Stormy weather on the horizon . . .
Camille was a mess, and not just her hair, which tended to frizz after a day in this humid heat with no air-conditioning. AC was about number seventeen on the list of priorities for the Heaven’s End restoration project, Ivak had told them, unapologetically, as they ate lunch under a whirring ceiling fan. He had installed a historically incorrect rain forest shower in an upstairs bathroom, though, he’d added, also unapologetically, in case anyone needed to “cool off.”
“Does Mike know about that sybaritic addition?” Harek had asked. He often used big words, Camille had noticed, and not for particular effect. He seemed to think in dictionary mode when he wasn’t sounding like a character from a medieval movie.
“Mike was the first one to try it out,” Ivak had replied. At Harek’s dropped jaw, Ivak had hooted, “Just kidding.”
“Who’s Mike?” Camille had asked.
“Our boss,” they both said at the same time.
“You both have the same boss?” That was odd. A security specialist and a prison chaplain working for the same company?
“Don’t try to figure it out,” Gabrielle had interjected. “It’s a family thing.”
That was clear as bayou mud.
In any case, it wasn’t the heat and humidity that was causing Camille’s problems. No, she was an emotional wreck from all the shocks of the day. She should have just rented a hotel room after her fitting this morning and slept the day away, her head covered by a blanket, until it was time for her bridesmaid obligations. She got a headache—another headache—just thinking about the evening to come.
Sadly, Camille felt safer and more at peace as a special forces agent back at Coronado and on live ops abroad than she did here in the South, fighting her past. A psychiatrist would have a heyday analyzing her screwed-up psyche.
It was bad enough that she was strolling around the plantation where her ancestor, a slave owner, had raised his legitimate family, which felt like a betrayal of sorts to her namesake grandmother, but she was nodding and smiling until her jaw hurt at the renovations being made to the old mansion (did she really need to see the bedroom where dear ol’ granddad slept with his wife?). Next, she would be dropping by her father’s “other” home in Lafayette to visit his longtime mistress, the floozy (a romance author, for heaven’s sake!), and hanging with her twin half sisters, whom she had never met in person and vowed she never would. They were—surprise, surprise—grad students in philosophy, or French literature, or something else equally esoteric, at Harvard University. Her father must be very proud. Her brother had met them at one time, when the girls were in high school, and said they seemed nice. Camille had told her brother he was an idiot.
She couldn’t dwell on her father’s not-so-secret life, or she really would go off the deep end. Not really, but she might scream or growl or punch something, which would call attention to herself, and she’d really rather be invisible, one of her greatest assets in WEALS.
Back to Heaven’s End. She should have been appalled at the old slave quarters, but she couldn’t fault what they were now . . . charming cottages to house Ivak’s staff, who, incidentally, had the same pointy incisors as Harek and Ivak and Trond, and they weren’t even blood relatives. Weird, that’s what it was. She sensed a mystery here that she needed to figure out. Later. Maybe they were some kind of cult who filed their teeth that way? Modern-day vampires?
A chocolaty vampire at that, in Harek’s case. If she wasn’t so full from the delicious lunch of shrimp étouffée, lazy bread, tomato salad, and the sinfully decadent Peachy Praline Cobbler Cake that Tante Lulu had brought, she would probably be licking Harek up one side and down the other. She still might.
I really am losing my mind.
And speaking, rather thinking, of that friend of the Sigurdsson family, Tante Lulu . . . holy moly! The dingbat old lady voiced an opinion on everything, especially her favorite saint, Jude, whom she worked into every conversation thread. He was apparently the patron saint of hopeless cases, and Camille could have sworn that Tante Lulu looked directly at her when she’d imparted that fact. But then Harek had exclaimed, “Are you saying I’m hopeless?” Maybe Tante Lulu had strange eyes, like those portrait paintings that, no matter where you stood, the person seemed to be staring at you.
“We’re all hopeless, at one time or another,” Tante Lulu had replied in all her homespun wisdom. “Truth ta tell, cher, I come t’day ’cause St. Jude whispered in mah ear that there was someone in need of our help.”
