A Taste of Love and Evil (11 page)

“He should be,” Rose said. “Biff’s probably ex-mob. Or a freelancer. Not a bad guy, considering. I’ve seen far worse.”

Jack gave her an irritated look and turned back to Juma. “Dredge your memory. Anything you can come up with will help. The sooner I get these guys put out of commission, the sooner we’ll all be safe.”

Without a backward glance he left, taking the guns with him.

Jack hurried down the stairs and through the warehouse, shutting the garage door and the gates behind him. He had until tomorrow morning to figure out what was going on and find a way to protect Rose from Titania. If he hadn’t alienated her, she might have trusted him…No use dwelling on that.

A short walk around the block through the cool darkness brought him to Gil’s pottery shop.

Oh, shit. Parked in front of the store, glowing ominously purple under the streetlight, stood a Z-300. What the hell was Violet Dupree doing here?

Jack unlocked the darkened store. He stowed all the weapons except Stevie’s in a cupboard in the stockroom. Gun in hand, he crossed the courtyard. While Jack left the yard on the other side of the wall purposely unkempt, Gil trimmed and fed his shrubs and scattered homemade ceramic statues amongst them.

He let himself in through Gil’s back door. The aromas of steamed rice and stir-fry greeted him, accompanied by the
clink of wineglasses and Violet’s throaty giggle. Gil’s two little Pomeranians pranced up to say hello.

Jack acknowledged the dogs and strode into the kitchen. Gil was shoving vegetables and steak around in a wok. Violet set the wine bottle back on the counter and saluted Jack and the gun with widened eyes and a catlike smile. Jack took one look at Gil’s air of bewildered well-being and dumped the pistol on the counter.

“Jeez, Violet. You didn’t.”

But of course she had.

Violet giggled again, running her hands through her lush orange hair—brassier than Rose’s and nowhere near as compelling. She rubbed her back sinuously against the counter. “Iachimo! How lovely to see you. Don’t blame poor Gil. He didn’t stand a chance.”

No duh, but while it undoubtedly did Gil good to get laid now and then, this was a complication they didn’t need. Jack’s exasperation must have shown, for Gil greeted him with the slightest jut of the chin. “Where’s the runaway?”

Apparently Gil hadn’t blabbed about Rose. Not that he blathered by nature, but with a vamp involved, one never knew. “Somewhere safe,” Jack said.

Violet pouted. “Your rescue operations are simply scrumptious, and I’m dying to help. I adore taking care of troubled teens.”

Jesus Christ. Since every damn female confessed her life history to Gil, evaluating safe havens was his responsibility and Jack had never interfered. So far.

Gil’s chin jutted even more. “Violet says the underworld won’t mess with anyone under her care.”

Jack eyed the vampire skeptically. “What were you doing here in the first place? You didn’t send me on a wild-goose chase so you could hop in the sack with Gil.”

“If I had known about Gil, I might have. Poor, deprived, little me.” She sipped her claret. “Darling, I was worried
about you. You didn’t answer your phone, and I thought you were just a spoiled society boy. You could have run into any kind of trouble. I had no idea you were so intrepid.”

“Being intrepid didn’t stop me from getting shot.” Jack emptied his pockets and shrugged his jacket off. His injured arm twitched irritably, demanding rest. He showed Violet the hole in the sleeve and dumped the jacket in the trash. “Instead of a woman with Illinois plates, I got a hit man from Bayou Gavotte.” Pause. “At the hotel to which you sent me.”

Violet gazed at the bloodstained bandanna on his arm, licking her lips. She returned her eyes to Jack’s. “Someone doesn’t like you. Who knew you were there?”

“You.” Jack matched her stare for stare. “No one but you, Violet.”

Gil tsked, shaking his head, while Violet shivered and turned delicately away. “You have such irritating eyes. Surely you’re not suggesting I had anything to do with it. What earthly reason would I have to harm you?”

“None that I’m aware of,” Jack said. “I thought we were square.”

“So did I. Not that I ever felt you owed me; that was your silly idea. I would never blame you for what you did while under Titania’s influence.”

Jack glowered at her. “I take full responsibility for my actions.”

Violet rolled her eyes, but then her tone switched from casually bored to velvet over ice. “Are you quite, quite sure you’re not under Titania’s influence again? I don’t appreciate being double-crossed.”

What the hell? “Definitely not,” Jack snapped, hauling hard on his temper. “I hope I never see her again.”

