Seeker of Shadows (5 page)

“I thought I saw panic and terror in your eyes when you believed your child was lost to you. When I put her back into your arms, I thought I recognized love in those tears on your face. Was I wrong, Susanna?”

“No,” Susanna replied softly, forcing her response past the huge knot in her throat. “I understand love and sacrifice and loss. And I won’t betray those you hold dear. I swear it on my own child.”

A narrow smile creased Nica’s hard surface. “Okay then.” She nodded at the screen. “Can that do what my friend needs it to do?”

Susanna looked back at the diagrams, her heart
pounding. “It can do a lot more than just that.” She took a big, shaky breath and jumped in. “I am not exaggerating when I tell you the potential here is both miraculous and catastrophic, and that our very lives will be in the balance if even a hint of what we’ve got leaks out. Do you understand?”

“Yes. Are you in?”

“All the way.” Her fingertips touched the monitor. “How could I not be?” She shook off her reverie, her tone now clipped and efficient. “I’m going to need a secure place to work and access to a lab. We’ll have to have absolute secrecy, only Need to Know involved. I’ll want to take fresh samples and interview the subjects. When can I start?”

Nica grinned. “How about now?”

Jacques lingered in the weak morning sunshine, drawing in deep breaths, hoping to clear the confusion from his brain before heading for his Caddy and the stack of invoices waiting for him in his dockside office. No such luck. The Chosen doctor’s scent muddled his mind like a hefty hangover, leaving him unsettled and annoyed.

What was it about her that had him so agitated? It went beyond the threat she brought with her. It was something visceral, instinctive, disturbing. Something that pried at the dark area of his brain where his memories had once resided. Had he known her, seen her before? Unlikely, since she’d betrayed no spark of recognition. Perhaps she merely represented something
that had been stripped forcefully from his mind by her coldly vicious kind, leaving behind a mysterious blank.

The sound of crunching gravel beneath the wheels of a fast-approaching car caught his attention. He identified Philo’s Charger by the smell of burning oil. The rumbling car, still in dull gray primer, stopped just shy of running over his steel-toed boots.

Philo climbed out of the driver’s side, eyes concealed by dark glasses and the downward tip of a Saints ball cap. He came around to yank open the squawking passenger door to help one of his Patrol members get out. The fellow’s face looked like a pulpy tomato. He swayed on his feet as Philo tipped up the seat to drag another figure from the back.

Philo threw the stranger down on the stones, placing his boot on the back of his neck and the barrel of a gun to his head while another of his men wiggled out of the close confines of the backseat.

“What’s going on, Tib?” Jacques asked, looking from the bullet hole in the prone man’s arm to his friend’s taut features.

“There were two of them,” Philo told him tersely. “Managed to keep this one alive. Need a place to have a conversation.”

“Who is he?”

“That’s what we want to find out. Caught him and his pal sneaking around, asking questions. No ID, no nothing.” He nodded to his companions. “Take him inside.”

Not sure if his female guests were still there, Jacques
growled, “I’m not gonna have him bleeding all over my office. Take him down by the bar. Looks like you fellas could use something cold as a bracer ’fore you get to work.”

“Thanks, Jackie. We’ll try not to make a mess.” Philo stepped back to let the others drag the wounded male to his feet, then they all moved inside.

The office door was closed. No way to tell if Nica and her Chosen friend were still within. Jacques had never asked about Nica’s former employment, but he knew she was smart enough not to stick her nose into dangerous things that didn’t concern her. He hoped she’d be able to get the two of them out the back without being seen once matters intensified on the main floor.

Jacques went behind the bar while Philo and his friends secured their prisoner to a chair, binding his hands behind the back and his legs to those of the chair. He was bleeding badly from his wound and from a gash in his forehead but showed no emotion of any kind. Jacques didn’t need ID to know what this man was. The stoic, nondescript features, dark, made-to-blend-in suit that screamed G-man, eyes glittering with unholy fierceness. He’d been face-to-face with two of his brethren, and he and Savoie’s cop girlfriend had barely escaped alive. The man was an elite killer bloodhound sent down from Susanna Duchamps’s kind in the North for purposes that could be no good for his New Orleans clan.

