Forbidden (14 page)

Thrusting what he hoped was a stake into Giovanni's heart, Akiva spoke. “Then it is you who are responsible for her death.”

Giovanni didn't flinch or grimace. He took the verbal assault as if he deserved it.

Finally he looked up. “You may go now, Akiva.” His lips tightened over the words. “But know that even death won't protect you from such a vile act. You have been duly warned.”

Discarded limbs lay askew among the cricket and cockroach remains, and prosthetics and crutches hung from the walls, which might be appropriate for an old hospital or museum of medicine, but this interior room resided in the bowels of the chapel at the St. Roch Cemetery, in the heart of New Orleans.

Roberto had told Roc of his namesake, Saint Roch, months earlier. But Roc paid as little attention then as he did when his own mother had told him she'd named him for the beloved saint. It all seemed foolish and sentimental and had about as much to do with him as a pair of tap shoes.

“This is what you wanted me to see?” Roc asked Brody, who'd called him earlier in the day and simply said, “Meet me at St. Roch Cemetery. You'll want to see this.” Roc had prepared himself to see yellow tape for a murder scene and a body covered by a plastic sheet. He'd imagined peering underneath and seeing blue eyes staring blankly back at him. But there was no body here. No remains. Just these plastic body parts apparently left in honor of the saint attributed with healing and miracles.

Inside the chapel, the light was dim as a tomb, creating more shadows than light. Brody stood beside Roc, looking over the testaments to the miracles St. Roch had performed. “Just something I thought you'd find interesting. Over the years, folks have brought tokens to honor St. Roch for the miracles of healing. You've heard of St. Roch, right?”

“Yeah.”

“His divine intervention saved lives during a yellow fever epidemic back in the 1800s.” Brody clapped a hand on Roc's shoulder. “Think you can live up to that?”

An odd question, which Roc decided his former partner on the police force was simply teasing him with, but the jab came too close to his doubts about his abilities to destroy vampires and help anyone, including Rachel. “Next time yellow fever hits the city,” Roc said, “give me a call, and we'll see.”

“Deal.” Brody's grin broadened.

Roc remained silent and headed back toward the door. Eager to leave the stifling heat inside the chapel, he stepped onto the marble step, momentarily blinded by the sunshine pouring over the monuments.

A long driveway led out to the wrought-iron gate, each side crowded with tombs and monuments with angels and crucifixes guarding the dearly departed. Sunlight reflected off the stonework, and Roc slipped on his sunglasses to block the sharp glare. Brody snapped his in place too, and led Roc around to the back of St. Roch's to a mausoleum. Many of the vaults had marble vases filled with red, yellow, and pink flowers, the plastic ones remaining vibrant in spite of the heat, while others wilted or turned brown under the relentless summer assault.

“So what did you want me to see?” Roc asked.

“A little gris-gris.”

“What's that?”

“Voodoo crap. Somebody putting a spell on a lover or husband or neighbor.” He veered right, crossing slabs of marble, where some names of the deceased had faded while other carvings remained clear and bold through the years. He stopped next to a statue of a mourning woman bending to place flowers on the grave of a loved one. Nestled in the juncture of hip and thigh was a bundle of mismatched items that would have better belonged in a junkyard.

“Looks like trash.”

“Good thing you've got me here to interpret.” Brody knelt and fingered a bunch of feathers. “Black candle. Rooster feathers. See those pins jabbed in that doll? This is for sure a spell.” He picked up the candle, and Roc protested. “Ain't no fingerprints. And ain't no law against this stuff anyways. But this is what I thought you'd wanna see.”

Under the candle was a photograph. Before Roc could get a good look, he recognized the white
kapp
and somber clothes. Then he studied the face—Hannah.

“You know her?” Brody asked.

Roc nodded. “Her sister is the one missing.”

“Then you might be right. The one you're looking for might already be dead.”

A sick sensation gripped Roc's stomach. “Are you saying this Akiva is into voodoo?”

“I don't know. But maybe we can find the answers tonight.”

Roc quirked an eyebrow at Brody. “Tonight?”

“Yeah. What's the date?” Brody asked.

“June twenty—”

“It's St. John's Eve. Biggest night on the voodoo calendar. And I have us a party to go to.”