Harek had about choked on the beer he’d been sipping at as they’d relaxed around the dining room table. (And that was another thing. In between beers, Harek and Ivak had been quaffing down cardboard containers of something called Fake-O, which they drank with grimaces on their faces. Odd!) But then Tante Lulu’s rheumy eyes turned to Camille, and she knew it was she that the old lady had in her crosshairs. Camille was hopeless, all right, hopeless as a hooker in a Junior Miss pageant.
Harek sat next to Camille on one side of the table, facing Leroy and Tante Lulu on the other side, with Ivak and Gabrielle at either end. Tante Lulu sat on two cushions to compensate for her height. The child Mikey had been put down for a nap, kicking and screaming, a while ago by his nanny, Elsa, another pointy-teeth person. Like a little Energizer bunny, Mikey kept going and going, tiring everyone out and eventually himself. He was adorable.
Gabrielle’s brother Leroy, who’d recently gotten his master’s degree in social work from the University of Tennessee and was about to start a job running a halfway house for Angola parolees, had been flirting with Camille ever since he arrived. Probably because she was the only single female there. And she’d been flirting back at him, mostly because it seemed to annoy Harek, and she was annoyed at Harek for blurting out her dubious connection to Heaven’s End.
Actually, Leroy was a fascinating person, having served time in prison for murdering his abusive father. Tante Lulu, who was a friend of a friend of practically everyone in Louisiana, had helped procure his release. In any case, Leroy seemed to have a genuine interest in her work with WEALS.
“Would you like to come see our operation?” Leroy asked her. “We’re having an open house at Gateways on Monday.”
“We’re leaving tomorrow,” Harek answered for her.
She kicked his leg under the table. “I’d love to see it, Leroy. Maybe next time I’m back in Nawleans.” Not that she intended to come back anytime soon, but if she did, she would.
“Give me your e-mail address and cell number, and we can keep in touch,” Leroy suggested. “Maybe I can come out to Coronado sometime, get the grand tour.”
“No, no, no. Camille will be too busy. An upcoming mission and all that. Very hush-hush.” Harek was repeating her exact words, the ones she’d used last night to describe his work to her brother.
She stamped his foot with her foot. Hard.
He winced, but smiled warmly at her. Fake warmness. What was up with that?
“Harek and Camille are soon-to-be life mates,” Ivak blurted out. He was leaning back in his chair, enjoying the interplay.
“We are not!” she and Harek said at the same time.
“I doan know,” Tante Lulu interjected. “I’m thinkin’ St. Jude mus’ have somethin’ in mind fer you two, ta have me skedaddlin’ over here t’day.”
The old lady had already given Camille a St. Jude medal on a silver chain, a plastic statue that would fit in her purse, and a prayer card.
Tante Lulu glanced sideways at Leroy beside her. “Or mebbe it’s you he has in mind fer Camille.”
Leroy pretended delight and said, “Yippee!”
Gabrielle giggled, “You better beware, Camille. When Tante Lulu decides to matchmake, you are a dead duck. I know from experience.”
“A very pretty dead duck,” Ivak added, winking at his wife. “I enjoyed plucking you as I recall.”
“Tsk, tsk!” Tante Lulu said with a grin at the sexual innuendo.
Harek grumbled, “Bloody hell!”
“Camille, I could call mah niece Charmaine over at her beauty shop in Houma and get ya in fer a last-minute appointment if ya want. She’d get ya gussied up real good fer the weddin’.”
“Uh, thanks, but no thanks,” Camille answered. “I can handle it myself.” If Tante Lulu’s red-dyed hair, heavy foundation complete with rouged cheeks, and the purple enameled nails were any indication, she could definitely do better gussying herself.
Even though lunch had been early, it was already one p.m. and they needed to head back to the city. Camille glanced at Harek and he nodded, understanding her silent message.
“Hate to eat and run, Ivak, but Camille and I need to hit the road. She has a lot of gussying to do back at Evermore.”
“Evermore?” Ivak asked.
“That’s the name of Camille’s family home,” Harek informed his brother, and the two of them exchanged a look.
