Shadow Fall (18 page)

Custo shook his head. “You should be there.”

“Yeah, well, I prefer to remain dramatically mysterious. I don’t think my rep will suffer; the other dancers already think I’m a diva.”

That got a wry, sidelong glance. “Diva?”

“I am very dedicated to my craft. Maybe too dedicated.”

“I noticed,” he said. “A little more balance might be in order.”

Annabella let him change the subject for the moment. “Doesn’t work that way.”

“I imagine not,” he said, then fell silent again.

She chewed a lip wondering how to help him. Passing street lamps were a slowly modulating strobe of sharp light, dazzling her eyes. “I don’t want to meddle, but”—she took a deep breath—“seems to me like you have some family history that needs to be resolved.”

Custo’s expression turned sick. “Don’t go there. My head is still full of him; I don’t think I can take much more.”

Annabella waited a beat, considering. No, it was too important. She knew from personal experience. “It’s just that…It’s your
dad.
Mine ran out on us a long, long time ago, but I’d give anything to sit down for coffee with him. I’ve been fantasizing about it since I was a kid.”

He shook his head in denial. “I spent a lot of wasted time growing up imagining a happy future with my father. The kind of life that Adam had with his family.”

“Seems like you have another chance now.”

“I don’t want it.” His voice was rough. “And I don’t want him meddling in your life either.”

She shrugged. “I don’t even know him.”

Custo strained toward her. “He’s going to find out everything he can about you. He’s going to give your company more money. He’s going to use all his influence to surround your life. He’s going to try to talk to you to get to me.” He swallowed hard. “Promise me you won’t have anything to do with him.”

“Why would I?” Though it wasn’t like she could tell the company to give back the man’s money.

“When he calls you tomorrow, promise me you’ll hang up on him.”

Custo was trying to save her from the Shadow wolf. Her side wasn’t hard to pick. “Okay, fine. I’ll hang up or whatever if he tries to get in touch with me.”

It was too bad about his relationship with his father. Not everyone is so lucky to have a chance at reconciliation, and he was throwing it away. She’d give anything for five minutes to understand hers. Five freaking minutes, but no…

“He will,” Custo insisted. “It was all he could think about when he saw you.”

“I’m pretty sure he was thinking about you.”

Custo put the heels of his palms to his eyes. “No. He’s thinking about you as a way to get to me. About how he finally has a connection to exploit. I can’t get him out of my head. Nothing my whole life, and now he’s entrenched in my mind. He’s already got a list of people he’s going to contact tomorrow morning. He’s going to talk to your director, Mr. Venroy, right now.”

A chill washed over Annabella’s body. Custo kept saying things like that. She hadn’t thought much of it before, but now…“What do you mean out of your head?”

“I mean I can hear my old man in my fucking head.” His hands moved to grip his skull. The muscles on his jaw rippled as he clenched his teeth.

Annabella darted a glance at the cabdriver only to see him drop his eyes from the rearview mirror to the road.
Yeah, you just watch where you’re going.

She shifted closer to Custo. “You mean you can hear what he’s thinking? You can read people’s minds?”

“Some better than others.”

Annabella was pretty sure she was part of the “some.” He’d said, done, too many things to be merely observant. Damn it—she’d been practically begging him to touch her since they first met. Imagining his hands everywhere…No wonder they seemed to have danced right over the preliminaries and got right to the heavy stuff. Simple flirting was nearly impossible when all she could think about was—

Her gaze flew to his face, body rapidly flushing from chilled to heated embarrassment.

“You have nothing to be ashamed of,” he said, voice rough and strained. “I’ve wanted you just as bad, and I showed as much this morning.”

And did he know about the sick thrill she got from the wolf? From the Shadow magic?

Custo looked outside his window.

The burn in her face intensified. This was
not
okay with her.

She sat back against the door, putting as much distance between them as she could. She didn’t want to be cold about his whole dad thing, but this was…was just…not okay.

The rest of the freak show stuff she’d handled, not well, but she’d handled. She’d seen and been told some scary shit, and she hadn’t run screaming from any rooms or been drugged happy and drooling. Of course, the wraith thing she’d known about. They were all over the news and online. She’d never seen one, but the authority of the nightly news had, in a little way, prepared her for the idea of the existence of other spooky beings.

