Broken Illusions: A Midnight Dragonfly Novel (32 page)

He stood beyond the far drink station, as motionless as the statues, tall, shoulders wide, face hidden by a smooth, round mask. A hooded black robe concealed everything else.

“He’s here,” I realized as three laughing women danced through my line of vision. I lunged toward him, stumbling but not caring, stopping only when the women moved on, and the corner stood empty.

Chase caught up with me. “Who’s here?”

“I don’t know.” On the stage Deuce played the sax and Trey sang—but Detective Fourcade no longer stood.

Chase pulled me closer, steering me to a secluded bench and helping me sit, taking my hands.

And I knew later had come.

“Tell me what’s going on,” he said, and his voice was so quiet, so gentle, something inside me started to cry.

As if in slow motion, he lifted a hand to strip off his Zorro mask and let it fall to the ground. “This is me,” he said. “There’s no reason to be afraid.”

I looked toward the angel with her uplifted arms.

“It’s Belle Terre, isn’t it? Last night.”

The breeze blew colder.

“I wish I’d been there,” he said. “If I’d driven down after we talked, none of this would have happened.”

The butterfly effect, I thought again. It was natural to wonder, impossible to know. “Maybe,” I acknowledged. “Or maybe you would have walked to the church with me. Maybe you’d have gotten hurt—trapped.” Died.

I squeezed my eyes, opened them a breath later. Looking at him hurt.

“It killed me to see you this morning,” he said raggedly. “To hear you cry for your mother.”

I stilled. “W-what?”

“Your dream,” he said. “After I brought you home, when we were on the sofa.”

Another whisper of ice moved through me. Oh, God.
What had I said?

“You said ‘mama,’” he answered, as if I’d spoken. “You reached for her and started to cry, you told her how much you missed her.”

All day I’d been holding on, living one moment to the next, not allowing myself to look too far forward, or even a nanosecond behind me. To not lose myself in leftover fear, or grieve things that had not yet come to pass.

Now I realized I’d only been hiding. Because the past was always there, and the future always came. It was that whole forever thing. There had to be a before, and an after.

Maybe Belle Terre was it, that one defining moment when everything changed. And I couldn’t keep being vague, witholding details.

“I thought I saw her.” My throat tried to hold onto the words. “When I realized I was trapped and couldn’t get out, when the smoke got thick and I couldn’t breathe…” Hours later, the acrid residue lingered. “I thought I saw her running toward me.”

His hands squeezed mine. “You were scared. It makes sense you’d imagine—”

“I wasn’t imagining.” My absolute certainty surprised me. “She was there.”

“Trinity—”

“But not to greet me, or take me. But to … warn me.”

He pulled back. “Warn you?”

“Not to give up,” I said, searching his eyes. “She told me to fight, that it wasn’t my time.”

Around us, the sound of Deuce’s sax and Trey’s singing fell away.

“But I went to her anyway,” I whispered, and now it was me who was squeezing his hands. All I could think was if only I held on tight enough, it would be okay. “And that’s how I got out.”

The lines of his face tightened. “That’s how you found the window?”

“No,” I said, and I could feel it, even before I lifted the invisible knife, I could feel the horrible slow slice, straight down to my soul. “That’s how I found Dylan.”

THIRTY

There are moments you want to hold onto. They’re the ones you return to over and over in your mind, and your heart. You replay them like a much-loved movie and lose yourself in them, let yourself linger, remember. Relive.

And then there are the moments you want to forget. They’re usually the ones you never will. They sear into your life like scar tissue, bit by bit, excruciating detail by excruciating detail, and no matter how hard you try to erase or rewind or go back, to rewrite, it’s one piece of history that never wavers. It’s there, it’s real, and it changes everything.

The party rolled on. Lights twinkled, the breeze swirled, alcohol flowed, Trey sang, and Deuce played. Victoria danced, a woman draped in Mardi Gras beads laughed, and a waiter stood in the shadows, texting. Everyone wore masks—everyone, except Chase. Worried about me, he’d stripped his off, so I could see him, really, really see him.