She was young, no more than fifteen or sixteen. Skinny jeans hugged her narrow hips and twiglike legs. A flimsy top showed off the soft curve of her breasts, and its shortness flashed glimpses of her pierced belly button when she moved. She walked with a confident stride at a feisty pace, swinging her backside in a look-but-don't-touch fashion. Scooping up a penny off the sidewalk, she revealed a peace-sign tattoo low on her back. But it was when she reached the corner of the street that Akiva read her hesitation. A group of construction workers whistled at her, and she shot the finger toward them, which only made them laugh and call out obscenities. And behind her kiss-my-ass demeanor, fear lurked in her eyes.

Akiva walked straight toward her, his head bent as he fumbled with his wallet, and then his shoulder knocked into her. It was a hard enough blow to gain her attention but not enough to bruise or send her sprawling. She elbowed him back, a spunky gesture, and he bent double, grimaced, held his breath. His wallet fell from his fingers to the sidewalk. He left it there long enough for her to glimpse the hundreds spilling out.

“Whoa there, sugar. I surrender.” He grabbed for his wallet and placed a hand over his gut. “That's some punch you got.” He raised one hand as if he were in a holdup and offered her his wallet, which she took.

She flipped it open and pulled out his license, which was one he'd had made for times like this. “Jacob Riley, huh?” She glanced at him, but the pull of the cash was too much. She yanked out a few hundred-dollar bills, and he watched her jaw drop before she recovered her shock.

“You hard up, sugar? Take what you need.”

She slanted her eyes at him, studied him for a moment, then shoved the bills back into his wallet and pushed it toward him. “You're crazy for carrying that much around here. Someone with more weapons than I got will kill ya sure as lookin' at ya and take that wad you got in your pants.”

“I'm not too worried.”

She gave him a once-over. “How come?”

“'Cause I got you for protection.” He patted his stomach. “You pack a wallop.”

She grinned.

He hooked his arm through hers and walked her in the opposite direction she had been heading. “Come on, I'll buy you dinner.”

“I guess you can afford it,” she said, smiling. But then she yanked her arm free—he'd made too quick of a move to touch her—and she stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Folks streamed around them on either side. “But I ain't going anywhere with you.”

“A smart move.” He shrugged as if it didn't matter to him. “Well, then I'll bid you
adieu
.” He turned and strode two full steps before she called to him.

“Jacob Riley.”

He looked back at her. “I go by Jake. What do you want now? The keys to my Jag?”

“Maybe.” She laughed as if delighted with the idea. “So where you gonna eat?”

He nodded toward an Italian restaurant where he'd taken a few of his meals. “Dario knows what he's doing.”

Her gaze traveled across the street to the restaurant with a chalkboard out front listing the day's special. “Well…maybe it wouldn't be so horrible…”

“Eating with me?”

She nodded, still somewhat hesitant.

“It's up to you. What'd you say your name is?”

“Julia.”

He gave a slight bow and clicked his heels together. “Well, Julia, if you'd care to dine with
moi
…”

She grinned and stepped toward him, hooking her arm through his proffered one. “You aren't from around here, are you?”

“I am not. And yet, New Orleans is now part of me. But you aren't from here, either. Just two vagabonds searching for some place to belong.”

“How'd you know?” she asked. “I mean, that I'm not from here.”

He twisted his features with an isn't-it-obvious look. “You're too sophisticated for these yahoos on the bayou.”

Her chest puffed out slightly. “I'm from Big D.”

“You're a long way from home, young lady.”

“I got my reasons.”

“Don't you have a hot date tonight?”

“Later. I always keep 'em waiting.”

Chuckling, he strolled her across the street and into the dimly lit restaurant with flickering candles on the tables. He plied her with calamari, fettuccini alfredo, and cannoli. She ate like she hadn't eaten in a month. He sipped a glass of wine and let the red liquid flow through his veins, both lulling his appetite and stoking it.

He learned Julia had had enough of a boyfriend in Texas…a guy named Bruce…and her folks ragging on her…always wanting to know where she was and who she was with and getting in her business…and teachers who didn't know nothing from nothing. His focus lifted as he watched her swallow and the muscles in her long neck contract and release.

“You sure you don't want some?” she asked, holding out the cream-filled pastry toward him. A glob of the cream clung to her upper lip.

He shook his head. “Not now. You go ahead and enjoy.”

Finally, she shoved her plate away and leaned her elbow on the table with a sigh. “So, now what?”

He watched the candlelight play over her features as she smiled uncertainly. “‘Smiles form the channels of a future tear.'”

Her smile faded. “What?”

“Nothing. Your smile is disarming. But I bet you know that.”