But still…
People had the right to pick and choose the thoughts they shared.

He should have told her.

“Annabella, please…”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t know how. And, she didn’t even know if he needed her to. Not when he could lift her responses out of her head.

“I can’t help what I am,” he said.

Me neither. I’m upset.

The cab pulled to a stop and the driver flung a number over his shoulder at Custo.

She opened the cab door and got out, leaving Custo to pay. She took a deep breath; the air here had the flat overlay of dust and concrete. The imposing buildings, facades quaint with old-world architectural details, were well kept, the street semiclean. A tall silvery block to her right looked over the rest of the neighborhood, all very gray and businessy, with little character in comparison.

Custo got out, paid, and joined her on the sidewalk. He looked up at the tallest building. “Come on.”

If she decided to walk the other way, would he head her off?

He walked to the entrance and punched a code into a numbered pad. A tiny light turned from red to green. He pulled open the door, the inside a black rectangle of darkness, and looked over at her. “Whenever you’re ready.”

His sarcasm wasn’t necessary. What choice did she have? Stick with the tortured, mind-violating angel, or be devoured by the obsessed wolf?

Her heels clacked across the sidewalk to the door, echoing off the nearby buildings. She didn’t enter right away. What was this place? She gripped the doorway and leaned in, peering around. More dark. “Can’t see anything.”

Custo reached around her. She was suddenly enveloped in the sensual musk of his body. A light flickered on. “The motion detectors were off.”

The entry was nondescript white, except for a small sign that read
ANNEX. NO
room for a reception desk. Anyone who entered here had to know where they were going. There were two choices: a plain door, or an elevator riddled with, dear God, bullet holes.

Had to be another Segue place.

Custo closed the outer door behind him and moved to the panel next to the elevator, inputting another code. A deep click, and the doors hissed open.

More bullet holes. She wasn’t getting in there. “I think I could maybe manage the stairs.”

Custo boarded. “Thirty flights?”

A long muscle in Annabella’s neck, one that had been nagging her since last night’s performance, chose that moment to twinge. Her feet, even out of her heels, would protest each step.

“We’re not staying here. I just need to stop in real quick,” he explained. The raspy tone of his voice did little to put her at ease. “I’d leave you down here if I could.”

But she couldn’t be alone. Only Custo kept the wolf at bay, and he was clearly going up.

“Okay.” Holding her breath so as not to inhale any more violence, she stepped inside the metal box. Not like she had a choice or anything.

Her stomach dropped as the elevator lifted. Her lungs were screaming for air when they reached the top and the doors opened directly into a large, open space. She lurched out and took a shuddering breath of cold, stale air.

Custo’s hand at her shoulder steadied her. “Maybe this was a bad idea. I didn’t think…We can go.”

She wasn’t getting back in that elevator anytime soon. “No. Just do what you need to do.”

Although, now looking around, she couldn’t imagine why they’d come. The space was empty, scarred. No windows. The wood floor might have been beautiful once, and to her left, a stainless kitchen countertop seemed intact, a sink spout arching up. This was one of those trendy loft homes. Big and slick, worth millions. It only lacked natural light and a view.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“Adam’s loft. Seems like he hasn’t been here in a while.” Custo looked around. “A couple years ago it was pretty nice. I guess he covered over the windows.”

So there had been some. Without them, the place was too still, frightening. Way too many shadows. This better be worth it. “Why are we here?”

Custo walked to the center of the space. He cleared his throat, but the words came out tight. “I don’t know. I wanted to see…”

Across the room, Annabella could feel his mounting tension.

Custo rolled his shoulders. “What with seeing
him
again…”

Annabella couldn’t read minds. He’d have to spit it out before she understood what the hell he was talking about.

He turned toward her, eyes haunted. “I had to see the place where I died.”

Wolf ran through the darkness of the night. His body stretched along shadowy planes, dissolving and reforming with each bounding leap. The air was sharp with cold, sweet with promise. He drove the wind, growling like thunder toward his quarry.

How
human
that the snare he would set was in the opposite direction of the woman he craved.