“Leave it to you!” she thought Ivak murmured to Harek. “Be careful.”
“Be careful of what?” she asked Harek.
“Riches,” he said enigmatically.
Camille nudged Harek with her knee. “My mother’s already sent me thirteen text messages. If I don’t return soon, she’ll be sending out a posse.”
He nudged her back and added a quick pass of his palm over her thigh, up high. When she glanced his way, he just waggled his eyebrows.
“Are you two playin’ hanky-panky under the table?” Tante Lulu inquired. “No singin’ hymns afore the gospel!”
“I’m a great singer,” Harek told Camille.
“Get real,” she said, and stood.
“I think she likes me,” Harek confided loudly to Ivak, as he stood, too, along with all the others at the table.
“Hey, you’re a Viking. Women can’t resist Vikings,” Ivak reminded his brother.
“Puh-leeze! Not the Viking stuff again,” Gabrielle said with a groan.
“ ’Tis true, heartling,” Ivak told his wife. “In the old days, back in Viking times, women from all countries invited Norsemen into their bed furs because we were more handsome and brave and virile than their men, even on their best days.”
Gabrielle laughed. “And because Viking men bathed more often than others.”
“That, too,” Ivak agreed, coming around the table to give his wife a quick kiss.
Harek turned to Camille, as if about to give her a kiss, too.
“Don’t even think it,” she warned, although when he smiled like that, the smell of chocolate was overpowering.
“I swear, you are so hot, you could make my hard drive melt, and, believe me, my hard drive is very hard at the moment,” Harek whispered in her ear.
The fool! Even knowing that he was just teasing, Camille felt a flush of warmth rush through her body.
“I’m ’spectin’ the thunderbolt any minute now,” Tante Lulu announced, staring at her and Harek.
“What?” Camille said. “The sun is shining brightly, not a cloud in sight.” That’s all she would need, rain to make this wedding nightmare complete.
“Not that kind of thunder,” Tante Lulu explained. “Nope, it’s the thunderbolt of love. Do ya have yer hope chest yet, honey?”
“Are you talking to me?” Camille asked. Really, the old lady’s mind jumped from one subject to another like popcorn on a hot griddle.
“I was talkin ta Harek about the hope chest,” Tante Lulu said. “Not ta worry, mah boy. I’ll have one made fer ya, lickety-split. All the men in mah family, and all the male friends of the family, gets hope chests. No, no, ya doan have ta thank me. A man’s gotta have a place ta store his linens and doilies and such before the weddin’.”
“There. Is. Not. Going. To. Be. A. Wedding,” Harek said.
Camille laughed, not because she disagreed with him, but the red color in his face was so satisfying. She didn’t know what it was about his discomfort that entertained her. Immature of her, she recognized. But funny, dammit.
Suddenly, off in the distance, the sound of thunder could be heard. Very distinctly.
Camille stopped laughing.
Weddings were the bane of most men . . . more so if they were Vikings . . .
Once again, four hours later, Camille had the last laugh. On him.
Harek groaned on first seeing Camille come down the stairs of her parents’ home wearing a long, slim gown of pure silk temptation. It wasn’t white and it wasn’t rose-colored, something in between that made her skin appear creamy smooth, dusted with honey. Not that the dress was sluttish, not at all. It was sex on a sophisticated, subtle level. The worst kind. Or the best kind, depending on your point of view.
The front of the dress was cut in a wide half circle, barely caught off her shoulders by short cap sleeves and almost but not quite exposing the tops of her breasts. A tease. Behind, there wasn’t much skin exposed, but there were twenty-seven tiny buttons . . . Yes, he counted them as she turned halfway down the staircase to pose and show him all sides of the gown. The buttons led from below her shoulder blades down, down, down to the middle of her derriere. It was the fabric, though, that was the killer. Some kind of clingy silk stuff that moved when she did, cupping her breasts and her buttocks.
“Oops, I forgot my purse.” She went back upstairs.
And he got a hard-on just watching the movement of her arse. Up, down, up, down. Like a longship on the high seas. Holy frickin’ waves!
She was back, carrying a small gold mesh bag the size of a piece of toast. It had a long gold chain that she’d looped over her shoulder.