Violet tittered. “Still in reaction phase, I see. Being dumped by a vamp screws with a man in every way but the one he wants.”

Jack gritted his teeth. He’d never been one to kiss and tell, and he wasn’t about to start now—not that she would believe him. “Although I’m not unaware of the poetic justice, I don’t appreciate being a pawn in your petty revenge.”

Violet grinned. “It was a sweet thought, no?” Her face hardened, and the tips of her fangs peeked out. “Unfortunately, my plan seems to have backfired. My friend’s safe arrival in Bayou Gavotte was very, very important to me. What if Titania got wind of it and called on her dear, sweet Iachimo to help foil my plans? With promises of a suitable reward, of course.”

Christ. “Nothing would induce me to lift a finger for Titania.”

“I hope not, Iachimo darling.” Her fangs were all the way down. “I don’t approve of violence, but if you helped that bitch, I will show you no mercy.”

Jack shrugged again, ignoring the complaints of his arm, and went down the hall to borrow one of Gil’s shirts.

Violet’s voice followed. “If the girl herself went over to Titania’s side, she’ll rue the day she was born.”

If you touch Rose, I’ll kill you.
Without breaking stride, Jack continued to the bedroom, thankful he’d turned away from Violet, because murder—and the reason for it—would have shown all too clearly on his face. He shucked off his grubby shirt, put on a clean dark T-shirt, and returned to the kitchen. Violet had retracted her fangs and was sulking over her wine.

Cool. Calm.
He popped open a beer. “Why did you drag some poor woman into your stupid feud? You might feel justified using a schmuck like me, but a friend?” he said. “Doesn’t sound like friendship to me.”

“She’s not some poor woman; she not only makes fabulous costumes, but she does great wearable art. You wouldn’t believe the contests she’s won. She was even featured in
Quilting Arts.”
Violet pouted. “Besides, coming down here was her idea, not mine.”

Jack plunked himself and the beer at the table.

“I
thought
she was a friend.” Violet appeared genuinely concerned.

“What was so important about getting her here?”

Violet’s mood shifted instantly. Her fangs popped down. “None of your business. And if I find out—”

“No mercy, rue the day. I got that.”

She scowled. “Titania may have won this round, but she will
not
win the game.”

Gil scooped the stir-fry onto one of his homemade platters. A slice of red pepper dropped to the floor. He caught Jack’s eyes with his own, asking a silent question as he bent to pick up the pepper.

The answer was
Hell, no.
Jack wasn’t about to hand Rose over to Violet without explaining very clearly to Rose what she was getting herself into, and without offering her an alternative.

“I wonder who wants you dead?” Violet remarked. “Gil says it’s someone from the underworld, but they’re generally very civilized. Not like the mob at all, and believe me, I know. My daddy was from one of the New Orleans families.”

“Handcuffing a girl inside a car doesn’t seem civilized to me.”

Violet made a little moue. “I detest bondage, and it’s not permitted in my club in
any
form, but a lot of people come to Bayou Gavotte because they’re into that kind of kink. Are you sure she wasn’t willing?”

“Completely sure.”

Violet rolled claret around her tongue. “Leopard and Constantine won’t be happy to hear about this, but they’ve been gone on and off for months, so it’s no surprise things have gotten a little out of hand. Even though it didn’t happen here, the man had better be able to account for his actions.
I dearly love Constantine, but he can get dreadfully violent.”

As usual, Jack couldn’t decide whether or not this was a plus. “The guy’s name is Stevie, and he works at the Threshold. Do you know him?”

Violet shuddered artistically. “Of course not. I never go near that horrible place.”

Gil heaped another platter with rice and set it on the table, then took the wok to the sink to clean it. “Go ahead,” he said. “Serve yourselves.”

“Hungry, Iachimo? I am.” Violet smiled with typical vamp innuendo, and Jack noted his indifference with relief. Maybe he was finally getting over the worst year of his life. Maybe, with a little more effort, he’d be back in control for good. He could never erase the past; anyone who let himself get involved with vamps had to live with the consequences. In spite of what he’d garnered from his father’s experiences, Jack had learned that the hard way himself, resulting in one debt he’d never be able to repay.

Violet filled one of three plates on the table and set it in front of him. Jack scooped up a pair of chopsticks and dug in. “What do you know about a thug called Biff?”

Violet’s blue eyes widened for the briefest second. Huh.