A tug in his awareness.
There!

He prowled to a stop and peered across the darkness at his weak and unsuspecting prey. Lights glimmered within a structure, but they had no power to harm him.

He reached his nose to the sky and howled.

Chapter Sixteen

G
OING
to the loft was part knee-jerk reaction, part morbid curiosity. Okay, a whole lot of morbid curiosity. Once the address had left Custo’s tongue, a sick tug in his chest demanded that he revisit the place, the moment he’d lost himself.

Meeting his father unexpectedly, being privy to his thoughts—something snapped inside him. His father was his beginning, and Adam’s loft was his end.

Custo and Adam had held many strategy meetings here during those years when the wraith threat was growing from a pressing concern to imminent global menace. The creatures couldn’t die; the only viable front to fight them had been through research. Hence, the careful founding of The Segue Institute. The search for Dr. Talia O’Brien, a specialist in near-death experiences. The discovery of her personal connection to Shadowman, aka Death. The rapid escalation to full wraith assault once her existence became widespread knowledge. The flight from the main facility in West Virginia. His capture and…

“You died here?” Annabella’s already pale face turned ashen. She took a step back toward the bullet-riddled elevator, then stumbled away from the scars of violence, and wrapped her arms around herself uncertainly.

“I was caught by a bastard who sided with the wraiths.” Bastard. Poor choice of words. “Spencer,” Custo amended. “Bad timing, bad luck. Bad life.”

A visible chill racked her body. Yeah, it was damn cold in here. Dead cold.

Bringing her here was cruel, but for some reason he needed her to see it. Everything else in his life had been borrowed or owed, but his death was his. He’d faced it alone, the one true thing he’d done with his life. A moment, a decision, without regret. Adam and Talia were worth it.

“Show me,” she said. Her voice was falsely loud in the space, as if covering another strong emotion.

Custo didn’t invade her mind to discover her motive. He didn’t trespass into her private thoughts, though holding back took all of his control. She deserved that much respect for stepping into that riddled elevator, for trusting him.

If he could possibly help it, he wouldn’t touch her mind again.

“Show me,” she repeated.

Custo glanced toward the hallway at the other side of the great room. It happened on the other side of that door.

The bedroom was as bare as the rest of the loft. Hollow and empty, his tomb. He scuffed his foot over the place where he’d been tied to a chair, though he could never tell her about that. It would be too much to bear, even for him. He paced slowly across the room. A forest grew in his memory: the Shadowlands. Across time, the trees were still heavy with ominous magic, sighing with energy. A twitch of his inner eye and he could almost see it.

“Were you in pain?” Annabella’s eyes shimmered, but the lock of her jaw told him she was furious that she’d been forced to endure this.

Custo smothered a heartsick laugh. Pain? “No,” he lied, “it was quick.”

He couldn’t tell her how he’d pissed himself, and it didn’t matter now anyway.

Swallowing to wet his dry throat, he said, “I wonder why Adam hasn’t done anything with the place.”

“I can guess,” she said, her voice low, almost inaudible. She took a step back toward the hall, away from death. Louder, she added, her tone edged, “I can’t read minds, but in case you’re thinking of us staying here tonight, think again. This is worse than going back to my apartment.”

Custo cursed himself for being an ass. He should get her out of here.

She swept a hand over her cheek to wipe away tears, her chin quivering. She turned on her heel, haughty spine ramrod straight, and stalked out of sight.

His gaze swept the room one more time, but he couldn’t hear the rustle of Shadow trees. The place was gray and empty. Only a ghost remained—himself.

Being apart from Annabella sent a current of anxiety over his skin. The loft was rife with shadows, and he’d managed to piss her off enough that she might put more space between them than was safe.

Why in hell had he tortured her with his past?

He found her at the elevator, grazing her fingertips over one of the bullet holes. It was much better that she thought he bought it that way.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “We can go now. We shouldn’t have come.”

She didn’t say anything, wouldn’t so much as look at him. Maybe she thought he was in her head again, stealing her thoughts. The suspicion wouldn’t be too far off base; he’d stolen a lot in his life. He didn’t have the kind of family money that Adam had access to, but he’d attended the same schools. Basic needs, and extraneous ones, had to be met somehow, and odd jobs here and there never remotely came close to paying for them. And he wasn’t about to beg a buck from Adam.