Which caused him to notice her neck that was bared by her upswept hair, hair that had miraculously turned blondish, or maybe it was the glittery stuff she seemed to have dusted herself with. It was going to be a constant struggle for him to keep his fangs retracted lest he pounce on her and take a bite, right where the curve of her neck seemed to throb with sweet blood close to the surface.
It was troubling, this growing need he had to feed. More than once in the past year, he’d felt vampire-ish in his hunger for blood, and not just to save sinners or destroy Lucies. Was it possible that his vampire side was overtaking his angel side? Not that he ever felt very angelic.
Down, Dracula, down, he joked with himself.
Her only jewelry was a pair of pearl stud earrings that called attention to her small shell ears, the whorls of which he would love to lick. He had a particular skill in ear play that he hadn’t practiced in more than a century. Perhaps it was time to . . .
No, no, no. No ear sex. No bloodsucking. No arse watching.
“You look very nice,” he said, taking Camille’s hand as she stepped off the last step. She was wearing high heels that matched her dress, so her height was enhanced by a good four inches. He liked that she didn’t have to crane her neck to look up at him. Necks again! I have got to stop thinking about necks.
“You look pretty good yourself.” She stepped closer and flicked a speck of lint off the lapel of his black tux jacket, then smoothed out the fabric.
“You smell like chocolate,” she said.
“You smell like roses,” he said at the same time.
“Chocolate roses? That’s some combination.”
“Works for me.” He gave a rueful laugh and considered for a brief instant of insanity that it wouldn’t hurt to lean in and taste her lips, just to see if there was such a thing as chocolate roses.
He was saved by the bell, or rather the belle, who made a very unladylike snort of disgust as she approached, coming from a downstairs bathroom in a wave of some sophisticated perfume with tones citrusy floral. Dr. Jeannette Dumaine was wearing a pale blue gown with about a million sparkling crystals, not to be outdone by the diamond necklace and earrings that could very well be worth a million dollars. “Camille, darling, let me see how you look.” Camille’s mother shoved him aside—she blamed him for Camille being gone all day—and inspected her daughter with a critical eye.
“The gown fits perfectly,” she conceded. A bone of contention had apparently been Camille’s refusal to come back to New Orleans weeks ago for a proper fitting, “but why aren’t you wearing the pearls?”
“It seemed like too much. The dress speaks for itself, don’t you think?” Camille patted her mother on the arm and said, “You look very elegant, Mother. Too young to be the mother of the groom.”
Jeannette preened at the compliment.
At fifty-something, the lady did look much younger, probably due to some work being done on her face and neck. Modern men had no way of knowing for sure how old women were, with all the sly artifices available, including plastic surgery. And don’t even think about bosoms with silicone or enhancing bras to fool clueless men. Not that he was looking at Camille’s mother’s breasts. Jeesh! He was just saying . . . thinking.
“Is everyone ready?” Dr. Emile Dumaine asked, coming out of the library with Alain. Both of them wore similar white tuxedo jackets over black formal pants, and Harek wondered briefly if he should have gone for the lighter color. But, no, even if he was half angel, he rarely wore white because his skin was pale when he’d gone too long without feeding.
Dr. Dumaine wore a subtle clove/citrus-embued cologne that hit Harek like a silent punch. Harek was being assaulted by all these conflicting scents. Roses, spices, fruit. Whew!
Emile and Alain were both carrying tumblers of an amber liquid. Bourbon, would be his guess. He could have used a glass himself. That, or a gallon of Fake-O. Yeech!
“You look lovely, Jeannette,” Emile said, kissing his wife lightly on the cheek in an oddly formal fashion. Then he turned to Camille and said, “You, too, sweetheart.”
“That color suits you, Cam,” Alain added. Apparently, Camille had been complaining to him about the “pink” gown.
Camille made a face at her brother.
Harek reached out and shook Alain’s hand. “Good luck tonight, man.”
“Thanks. Sorry we didn’t get a chance to talk more while you were here,” Alain said.
“How could you? They were gone all day,” Mrs. Dumaine pointed out.