Her gaze shifted as if she didn't understand what he was saying.

“It's one of your best weapons.”

“Oh!” She grinned broad enough for a dimple to wink at him. “Sometimes I don't know what you're talking about.”

“You're not the first to say that.” He reached forward as if to take her hand but instead took hold of her wrist, felt her pulse strong and vibrant, and twisted her arm slightly to gaze at the hot-pink watch she wore. “Is this time correct?”

“Nah. It quit.”

He smiled. “Why do you wear it, then?”

She shrugged and pulled her hand back. “I like it.”

He nodded. “It's late. Come. I will walk you home.”

She remained sitting when he half rose. “I don't have a…I don't have a place.”

He seated himself again. “Where do you live, then?”

“On the streets. I thought you knew.” Her gaze dropped to the red-and-white checked tablecloth. “And I figured you wanted another kind of payment.”

He gave a lengthy study of her. She looked so vulnerable, so young. Then he stood. “Come on. I know of a safe place you can stay. You'll have no worries.” At least not anymore.

Her eyes rounded, full of unshed tears. “Okay…I guess you seem safe.”

Safe. He wanted to laugh. If only she knew. If only he'd known. But he hadn't been looking for safety when he'd met Camille. He'd been looking for adventure.

Jacob had met Camille at a secret meeting nearly three years before, after a whispered invitation came to Jacob via a guy who provided him with weed. Jacob had taken Rachel, and together they'd watched the regular worshipers strip naked and dance around to the beat of drums, their bodies glistening with sweat and firelight. It had been a turn on.

The most exotic woman he'd ever seen walked up to them, smiling seductively. “You are new here?” she asked in a throaty voice, making Jacob's tight.

Instantly, he'd wanted her. And if Rachel hadn't been with him, he would have made a move. “Yeah,” he'd managed. “I am.”

She flung her long curtain of black hair off her shoulder. “You should join in.” Her gaze raked down his chest to his groin, and he felt his own reaction to her invitation. “It's much more fun that way.”

“We're just visiting.” Rachel had tugged on his hand. “Maybe we should…uh…”

Reluctantly, Jacob had allowed himself to be pulled along by Rachel, even though the woman's black eyes made him feel like he was slowly falling head first into oblivion.

“Come back,” she had said, a whisper of a smile curling her lips.
Or
had
it
only
been
a
whisper
in
his
head?

After that, Rachel decided she'd had enough of New Orleans. Jacob figured she was scared off by the crazy rituals those folks had, like boiling a live chicken and dancing with snakes. She took a bus home to Pennsylvania. But Jacob had stayed. The woman with the black hair and blacker eyes had beckoned to him in his dreams and turned his daydreams to torture.

So he'd gone back, waiting for another secret meeting. But the warehouse had been vacant. He'd tried again and again, waiting and watching impatiently, his body tight with need and longing, remembering those black eyes summoning him in his sleep.

Finally he had arrived on the correct night, when the parking lot was a jumble of cars and the steady, rhythmic beat of the drums echoed through the warehouse. Jacob pushed impatiently through the crowd in search of her.

Just when he thought she wasn't there, that he would never see her again, she appeared almost out of nowhere. Suddenly, she was standing before him, as if she had been the one waiting for him. Her sensuous mouth glistened red and vibrant, curling upward on one side. “You came back,” she walked toward him, her hips swaying, her breasts jiggling beneath a flimsy dress. And those eyes looked deep into his soul.

He couldn't speak or move but just stood there watching her.

“Would you like a drink?” she'd asked.

He took the one she offered and downed it. He had never tasted anything as sweet and potent, and his thoughts and visions wavered, the drumbeat resonating through him.

“You feel it, no?”

He nodded.

Slowly, she slipped the straps of her dress off her shoulders and wiggled her body until the silky material pooled at her feet. Her body was a smorgasbord of delights, and he responded eagerly and readily in hopes of sampling.

Then she turned her back on him and walked toward the group of worshippers who danced in some ancient rhythm. But he heard her call over the drumbeat and chanting, “Come, Jacob.”

Now, he looked at this young girl…a girl searching for a place to belong, a place to be safe. He could change her. She looked at him with trusting eyes.

It was what he wanted her to think: that she could believe him, trust him. She just didn't know she was placing herself in the hands of someone who no longer had feelings of hope or regret. He'd watched her gorge herself on food, and now it was his turn. He smiled and held out his hand toward her. “Come.”