, he’d been blown away. It was like having an angel sent by his mom, which was about as hokey as you could get, but it sure felt good to let go.

Only a few months ago, he would never have believed he could be thankful his mom was dead. Her heart would
break over what faced him now. He’d been juggling for weeks, playing ugly games that were getting uglier by the day. What if Marguerite was right and Pauline had indeed been murdered?

Too bad he couldn’t consult Constantine. Zelda’d been texting all evening, which was a goddamned nuisance at the club.
U OK?
she’d ask. What was he supposed to reply?
Hunky-dory, girl—pimping’s my dream job.
If he even hinted at what he was doing, she’d tell her mom, who was a freak about club rules. And Zelda wouldn’t take
Busy L8R
for an answer. She’d decided he needed life advice and was bent on getting him to talk to Dufray. If he didn’t know her better—Zelda was a straight shooter—he’d think she was in cahoots with the rock star. If he agreed, she might let up, but not if she knew why.

He wasn’t about to ask Dufray for help, because the rock star would take matters into his own hands, and Zeb wasn’t ready for that. He had to make up his own mind about what needed to be done.

He wished he didn’t have to go it alone, but for now there was no other way. He wished he could ask Constantine questions he really needed answered—such as how did a vigilante decide when murder was justified? When it was the only answer? How did Constantine steel himself to kill someone? He’d made inflicting pain look sickeningly easy.

Zeb could have sworn Marguerite was safe, that she’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time last night, but with each block he grew less and less certain, and without really intending to, he found himself approaching her house. Dark and quiet. Only the songs of a zillion bugs and frogs filled the night. If Lawless were here, he would come
to the door to check Zeb out. And the car wasn’t there, which seemed strange. Was she spending the night with the old dude she’d been with at the Merkin? If she was dating Constantine, why would she go dancing with someone else? The guy looked like an old mobster. A bodyguard?

Zeb circled Marguerite’s place, but Lawless didn’t bark, didn’t whine, didn’t come to say hello. More than a little uneasy, Zeb left her street and wove through the nearby neighborhoods, eyes peeled for any sign of the black van. Instead he found Marguerite’s car, empty and unlocked, by a crumpled bike in a ditch.

“Marguerite.” A harsh voice battered her. “Wake up!”

Marguerite surfaced in a paroxysm of terror and lashed out, sobbing, at the arms that imprisoned her.

“It’s okay, Marguerite. You’re safe, babe. It’s okay.”

She forced her lids open and met Constantine’s dark eyes. “Oh,” she sighed, sinking gratefully back into his embrace. “Thank God you’re here.” Then the whole thing slammed in on her, and sobs rushed up, unstoppable. She threw her face against his chest and shook with their force.

His arms tightened, and he cradled her, rocking gently. A babble of voices broke through. Female voices. Lavonia, taking charge: “Bring her inside the house.” Lawless’s wet nose shoving at her, his worried whimper, and Constantine’s arm drawing away to comfort the dog and then cradling her again. Stray words: “Couch. Coffee. Doctor? Police? Can she walk? Better carry her.”

“Leave us alone for a minute,” said Constantine. “Go make coffee, but no doctors. I’ve texted a friend who’s a cop. No, she’s fine. I’ll carry her in.”

The voices faded, and Marguerite lifted her face, shuddering breaths slowing now. She sniffled and dug in her pocket for a tissue to wipe her nose. “Where are we? Did you catch him?”

“Unfortunately no. I got here too late.”

They were on a garden bench in someone’s backyard, and she was curled on his lap. She felt comfortable there, and safe, but she wasn’t a baby to be carried, so she resisted the urge to lay her head on his chest again. “Let me get up.”

“Marguerite,” said Constantine into her ear, “I can’t have sex with you, but allow me the pleasure of holding you.” He paused. “Before I ask you what the hell you thought you were doing.”

She struggled out of his clasp and sat beside him. “You didn’t answer your phone. He was driving away. I needed to get information any way I could.” She blinked, brushing the hair out of her eyes. Lights shone from the house, and Lavonia watched them from behind a set of sliding doors. She wore a long, dark, flowing robe. A meeting of her coven?

“That’s no reason to risk your life.” Constantine spoke gruffly, his aura like the limp dangling of wilted leaves. “Let me handle this mess. I may be a brutal sort of guy, but I don’t want the deaths of innocents added to my fuckup account.”

“You were going to find Zeb and beat the truth out of him. I
had
to follow that van.”

He didn’t reply, and the cacophony of bugs singing love songs in the night only deepened the silence between them.
Lawless panted at their feet, and the moon hung low in the sky.

What had she expected? He wasn’t the sort of man to concede or change his ways. “It was an old Ford van, but I didn’t even get the plate number,” she said, dashing away more tears before they even had a chance to emerge. “It was half-covered with mud, and so were the lights around it, and I couldn’t use my headlight, and I didn’t have a flashlight… There was an 8J in the middle, but that’s all I’m sure of. Do you think Gideon can get somewhere with that?”

“Maybe.” He took out his phone and sent a text message. “In the meantime, what am I supposed to do with you? You
do
need protection, girl.”

“So does Zeb,” she shot back. Lavonia still hovered behind the French doors.

His cell phone rang. “Jabez, I need you to pick up a little red Honda and bring it to me.” He gave an address Marguerite didn’t recognize.

Marguerite gaped. “My car?”

“Quickest way to follow you. I was in the bayou when you called.” He told Jabez where to find the car. “The keys are in the ignition. Say what? Okay, man—thanks.” He hung up. “If it’s been stolen, I’ll get you a new car, babe.”

“Not necessary.
In
the bayou?” She shuddered. “What about snakes? You could have been bitten!”

“I’m an Indian, babe. At one with nature. Snakes, birds, bats… we have a special rapport.”

“Right.” Marguerite’s tone might be sarcastic, but recollection stirred at the back of her mind. Bats? She couldn’t even
think
about that right now. Then his thigh brushed
hers, mildly invasive, definitely sensual. Sighing, she said, “We have to talk.”

His aura flickering with frustration, he moved a fraction of an inch away, ran his hands through his hair, and braided it swiftly behind his head. The curls of his desire tightened like ferns going back in time, fiddleheads doing their best to contract and disappear. She felt an urge to hug him, to swear that everything would be okay. How could sex with him be dangerous when he had such control over himself? He’d never shown her any physical violence. He’d tried to scare her away, but without much conviction. What was he afraid of?