“Now, Jeannette. Let’s not spoil the happy occasion,” Emile chastened.
To Harek’s surprise, the usually strong-minded harpy zipped her mouth into a tight line, then said, “The limo is waiting outside. Are we ready?”
They all nodded, and Harek whispered to Camille, “I’ll follow in your car. That way we can leave when we want.”
“Good thinking,” she whispered back.
The wedding went off as planned at St. Louis Cathedral. Beautiful setting. Beautiful bride. Beautiful music. Beautiful church rituals.
Ho-hum.
Harek hated weddings.
He amused himself by watching Camille’s ass in the clingy dress during the processional. Then he amused himself by watching Camille’s ex-fiancé, who was one of the groomsmen, watching Camille’s ass. Further bored, he amused himself by singing along when the organist played “Ave Maria” for a small choir, until he realized that people were turning to look at him, even Camille from up on the altar where she stood, gaping. What? Other people were singing, too. But then, he realized he’d called attention to himself because he was so good. Vangels had remarkably good singing voices.
He made a rueful shrug of apology to Camille and those closest to him while the choir continued until the end of the song. Finally, it was the time for the exchange of vows. Will this service never end? I need a beer, or something stronger, or a swig of Fake-O, or a combination of both. Yeah, that would be good. I could create my own mixed drink. Bottle it up. Make a million bucks. Scotch and blood on the rocks. Blood-tini. Bloody Sour. Blood Bliss. Drac’s Fang. Fuzzy Fang. Fangs for the Memories. A Fanger, instead of a Banger. Or maybe the emphasis should be on angels. Something like Angel Blood, Heavenly Hooch, or a Dirty Angel.
I’m losing my mind here.
He cursed under his breath, and the heavyset lady in the pew in front of him, wearing a black straw hat the size of an umbrella dripping with purple flowers, turned and hissed at him.
He did another shrug-apology, and tried just twiddling his fingers while the ceremony went on endlessly. Was he the only one who had to piss? The only one bored, bored, bored?
Taking out his cell phone, which was on silent mode, he checked for text messages. There was one from his brother Vikar.
Call me
Well, he couldn’t very well call now, so he texted back.
In church. can’t talk. what’s up?
Almost immediately, there was a response.
WTF! U, in church? Roof fall in?
LOL. 4 a wedding.
Even better. Or worse.
U better not say that around Alex.
Having fun?
Yeah, like root canal on angel fang.
Ouch. I hear u found life mate. Not ur wedding, is it? Knowing u, texting during marriage wouldn’t be odd. U always have cell phone or computer glued 2 ur arse or other body parts. Do you sleep w/laptop, btw?
No, haven’t found a life mate. No, not my wedding. No, I don’t sleep w/computer. U contact me just 2 annoy me?
Cnut called. Something big coming down, as suspected. Suggests 4 of VIK, including u, come 2 his aid with team of vangel warriors. ASAP.
Myself & . . . ?
Mordr, Ivak & me w/troops, 2nite. Trond w/u & SEALs.
He nodded to himself. A good combination. And just the right number since he and Trond would be unable to bring their own vangel fighters without risking secrecy of the group.
Be back in Coronado 2moro. Prob won’t be in Nigeria ’til next week.
Just then, Black Hat Lady made a tsking sound, and Harek figured he was on her shit list, again, this time for texting in church. But when he looked up, he saw that it was the woman next to her, cell phone at her ear, who was getting the dirty eyeball. The woman, a pretty blonde wearing a tiny feathered hat with fake rosebuds, glanced his way, and he winked conspiratorially at her. She grinned and winked back.
For a moment, he thought he detected fangs, but she’d turned back to face the altar. He was probably wrong. He seemed to have fangs on the brain at the moment. Fang Me. Bang Me. Yep, he was losing it.
That little bit of flirting occupied at least a half minute.
At the same time, a foul odor filled the air. Had someone farted? In church? It was probably Big Hat. Phew!