He was a thief, but he wouldn’t steal from her again. From this moment on, her thoughts would be her own.

She hit the button and the doors slid open. A charged silence carried them back to the night-soaked curb. He didn’t try to hold her, but he stayed close and alert. Every living thing was a potential threat.

The cab had gone, but a black Segue SUV stood waiting.

The coded entry would have signaled a breach of the building at Segue. This particular building would have probably popped up as an alert. Damn Adam for knowing where he was, what he was doing, for making everything so easy by delivering a car when he needed it.

He needed one fucking Segue-free, Adam-free night, and this was it.

Custo opened the passenger door for Annabella, who climbed in with her stony silence. The driver shot him a questioning glance. “Out,” Custo commanded.

“Sir?”

“Out,” Custo repeated.

The driver climbed down while Custo circled the SUV. The man, Matt Becket, was security from the old days, before all the soldiers, the governmental cooperation. He didn’t really deserve to be stranded in the middle of the city, but then, a lot of people didn’t deserve a lot of things. “Tell Adam I gave you the night off.”

“But, sir—”

Custo took the driver’s seat and slammed the door on the rest of the question. The driver was still standing in the street as Custo pulled into traffic. Annabella was in a bad mood, he was in a bad mood, Matt might as well be, too.

Annabella was doing her best ice princess as he turned onto Houston and headed for Thompson. Alley Jack Bar and Club. Custo glanced at the clock on the dash, 10:43
P.M.
Unless the wraiths had sucked the soul out of the club owner, Jack Stampos, then the Tuesday open mic would start in seventeen minutes.

If Adam and Segue had been Custo’s home away from nonexistent home, then Alley Jack was his church, where he went to weekly meetings when the mood suited him. Attendance had been sporadic at best that last year before Spencer beat the life out of him, but no tour through the life and times of the bastard Custo Santovari would be remotely complete without a stop there. If he were lucky, Jack might even have a room for the night.

Custo had to park three blocks down from the club, and though Annabella was still giving him the silent treatment, he wrapped an arm around her as they walked in case the loitering groups of tall shadows got any ideas. The scents of ginger and Asian spices from the nearby Chinese takeout place reminded him how hungry he was, and that Annabella still hadn’t eaten.

Annabella’s profile in the streetlight was smooth and cold as marble. He liked a girl who could hold a grudge in the face of all the shit they’d been through. That kind of constancy took nerve and dedication. All those years of ballet discipline exercised to shut him out. Sucked for him, but good for her.

They reached the narrow concrete steps to Jack’s. They were wicked steep for loading and unloading gear, and probably miserable on high heels. He’d just have to hold on to her some more. Good for him, too bad for her.

“I’m not going down there,” she said.

“Sure you are.” Custo gave her a little nudge. The street was bright with traffic, but he didn’t trust the staggered blind corners of the buildings. A wolf lurked somewhere in this city, watching and waiting.

Annabella bitched all the way down, something along the lines of being dragged from one crap hideout to the next only to die by falling and breaking her neck on a freaking flight of stairs. When she wrenched open the door to the club, a rain of tenor sax finally drowned her out.

“It’s too dark in here,” she shouted, stopping in the doorway.

The wolf hid in shadows, so her fears were understandable, but the creature had no problem with light now either. She had to get over it.

Custo half pushed, half carried her into the comparable pitch of the club. The music was so loud, he could almost feel it vibrating on his skin. “We won’t be down here long,” he said into her ear. “It’s a place where we can be off everyone’s radar.”

He waited for his eyes to adjust, the darkness taking on depth and variation until he could make out the block of the bar, to his left, attended by hunched men. Others sat at small tables crowding the long, crooked rectangle of a room. Various instruments cluttered the small spaces between the tables. The room culminated at a slightly raised platform where a trio played—drums, upright bass, and sax. Old cigarette smoke poisoned the air, leaving an acrid, bitter taste in his mouth. He took a deep breath of the wretched stuff, more at ease than he’d been since he’d scraped his bare ass outside that friggin’ theater.

