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IT WASN’T UNTIL Stiles’ third visit to the Velvet Rope that he finally saw Father Francis Rossi. He was not wearing a priest’s collar, but he was dressed in an expensive black suit. The man was incredibly good-looking. He had long black hair that shone like blue silk when light hit it. A leather strap of some sort tied it firmly to the nape of the man’s neck. He was not as tall as Stiles; somewhat less than six feet, Stiles guessed. High cheekbones highlighted a straight nose. Not a whisker could be seen on his smooth skin. Stiles had never seen a man more handsome in his life.
Good looks notwithstanding, Stiles froze when he looked into Francis Rossi’s eyes. They were black. Black like a raven’s feather, and they showed no feelings at all. The man was cold, and it made the little hairs on Stiles’ body stand on end.
Stiles had visited the brothel enough that he knew the rooms below stairs were reserved for those who had specific tastes. On some nights, you could hear the screams or the crying. The last Stiles saw Father Francis, Henson was leading him through the curtains and down the stairs.
STILES HAD BEEN visiting the Velvet Rope for over a month, and there had been no more deaths. McCullough was getting angrier with each passing day. It wasn’t that Stiles wasn’t doing his job. Everyone had the feeling that the killer knew he was being watched. The only good thing that happened during this time had been Paul.
Paul Dewitt had become Stiles’ favorite among the many options at the brothel. Stiles found he enjoyed the man’s company a great deal, and the sex was damn fine, too. On several occasions there had been no sex at all. Stiles enjoyed those times as well. They’d lie together and talk the entire allotted time. Paul was educated and highly intelligent.
Stiles learned that Paul’s family had money and political ties. He was discovered with the family’s butler in a very compromising position—he was fucking the man senseless—when he was just sixteen. His family promptly dismissed the butler and Paul. With what little money he had to his name, he was able to make it to St. Louis, where he found the Velvet Rope. He figured, why not; he liked sex with men and he found he could make quite a bit of money this way. Over the six years he had been there, he had managed to put away a tidy sum. He told Stiles he was looking forward to having enough to buy a small farm somewhere in another year or so.
Paul did have his limits, though. He’d told Stiles about Lykin and Rossi. One experience with each man had been quite enough. Stiles asked about Michael O’Leary and found Paul blushed at the mention of the man’s name. He’d seen the man on other occasions and he’d found his timid nature both appealing and confusing. Stiles couldn’t fathom why the man visited a brothel if he was that painfully shy.
“He’s different. Like you,” Paul answered quietly. “Why?”
Lying to Paul was becoming an issue for Stiles. He didn’t want to hurt him, but there was no way he could tell him the real reason for his visits to the Velvet Rope.
“I just thought he was attractive.” The statement was close enough to the truth and didn’t give away anything. Both men were quiet for a few moments.
The peaceful silence was suddenly ripped apart by a bloodcurdling scream. Loud voices followed soon after. Stiles leaped from the bed, sliding into his shoes, and dashed out the door of their room. He pulled his shirt on as he went. Paul was close behind.
“I killed him! God help me, I think he’s dead!”
In the main parlor a large group of patrons and workers in various states of undress watched the scene going on before them. Several men in gray uniforms of some kind ran through the parlor. The quick stomp of their feet could be heard echoing down the steps to the lower level of the building. A tall, thin man dressed in a long black coat and carrying a medical bag hurried after them.
Henson appeared in the doorway holding onto a shaking, sobbing man. It was Alexander Lykin. He was wearing a loose-fitting robe and little else from the look of him. His hands were dripping blood and his face was smeared with it.
Paul froze at Stiles’ side.
“Oh, God, no.” The barely breathed words were followed by, “Not another one.” Stiles stared at Paul, but the man’s eyes were focused on the curtain that covered the door leading to the bottom level. The red curtain was thrown back in the next instant.