He signed off with Vikar and breathed a sigh of relief—actually, he released the breath he’d been holding in the wake of the gas lady—when the priest told Alain he could kiss the bride, a sure sign that the wedding was over. Soon the recessional started and Harek got another gander at Camille’s ass in the clingy gown. The other bridesmaids wore similar gowns, but none of them had Camille’s posterior curves to carry them off in quite the same way. No doubt all the WEALS exercises—crunches and squats and the lot—developed muscles in that area that some women yearned to have. Not a bad side advantage, from his viewpoint, anyhow.
It annoyed the hell out of him to see Julian glance Camille’s way repeatedly. A bit of dog in the manger on Julian’s part, if you asked Harek, which no one did. Julian didn’t want her and yet he did. And, besides, it was dog in the mangerish for him, too. He didn’t want her, that way . . . well, yes, he did, but not as a life mate. At least he wasn’t married like good ol’ Julian.
Harek slipped out the side door and was about to head for the Benz when he got another whiff of that stinky odor. Something unpleasant, like sulfur. That meant there was a Lucie in the area. Just one, by the strength of the odor, Harek guessed, already reaching inside his tux jacket for several throwing stars, which had been cured in the symbolic blood of Christ. He placed them in his outside tux pockets. He scanned the area. Someone in the church or just outside must be a really bad sinner, or about to commit some major transgression to lure a lone Lucie out in the open like this.
Almost immediately, he realized that the Lucie in question was the blond woman with the cell phone. So it hadn’t been gas he’d smelled, and blamed on the lady in the black hat, but the rotten egg odor of a demon vampire. And the Lucie was staring directly at Camille’s father.
Huh?
What kind of great sin had Dr. Emile Dumaine committed, or was he planning to commit? And why hadn’t Harek detected a lemon scent on Camille’s father? There had been that citrusy clove cologne he wore, but it had been subtle, not overpowering, like a sin scent. It must be something bad Emile was contemplating, then, not yet a sin set in stone, brimstone, so to speak.
More important, why hadn’t Harek detected a Lucie sitting right in front of him? Had he been distracted by boredom, less than diligent? If so, he would hear about it soon enough from Michael. Usually Harek could spot a Lucie from half a mile away, though this one was a lowly hordling, not a powerful haakai. And why hadn’t the Lucie known he was a vangel . . . a high VIK, for cloud’s sake? Perhaps a church setting diffused the odors of demons and angels. He would have to check on that. Good info to have, if true.
People were exiting the church now, heading toward their vehicles, while the bridal party hung behind for pictures. Camille hadn’t noticed him yet. In fact, she appeared to be fending off advances from that horndog Julian. Harek would have something to say to the man. Later.
Moving quickly, he placed himself midway between the Lucie and Emile, forcing the demon vampire to notice him. His eyes were probably already turning from blue to silver, and he could feel his fangs elongating. Her eyes went wide with recognition and immediately began to redden as she began to morph into demonoid form, which she could not—should not—do in public. Scales were breaking out on her skin. Soon a tail would appear and deadly mung would seep from her demon pores. Her size would increase for combat.
But she had to know she was no match for a vangel of his powerful lineage. He might be a computer geek in present times, and he might have been a merchant in the old days, but at heart he would always be a Viking warrior.
In a rush, she dashed for a back door of the cathedral. He followed her into a storage room where priestly vestments hung on padded hangers, and jars of holy water and anointing oils were lined up on built-in shelves.
The Lucie was now in full demonoid form complete with clawed hands and three-inch fangs, and, yes, breasts. Big, red, scaly breasts and black nipples. Its mons was covered with long, straggly, black hair, though the hair on its head was still blond and oddly beautiful. Seeing there was no escape, the demon lunged for him. Mung flew off its scaly skin and hit the walls, as well as some of the priestly garments. Luckily, he was able to jump aside and avoid both being clawed and having his tux get stained. Mung could be poisonous if it got into an open wound, and if demon fang juice entered the body of either a vangel or a human, it was a sure ticket to Lucipiredom. Not to be confused with any of the Magic Kingdoms, believe you me, he joked with himself.
Stay alert, Harek, he chided himself. Never turn your back on a Lucipire. Never underestimate your enemy, though they be Saxon or Satan’s minion. Get the bloody damn job done.