“Such a distressingly fifties name,” Violet said languidly, but her fingers gripped the stem of the wineglass. “Biff was at the hotel this morning?”

“Biff is the man who shot me.”

“I’ll have to get back to you on that one,” Violet said, a dangerous edge to her voice.

“Spit it out, Violet,” Jack said. “Who is Biff?”

Those sharp little fangs peeked out again. A muscle flickered at the corner of one of her eyes. “I said
later.”
She took a long draft of wine. The fangs disappeared.

“While it’s nice to know you can control your temper, I need you to answer my question.”

Violet sent a pained glance at Gil’s back and murmured, “He’s already uncomfortable about Bayou Gavotte. You don’t want him to know.”

“Just tell me.”

“You’re so insensitive. Gil is a sweetie, and so much fun to talk to. I want him to stay here in town, and it so happens this is the worst.” Violet lowered her voice even more. “Biff’s a part-time enforcer for the underworld, and he’s moving up the ladder fast.”

She didn’t need to say the rest.

He
works for Constantine Dufray.

Jack left the minute he finished eating, devoutly thankful he had never let Gil in on the camo thing. His partner’s respect for his supposed courage drove him nuts, but the fewer who knew the truth, the better. Who could say what Gil might confide to Violet if they became deeply involved? For now, they were stuck with a vampire as their first haven hostess in this town.

Grudgingly, Jack admitted that she might do on a temporary basis. Whatever she had spilled her guts about to Gil must have convinced Gil she wasn’t dangerously skewed. On the other hand, Gil had kept his mouth shut about Rose, probably because Violet had also let fly about her ongoing feud with Titania. It didn’t matter that he’d told Violet about the rescues—hell, the rescues themselves might spread the word about where they’d found help—but Jack’s chameleon ability made the whole operation possible.

Strange, Jack thought,
I kept it a secret from everyone. I hid it from Titania by sheer dumb luck, and then totally blew my cover with Rose. The circumspection of a lifetime negated by an instant’s insanely blind trust.

Although, to be fair—and he was determined to be scrupulously fair where Rose was concerned, because every little thing added up toward restoring the balance—Rose had shown no sign of holding it over his head. In fact, she seemed more inclined to protect him. Which tipped the balance in her favor
again.

I’m not going to think about her.

Jack buttoned the old overcoat he’d borrowed from Gil and made for the club district. Too bad there wasn’t time to do some digging in Blood and Velvet, but Violet would return to the club soon. He didn’t think much of her conviction that no one else knew her plans. If Biff was one of Violet’s lovers, he might have overheard something. If not, someone else had. Regardless, who had sent Biff to kill him?

Constantine had no reason to want Jack Tallis dead. In fact, Gil was probably right, and Constantine had forgotten his very existence. Which would definitely suck, but there you go. On the other hand, it was said that even from a distance, Constantine kept his finger on the pulse of Bayou Gavotte. Jack was careful, putting his buildings in a corporate name, keeping himself and his usual vehicle as nondescript as practical, not because of Constantine, but because he tried to keep Jack the Rescuer separate from Iachimo Tallis, son of the international mogul. Still, he wasn’t hard to find. Violet, once he’d given her his new cell number, had had no trouble at all.

Maybe Constantine had heard about random disturbances in the clubs over the past months, incidents where innocent people were removed from danger by a guy no one had actually seen. Maybe Constantine had put two and two
together. Maybe he resented interference with the Bayou Gavotte clubs. Maybe he wanted Jack out of the way.

But that contradicted everything Jack believed—no,
knew
—about Constantine.

And what about Rose?
Do. Not. Think. About. Rose.

Semicamouflaged in the darkness, more like shadow than reality to anyone who noticed him, he bypassed the brilliantly lit front entrance to the Threshold and turned up the alley toward the rear. Inside the back door, an armed and brutal-looking guard hovered in a barren, equally well-lit vestibule, virtually impossible to camouflage past. But sooner or later he would come out for a smoke break with a couple of his buddies, and Jack would slip past unseen.

If Rose were with him, he wouldn’t have to lurk out here in the cold. The Threshold wasn’t a private club, but you couldn’t get in if they didn’t know and trust you or want you for some of their games. Underage girls, and to a lesser extent guys, got in occasionally and sometimes didn’t come back out. One flash of Rose’s fangs and she and her escort would be welcomed with open arms. The Threshold would never refuse a vamp.