After nodding his gratitude and taking a long pull
at his beer, Philo asked easily, “Let me have that Louisville Slugger you’re so fond of so we can get down to business.”

Jacques wasn’t opposed to violence when necessary and had dealt out all types for varied reasons. He enjoyed a good knuckle-bruising fight and would never run from one, but killing never sat well with him, even when unavoidable. He’d never experienced the bloodthirsty fury he could see boiling in his friend’s gaze when he passed Philo the baseball bat, and he wasn’t looking forward to what was to come.

Weighing the bat thoughtfully, Philo approached the bound man. His tone was pleasant.

“You’re gonna tell me what you and your buddy were doing here in New Orleans or I’m gonna break every bone in your body. Then, after you heal ’em, I’m gonna do it all over again. I’m betting you’re gonna get tired of it ’fore I do. Let’s find out.” And he swung.

Jacques winced at the sound of the humerus splintering, but he didn’t look away. Tito Tibideaux, Philo’s younger brother, had been a damned good friend of his and the way he’d died had been brutal and undeserved. This silent assassin knew what to expect and was trained to receive it. They’d never get a sound from him, let alone a confession, but the process might allow Philo to work off his grief. For that reason, Jacques wouldn’t interfere. Paybacks were never pretty.

Philo was zealous in his interrogation and true to his word to exact as much damage and pain as possible,
but his prisoner was a professional, refusing to allow him the satisfaction of a response. And that provoked the redhead from diligent purpose to frustration-fueled rage. His actions turned dark, from retribution to frenzy.

And while all focus was on his punishing intensity, Nica attempted to slip Susanna out the back.

Jacques saw the two of them start down the hall.

So did the prisoner. His bloody face grew suddenly attentive, causing Philo and the others to follow his gaze.

And that gave the Tracker the distraction he’d been waiting for.

Without a sound of warning, he exploded out of the chair, tearing through his bindings as if they were sewing thread. He snatched the bat from Philo, knocking him to the floor with a hard swing to his head. As the other two gaped at him in surprise, he ripped through them with razor-sharp claws.

Jacques knew Trackers could move fast. He’d seen them before, but was still amazed at how quickly their captive leapt, with Philo’s gun in hand, from main floor to hallway. He caught Nica by the hair and pitched her down the stairs. Then, with his massive paw curled about Susanna’s throat and the gun muzzle to her temple, he turned to use her as a shield as he backed down the dim hall toward freedom.

Jacques’s gaze went to the hostage to assess her state of mind. She was terrified and trembling, a split second from instant death, but her dark eyes met his
with an eerie calm, as if she knew rescue was coming. As if she had absolutely no doubts.

Without thought or hesitation, Jacques pulled the pistol he kept beneath the cash drawer in case of emergency and strode purposefully from behind the bar. In one smooth move, he leveled the barrel and fired a single shot into the shadows, punching a neat hole through the Tracker’s forehead that blew out the back of his head.

With a quick glance to see that Philo was moving, Jacques strode across the club, lifting Nica by the forearm to settle her into a chair before bounding up the steps to where Susanna stood.

She’d staggered free as the dead man fell. Her pulse, so steady and calm while caught in the grip of danger, began a rapid pounding, sending a dizzying rush of blood to her head. Her entire focus haloed about the grimly set features of her rescuer.

“Nice shot,” was her breathy comment.

“Are you all right?”

She frowned slightly at his concerned tone, then followed his gaze down to the front of her blouse where her assailant’s bloodied sleeve had left damp smears of crimson all over the front of it.

As her head lifted, her eyes gave a brief flutter and she dropped dead away into Jacques’s arms.

“You’re safe now. I have you.”

The rumble of his words caressed her cheek, followed by the soft graze of his lips. Never in her life had she felt such a sense of security as within the strong wrap of his embrace. His chest provided unconditional sanctuary, his arms curls of unbreakable steel. The fierce hammering of his heart spoke a vow of perpetual devotion, each beat comforting because of the next that was sure to follow.

So this was love, this huge engulfing blanket of tenderness tucked about her with a promise of forever.

This was love.