Custo was two years dead, but Jack Stampos was still at the bar. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

Custo dragged Annabella over to the bar and shook Jack’s hand. “It’s been too long.”

Jack looked older: his hairline had taken two dips on either side of his forehead and the reluctant light of the club made deep creases of the man’s wrinkles.

“This is Annabella,” Custo said, yanking her hard up to his side, and just to tick her off some more, he added, “my sweetheart.”

She gave an angry but cute grunt, grumbling “not likely,” loud enough for Jack to hear.

“Nice to meet you anyway,” Jack answered. He shot Custo a look that said,
You got your hands full with this one.
No mind reading necessary.

He was done with mind reading for the night anyway. It cost him too much.

Custo leaned into the bar, pitching his voice to both suggest and carry. “You still got that room upstairs?”

Annabella stiffened, then planted one of her pointy elbows in his gut.

Jack chuckled. “Yeah, I still got that room, but it’ll cost you.”

That was new, but Custo was willing. He reached for his wallet. “How much?”

“Put your damn money away,” Jack said. He moved away to refill a drink, then stepped a bit farther, stooping, and drew out a guitar case from under the bar. “Play me a song, and I’ll get you both supper as well.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Annabella said. “I’ve got a monster after me and these heels are killing my feet. I want to go to bed.”

“Oh, we will,” Custo said, taking the guitar. The “we” had her scowling again. He was certain a whole new level of violence was added to whatever was in her head. Anything to distract her from the wolf. “Suppers, too, eh?”

“You were always hungry, if I remember correctly.”

Jack referred to the days when Custo was just out of school. Adam had offered him a job in his father’s company, but pride wouldn’t let him take it. Another handout would have cost Custo way more than any paycheck could cover. It had been time to make something of himself, show his father what he’d thrown away so many years before.

He’d had only a few months of living hand to mouth when Adam called him, desperate for help. Jacob, Adam’s older brother, had gone insane, turned into a wraith, and had murdered Adam’s perfect family. The rest was Segue history.

“I am exhausted, Custo,” Annabella said.

He was sure she was, but she would live. And if the wolf decided to…
engage
them, then here was just as good a place as any to make it clear that Custo was not giving up Annabella.

They took a table near the front. The back ones were mostly filled with musicians ogling Annabella’s dress, or depending on the view, lack thereof. Near the makeshift stage there was more light anyway, which should make Annabella less jittery. She settled herself into a seat. A glass of wine was set before her, another gift from Jack.

Custo popped the frogs on the guitar case while the guy on sax finished up his song. Opening the lid, a waft of sweet wood cut the stale air of the club. Nestled inside was a beauty of an arch-top jazz guitar, a Benedetto. Inlayed with abalone along the neck and constructed of a mix of exotic woods, walnut and curly maple most likely, it gleamed as he lifted it to his knees. Had to be a recent acquisition by Jack, at a pretty penny. It was an honor to try his hand at it.

Jack took the stage as the guy on sax accepted his smattering of applause. “We have a slight change in our lineup. When you hear him play, you won’t mind the wait. Custo? When you’re ready.”

Custo took the stage, forcing himself not to look at Annabella, though he could feel her—he always felt her—simmering on his skin. She burned hotter just now.

The bass player, an old guy, held the neck of his upright, the knuckles of his hands enlarged. The drummer was college-young, with black bolts in his earlobes. A guitar cord snaked from the amplifier to the center and got tangled around the leg of a stool. Custo lifted the seat and planted it front and center of the stage. He switched the amp to “stand-by” to avoid a screech, then flipped it back to “on” after he was plugged in and ready to go.

He settled himself on the stool, glanced out over the group, and came to rest on his livid Annabella. “For you,” he said.

Annabella gripped the seat of her chair as Custo put pick to guitar. Her insides ached, straining to control and compartmentalize the emotions that churned and surged within her. The toxic air of this hole-in-the-wall of a jazz club was making her nauseated, too. She wanted to get out of there, but had no choice but to stay put.

They were tempting fate, dangling her like bait into the shadows. The wolf could,
would,
come any moment now. Why didn’t he attack again? She was vulnerable.