And I don’t think I’ll ever forget it, the way he looked at me, the horrible, blank confusion, as if he had no idea what I’d just said, or who I even was. As if his life had just gone absolutely blank.

“What?”
was all he said.

Around me, the party faded. I knew what I had to say—hated what I had to say.

“He was there,” I said, as I should have so much sooner. There were so many should haves, going back further than only the day before. But when you stood on a ledge, when there was nothing to break your fall, it was so hard to make yourself take that first step. “He’s how I got out of the fire.”

I don’t know what I expected. Anger, I think. Jealousy. But Chase just stood there. I didn’t even see breath move through him. “You were with Dylan?”

His voice was so horribly empty, like the dead calm of the wind in those few fragile moments before a storm broke.

“Not
with
him,” I said, pressing into Chase as someone bumped me from behind. “Not like that. He was there, that’s all.”

“That’s why you went without me,” he murmured, and against mine, his hand went slack.

“No.” I held on, held on for both of us. “No!” I said again. “I wanted you there—I asked you to come, remember? You said you couldn’t.”

He stiffened. “So you found someone who could.”

“No.”
It was coming, the calm about to implode. I could see it in the hard lines of his body, the way his skin stretched across his face. “Chase, please.” I grabbed for words. “That’s not what happened. It was his father. He was worried about me—”

His hand fell away, and the blue of his eyes washed black. “He’s who you missed.”

The dead calm was really starting to frighten me. “W-what?”

“On the sofa,” he said, and finally it all clicked, those sharp, incriminating pieces slicing together with horrifying perfection. “When you were sleeping,” he said, and I totally thought I was going to throw up. Because I knew. I knew what was coming—what I’d said, done.

Remembered.

“I thought you were dreaming about your mother,” he said. “But I saw the look on your face. I heard your voice. And the way you were clinging to me—

“It was him, wasn’t it? You were holding him.”

Oh, God. “Chase, please—” Desperately, I reached for him. “I hardly even know him.”

He pulled his arm back.

My breath caught.

His
breath ripped. “I was out of my mind,” he said in a voice so bleached out I felt more than heard it. “When LaSalle called and told me about the fire, that you’d been trapped, the whole drive down there, wondering what I would find and beating myself up for not being there…”

I tried reaching for him again. “Chase—”

He caught me by the wrist, his hand closing around the leather bracelet and holding me at arm’s distance. “And now I find out you were with another guy?”

The buzz grew louder, distorting everything, and then it was last fall again, in the house on Prytania, with the world blowing up around us—and Chase not able to hear a word I was saying.

“It wasn’t like that. I had nothing to do with it. His father sent him to protect—”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?”

“I am telling you!”

“Was he with you in the hotel, too?” he pressed. “Did you share a room? Did you—”

I just stared at him.

“I can see it in your eyes,” he said. “Something happened.”

I stepped back, devastated. I’d known he wouldn’t like it. I’d known he would be upset. But even then, when I’d projected myself into this moment, when I’d made myself imagine every possible reaction, I’d never imagined it would cut so deep.

“I was scared this would happen,” I whispered, stunned. Just like last fall. “That you wouldn’t be able to look past the fact that Dylan was there, that nothing I said would matter.”

“Have you been talking to him this whole time? Is that why you shouted his name at Horizons—”

“Stop it!” Jerkily, I lifted a hand to rip the mask from my face. “Look at me,” I said, trying not to break. “This is me—Trinity. You know me better than that.”

The blue of his eyes went so, so dark—so lost. So gone. “Did he touch you?”

It was like being in some horrifying alternate universe where nothing played the way it was supposed to.

“How did you thank him? Was it
hot
—”

“Omigod,”
I whispered, stepping back. Because in that moment, I was the one who no longer wanted to touch. “Are you
serious
?”

His mouth twisted. “It’s a little late to ask me that,” he ground out, turning with the words, turning so fast he bumped into a waiter.

And exactly like last fall—exactly like the night on the levee—he walked away.

I stared after him, didn’t understand. Couldn’t understand. How had that just happened?

“Chase!” I shouted, going after him. “Don’t do this!”