Outraged at being thwarted, the Lucie spun awkwardly and raised high a long hatpin, of all things. Not to be dismissed, of course, since it had probably been treated with some vile substance. A pin that size must have been stuck not just in her feathered hat, but all the way through her evil, dumb blond head. Amazing the things a Lucie would do for Jasper.
The Lucie backhanded him across the face, catching him by surprise, and causing Harek to fly against the wall. Harek swiped blood from his lip with the back of his hand and glared. No way would he let himself be bested by a mere hordling.
With his agility restored, Harek jumped to his feet. Before the Lucie could pierce him with the sharp hatpin, he took one of the throwing stars out of his pocket. He aimed it at the Lucie’s left thigh, causing the creature’s knee to buckle, and it went down to the floor with a heavy thud, the pin rolling out of its hand. Immediately, Harek followed with another star to the wretch’s neck, causing it to claw with both hands, trying to pull it out. The Lucie fell backward, growling with pain, furious with frustration.
Both of those wounds would cause the demon vampire to die, eventually, but that would only send it back to Jasper’s lair. The weapon had to pierce the heart in order to destroy the Lucie for good, condemning it to hell for all eternity.
He did not want this Lucie dead yet, thus his well-aimed hits. He needed to know why Camille’s father was in the demon’s crosshairs.
“Are you here alone?” he asked the dying demon as it writhed on the floor, its blood seeping from both wounds, especially the neck.
The demon refused to answer.
So Harek stepped on the star in her thigh, causing the sharp edges to go deeper.
The demon screamed.
“Tell me, are you here alone?”
She nodded. “My partner . . . killed in Angola last year . . . I . . . I have been wandering.”
“Why are you following Dr. Dumaine?”
The Lucie blinked at him, surprised that he knew the target.
“What great sin has he committed?” When the Lucie didn’t immediately reply, he added, “Or is he about to commit?”
Blood oozed out of the demon’s mouth and nose. It would not be long now. Harek had to act quickly. “Tell me,” he demanded, “and I will make your passage quicker.”
“Murder. His wife. Has mistress. Money.” On those words, the demon’s eyes began to close and a gurgling sound came from its open mouth, the death rattle. Even so, it rose to its knees.
Harek could have poured a jar of holy water over the demon, but that would only cause its skin to burn off. An ugly sight, but not fatal. No, Harek needed to do more. Without delay, he drew a long switchblade from an interior pocket of his jacket, popped it open, and swiped wide, catching the Lucie’s arm through flesh and bone, above the elbow. The demon looked with horror at the severed arm, which hung by a scrap of skin. Given an opening, Harek thrust the blade through the beast’s heart. Immediately, the Lucie fell backward again and began to dissolve into a puddle of odorsome slime.
Harek went over to one of the wide, narrow-depth drawers in the built-in storage units and took out what appeared to be linen napkins. He used one to wipe the blade of his knife and return it to his jacket. Another he used to pick up the hatpin, which he in turn used to lift the throwing stars from the slimy, disintegrating mass on the floor. He placed those in a third clean napkin, which he wrapped tightly and placed with the knife in the interior pocket. He would clean them all later.
“What are you doing?” he heard behind him.
Camille.
Without turning, he said, “I was looking for a men’s room. That was a bloody long service, and I had to piss.”
“I saw you follow a woman in here. Where is she?”
“Uh. I didn’t see any woman,” he lied, already having kicked aside her dress, shoes, and feathered hat so they were under the garment rack. “Shouldn’t you be in the limo, on the way to the reception?”
“I decided to go with you. What is that mess on the floor?”
“What? Oh? One of the bottles of holy oils must have spilled.”
“It stinks. I’ve never known church oils to smell like that.”
“Maybe it was spoiled.” He turned then.
And she gasped, clapping both hands to her face in horror.
Realizing that his fangs were still extended, he ran his tongue over his front teeth, and the fangs retracted, but it was too late. She’d seen.
“Who are you?” she asked then. “What are you?”
“The better question is,” he said, with weary resignation, “why would your father want to kill your mother?”