She opened her eyes to gaze into those clear pools of blue, drowning in the emotions she saw there. Need, desire, worry, loyalty, each sensation taking root in her own soul as it was recognized.

She whispered his name like a prayer of thanksgiving.

And he bent to kiss her, slowly, searingly, endlessly.

“It’s all right. You’re safe.”

Susanna gazed up into the blue of his eyes and for a moment all was confused. She lifted her hand to his face, almost surprised to feel the very real warmth of stubbled skin beneath her fingertips.

“You saved me,” came her dreamy sigh.

Her touch grew more bold as she lost herself in the familiar textures, stroking along the broad plane of his cheek, her thumb riding the swell of his lower lip. She watched his brow pucker and his eyes go a shade darker until finally his large hand covered hers, holding it gently, drawing it away from him to settle it on her middle, atop the other.

“Do you know where you are? Do you remember what happened?” he asked with somber concern.

Susanna blinked once, twice, scattering the overlap of time and place to ground her in the moment. She wasn’t in a stairwell in Chicago. She was in New Orleans, stretched out on a leather couch with Jacques LaRoche hunkered down beside her. “Yes, of course,” she told him, managing to sound lucid. “Is everyone all right?”

“Nica’s at the bar putting ice on my foolish friend’s head. His two men were injured, but nothing fatal. You fainted.”

“I—I did? How unlike me.”

He smiled faintly at her embarrassment. “You’ve had a lot of guns pointed at your head by stone killers, have you, to just shrug it off as an everyday occurrence?”

Her own lips curved ruefully. “Not every day, but this wasn’t my first go-round, Mr. LaRoche. I apologize for inconveniencing you.”

He straightened, rising to his feet to tower over her. “Apology accepted.”

Her hands stirred, moving over unfamiliar cotton fabric. Glancing down, she found she was wearing a man’s white shirt.

Seeing her question before she spoke it, Jacques explained, “You had blood all over your blouse. It’s soaking so the stains won’t set.”

Her eyes widened. “You—you took off my clothes?” The idea of his hands on her, undressing her, made her pulse quiver.

He mistook the reason for her alarm, saying quietly, “Nica did. I only supplied the shirt. No need to worry that I soiled you with my touch.”

“That’s not—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“You didn’t, Dr. Duchamps.”

Her chuckle mocked his brittle reply. She put out her hand to him. “Could you help me up or are
you
afraid of getting dirtied?”

His hand engulfed hers, tugging slightly so she could sit up, fighting waves of threatening nausea as she did so. He released her immediately, unconsciously wiping his palm on his jeans. She marked the movement with another wry smile.

“Considering how much you dislike me, Mr. LaRoche, I’m surprised you would risk such a bold shot to save my life.”

“I wasn’t the one who had something to lose if I missed.”

She didn’t react to that sharp bite except to say, “I’m sorry my presence here upsets you.”

“Your existence upsets me.”

She despised the prejudice he barely bothered to conceal. They were joined by the same ancestors. Distant relatives, but family nonetheless.

Family wasn’t a concept the Chosen believed in. Selective breeding was. She couldn’t fault them for the narrow logic of their opinions. They didn’t know any better. They were emotionally bankrupt. But Jacques LaRoche didn’t have that excuse.

“How can you say that? You don’t even know me.”

“I know what you are, what you believe, how you treat my kind like filthy animals incapable of intelligent thought.”

Her gaze grew as narrow as his mind-set. “It’s
that
type of statement that leads to
those
kinds of assumptions. You do not know me. You don’t know what I believe, what I like, or what my favorite color is.”

“Red.”

“What?”

“It’s red,” he said again, this time disturbed by that certainty.

She stood, teetering unsteadily both in body and emotion. Jacques started to reach out to her, but arrested the gesture. They stared at each other, at an impasse.

Finally, Susanna said, “I’d better go before you start to wonder if you shot the wrong individual.” As she turned toward the door, his direct question made her pause.

“Did they come here because of you?”

She didn’t favor him with a look as she firmly said, “No,” and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

Jacques moved to the one-way glass overlooking his club, his gaze following her down the stairs on her way to join Nica and a groggy Philo. His shirt swam on her like a choir robe, emphasizing how small and fragile she was.