He stopped abruptly, as if my words were rocks against his back. But he did not turn.

I went to him and laid my hands against his back, needed so badly to touch.

“Think about Pensacola,” I said quietly, even as my heart cried. “I am.”

His shoulders went stone hard.

“You can’t keep walking away from me like this—don’t you see how much that hurts?”

Still he did not turn. “You took the first step.”

My breath caught—my breath
stabbed
. “No—”

He tore away, pushing around a group of men smoking cigars—and this time when I moved, it wasn’t toward him.

Everywhere I turned, people pressed. I pushed through the laughter and the dancing, the masks in black and gold and silver, the demon and the jester, the whispers, the buzz that kept growing louder.

They didn’t know, I told myself. They didn’t watch.

I had to get out of there was all I could think. I had to get out of there before all those sharp, jagged pieces sliced to the bone. I needed to find Victoria—or Detective Fourcade. He would take me home—

I stopped abruptly, looking.

He was gone.

“No,” I breathed, spinning so fast I never saw the man in the black robe until I ran straight into him. I felt the pain as I looked up, the quick sharp slice to my side.

Then I saw the eyes.

THIRTY-ONE

I knew those eyes, knew them despite the round mask that covered his face, the one in all white that made him look more dead than alive. I’d looked into them through the window of my car, and moments later on the bank, as he’d lifted a hypodermic needle to my arm.

“Oh,
God, no
—”

“’Fraid you’re praying to the wrong guy,” he snarled, yanking me against him.

I twisted—

“Don’t fight,” he warned, pressing something sharp against my waist. “Or she won’t be the only one who pays the price.”

I tried to yank back, plant my feet. “Detective Four—”

He pulled me into him, his big beefy arms pressing my face into his black robe as he dragged me toward the gate.

“It’s already done, sweet thing,” he said. “And you were too distracted to notice.”

Everything blurred. I tried to wrench free, to run. But he was bigger, stronger, and the loud pulse of the music stole my cries. No one was paying attention. This was New Orleans and this was Mardi Gras and the party created a weird anonymity. Everyone danced and laughed, pressed and swayed. No one thought twice about how tightly he held me.

“Chase!”
I tried, thrashing. But he didn’t hear, wasn’t there. “Help me—”

A sweaty hand slid over my mouth.

I bit down—hard.

Laughing, the guy from the gold car shoved me through the gate and threw me over his shoulder, into a fireman’s carry. “Fight all you want,” he grunted, running. “But I don’t do loose ends.”

Panic sliced deeper than the knife. I knew what would happen if he got me alone. LaSalle had drilled that into my head, the importance of staying in a public place, never straying into an alley …

But we
were
in an alley. And even if there’d been someone to hear me scream, the sound of Deuce’s sax blaring from the speaker absorbed everything.

I pretended to relent, submit. I knew my options were limited, that I would get just one chance. It had to be perfect. With my legs dangling and my arms sandwiched between his body and mine, timing would be everything.

“Good girl,” he panted, running. “You and me, we gonna have us some—”

I reared back and twisted, did as I’d been taught and closed in on his ear, bit down as hard as I could.

Howling, he recoiled, but I ground down harder, cringing when I felt cartilage give way between my teeth.

“Bitch!” He grabbed my hair, tried to shove me away.

Without warning I let go.

He staggered back. Momentum dropped me forward. I landed hard and rolled into myself, scrambled to my feet and started to run.

“You stupid little—” he started, but never got the chance to finish.

On a dead run Dylan rounded the corner and didn’t stop, didn’t slow, not until he plowed into him. I never saw the switchblade until it flashed between them.

“Dylan, no!” I shouted as a loud grunt of pain erupted.

The guy from the car stumbled back, his eyes huge and glassy.

Dylan went at him again, and again, and again, lunge-dancing with the knife, pressing his advantage as the car guy jerked deeper into the darkness. And then he turned and ran and Dylan was running, too.

Back to me.

“No! You have to go after—”

“You,” he said, and then he was there, taking me into his arms and holding me against him. And something inside me let go, the tight grip on the fear and the horror, and all I could think about was losing myself there in that moment.