Again, Jack shut the door on thoughts of Rose. He slid between the Dumpster and the rickety wooden fence at the edge of the Threshold’s rear court. Bedraggled English ivy hung against the fence, an interloper from the walls of the restaurant next door, where seekers of vicarious thrills were treated to tales about the hellish shenanigans nearby. Glad that the cold muted the stink from the Dumpster, Jack camoed against the ivy’s musky leaves.

Twenty minutes later, when he’d justified thinking about Rose as a method of keeping warm, a furtive footstep from behind the Dumpster broke his reverie. A scrawny male figure, silhouetted against the murky gray sky, appeared at the end of the Dumpster and crept through the darkness toward him.

Shit.

Option 1: get out of the way quickly and quietly, and let the fool meet the fate he deserves.

Unfortunately, he had to go for Option 2.

Jack locked his right arm around the guy’s throat and thrust him hard against the side of the Dumpster, twisting the guy’s left arm up behind him. The morning’s wound in his own arm spasmed. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” he growled.

The kid was too busy suffocating to answer, so Jack let up a little. The kid gasped and hacked, bucking feebly between Jack and the Dumpster. Jack shoved on the twisted arm and the kid whimpered.

“Any minute now,” Jack said, letting up again for his own sake as much as for the kid’s, “some dude about twice as tall and three times as heavy and a thousand times meaner than me will come out that door. Either you shut up, stay still, and listen to me, or I’ll throw you out there for him and his buddies to rip apart with their bare hands. And teeth.”

Maybe this was a mite exaggerated, even given the bizarre predilections of the people who frequented this dive, but chances were the kid would soak it up. And he did. The boy subsided, and Jack eased his grip a little more, cursing his injury.

“Don’t get me wrong, kid. It’s fine by me if you have a death wish, but go in through the front door. That way you might have some fun while you kill yourself.”

“They won’t let me in the front.” Bitterness choked the youth’s voice.

Of course they won’t.
“Because…?”

“Because I’m underage.” The ultimate humiliation. The kid tried to twist his head to see his captor and sobbed as Jack put pressure on his arm again. “I’m not a kid. I’m old enough to know what I want.”

“Maybe, maybe not. It might be smart to wait till you’re eighteen to find out for sure.”

“That’s
forever,”
the boy protested. “I
need
to get into that club.”

Christ. “The people who run the Threshold don’t care what you need. They intend to stay in business, and staying in business means no one gets in if they’re underage.”

“I’ll never tell,” the boy said. “Please, man. Please let me in. I belong there. Out here, I’m so fucking bored I could die.”

“Suit yourself,” Jack said, a familiar indifference taking over. The club door swung open and fragments of hot, heavy music slithered out, accompanied by a massive figure. Two bouncers followed to hover at the edge of the pool of light by the door. One was Stevie, a bruise on his left temple and a vacant scowl on his face.

“Now’s your chance for some excitement,” Jack whispered in the kid’s ear. “I’ve heard they’re very creative about punishment for rule breakers. Who knows what they’ll be in the mood for tonight? Death by stoning…dismemberment…Castration first, I suppose. Out you go.” He set the kid free.

The boy flung away from Jack with a loud, choking cry, thunked against the Dumpster, and stumbled toward freedom as fast as he could go.
What a nincompoop.
Still, Jack knew he’d gone too far with the scare tactics. Anyone gullible enough to think frequenting the Threshold would solve his problems had no idea how to think at all.

Stevie gave chase, cutting off one escape route, and the mingled cries of success and agony told Jack the other bouncer had snagged the fleeing youth. “Well, well,” said the humongous security guard ponderously and unoriginally, “what have we here?”

Stevie, oblivious to Jack’s presence only a foot away, turned to join his companions. Jack took the opportunity to yank him back by the throat and shove the muzzle of Stevie’s
own pistol against his side. They stood in the darkness. “Not so fast, Stevie,” he said.

“What the fuck?” Stevie clawed at Jack’s hand.

“Cool it.” Jack’s injured arm spasmed again. “Keep your voice down and answer my questions, and I’ll let you join your buddies. What’s Juma’s last name?”

“Who the…?” Jack tightened his hold and Stevie gasped, “Loveday-Smith.”

“Good.” Jack eased the stranglehold and rested his reluctant gun hand against the fence, the muzzle still lightly on Stevie’s ribs. “Her grandmother’s name and where they live. The name of the hairdressing salon where she works.”