Father Rossi came through the door dressed in black pants so tight Stiles swore he could see the outline of the man’s very large cock. His midnight tresses were hanging loose about his shoulders. He looked like some vengeful god. Or demon. His muscular torso glistened with sweat. Stiles had seldom seen a finer-looking specimen of a man, and yet there was something about him that strangled any lust Stiles might have felt. Something that made his skin crawl.
“The man is an idiot!” Rossi was yelling at a man dressed in a brown suit whom Stiles had never seen before. The owner, maybe? Whoever he was, he was trying to appease Rossi and the priest was having none of it.
“No one should play at these games when they are drunk.”
“You are right, sir,” brown-suited man said.
“He reeks of drink.”
“We had no idea he was in such a state. It won’t happen again.”
Rossi faced the man, an angry scowl on his beautiful, dark face. “It may be too late for that young man he was torturing.” His hand came up to point where a gurney was being carried by two of the uniformed men. The body didn’t appear to be moving. Lykin could still be heard sobbing as they carried the boy through the parlor to the front door.
Stiles felt Paul shiver beside him, but when he turned to offer some comfort his eyes fell on Michael O’Leary. He was standing across the room, hidden in the shadows. His body was shaking as he shifted from foot to foot. Was it fear, or shock causing the man’s face to be contorted? Stiles’ instincts said he should find out.
He didn’t have a chance to comfort Paul or question O’Leary. The local police entered the building at that moment.
“Everyone, please, may I have your attention.” The officer stood in the center of the room so everyone would focus on him.
“This establishment is closed pending an investigation. We are taking Mr. Lykin in for questioning, and all guests must vacate the building at once.”
This was not how Scotland Yard would have handled this situation. A possible murder? Stiles started to address the officer with his concerns, when Agent McCullough entered the room and spoke.
“All employees return to your rooms. An officer will be by momentarily to speak with you. The rest of you gentlemen, please be seated and we’ll question you before you leave the building tonight. Of course, we will be discreet as possible in this matter.”
Stiles was relieved to see McCullough take charge. He felt Paul’s hand squeeze his arm gently.
“Will you come back?”
“As soon as they let us. Take care and be safe.”
Stiles kissed Paul’s lips and smiled at him before he left the parlor for his own quarters. Stiles watched as McCullough and several other agents spoke with the gentlemen who hadn’t managed to escape earlier. Eventually McCullough made his way to Stiles, asked him a few questions, and then told him he could leave. Stiles went back to the room he and Paul had been using and finished dressing. When he returned to the parlor, only one agent remained speaking with Henson.
Not looking where he was going, Stiles nearly ran right into McCullough on the sidewalk outside the Velvet Rope. McCullough had been waiting for him. The man brought a lit cigarette to his lips and breathed in deeply. He moved to walk beside Stiles.
“Looks like we got our man,” McCullough stated between drags on the cigarette. He didn’t sound convinced, though.
“Really?” Stiles wasn’t sure the right man had been taken away for questioning. He added as they walked on, “Lykin is either an excellent actor, or...”
“Or?” McCullough stopped mid-step and looked at him.
Stiles started to walk again and shook his head as he went. “The man was truly terrified, from what I could see.”
“You don’t think he killed the others?”
“Did he kill this one?” Stiles asked.
“No. The boy’s got some serious gashes all over his back and buttocks. But the doc said he’ll recover. At least from the physical part; not so sure about his mental state.”
Stiles felt bile roll in his stomach. He understood what McCullough was referring to, and it sickened him that the boy had been treated so severely. They had stopped at an intersection. Turning right would take him back to the small hotel he currently called home.
“The police have Lykin. They will try everything they can to get him to confess to the other murders,” McCullough said. He threw his smoke on the ground and rubbed it with the toe of his boot. “Let’s see what happens.”
Stiles said goodnight and then turned toward the hotel. He needed a hot bath, a long soak and then to sleep for a very long time. He just hoped that would happen.