“Estelle,” Stevie spat. “Estelle Loveday. They live in Des-trierville. I don’t know the fucking name of the fucking salon.” Jack squeezed, and Stevie choked out, “Loveday’s something or other.”

“Her grandmother
owns
the salon?”

“Of course she owns the fucking salon. She owns half the goddamn town.”

“So why is Juma running away from home?”

“Yo, Stevie,” called the other bouncer. “We caught the kid. Let’s go teach him a lesson.”

If
Rose
were here, she could keep those guys busy while I finished with this moron.
What bozo had hired Stevie? He hadn’t even realized Rose was a vamp, and he’d shown no self-control at all. Even in a club like this one, the employees knew their boundaries and feared the consequences of a slipup: if a vamp arrived unaccompanied, they wouldn’t do more than vie with one another to escort her inside and show her around, in the hope she’d bestow her favors on them later.

He shut out the thought of Rose giving herself to any of these lowlifes, well trained or not, and tightened the stranglehold again. “Why does she keep running away?”

Stevie coughed out a curse. “Her grandma won’t let her go to college.”

“What?” Jack’s injured arm twitched. His hesitation must have shown, or maybe Stevie wasn’t as dumb as he seemed, but an elbow jabbed Jack in the ribs and he dropped the gun. Hissing with the pain, Jack sidestepped Stevie’s follow-up swivel and rush, grasped the fence with his good arm, and vaulted into the yard next door.

In no time they would be after him. He toppled a trash can and flung the lid across the yard, tossed a flower pot toward the alley, and camoed against the ivy-covered wall. That should give them plenty to chase. His arm throbbed like crazy, though, and now it was sticking to his coat. Well, crap. It was bleeding again.

Rose
could have fixed that just fine.

You don’t need Rose.

Two minutes later, while Stevie and the other bouncer bumbled around the restaurant yard with flashlights, guns, and threats, Jack climbed over the fence, retrieved Stevie’s gun—maybe he
was
that dumb—and slipped through the back door of the Threshold in time to see the security guard round a corner, dragging the blubbering kid. God, he hated this place.

Jack semicamoed up the gloomy corridor in the wake of the guard, wrinkling his nose against the stink of blood and fear that permeated the back areas of the club. This kind of dump screwed things royally for the regular bondage types, for the vampire wannabes who frequented clubs like Violet’s, for kink freaks in general. The media lumped them all together—and yet, if dives like the Threshold didn’t exist, extremists would dig themselves even deeper and take kids along with them to find the kicks they craved. Or so Jack believed.

The guard turned right toward the private rooms. The kid
could wait. A couple of minutes with the bouncers would guarantee he’d never, ever come near the Threshold again.

Jack headed toward the safety of the dance floor. Even more nondescript than usual in the haze, with no need to camo against the flicker of the strobes, he worked his way through the pulsing, pounding noise and chaos, through the miasma of unrestrained highs and lows, to the men’s room. Inside a stall, he took off Gil’s coat and awkwardly retied the bandanna around his arm. He set his mind to figuring how to rescue the kid.

Just go home,
his arm throbbed.

Where home? I gave my bed to Rose.

Who would be really, really useful right now.

Fine,
Jack snarled,
she’d be useful, but she’s not here and there’s no time.

I hurt,
his arm complained.
You got enough info from Stevie. Forget the kid. You can’t save the whole fucking world.

Goddamn obligations,
thought Jack.
Goddamn stupid balance of favors. Why should I risk my life for some kid who’s determined to kill himself?
Yet it was easy enough to create a diversion, get the crowd to panic, and draw the entire security staff away from the rear. If a bouncer stayed with the kid, he’d deal with it.

He was weighing the boring option of flipping the circuit breakers against the more entertaining one of shooting out the lights, when the music faded and an appalling scream filled the lull. Drawn by the hope of blood and the thrill of fear, the crowd on the dance floor surged toward the back hallway.

A screamer. Jack wondered what the situation was this time. If she’d signed on for the scene, the club had the right to keep the screaming woman here. She might even want them to. They wouldn’t do her any real harm—some artistically placed cuts, some souvenir scars—and if she got over
her terror she might even get off on her fantasy come true of being licked, sucked, and invaded by several of the elite members of the club.

She also might get any number of STDs and eventually die as a result. She sounded awfully young. Why did kids take these chances?

Jack pushed and flowed with the rest, thrusting one drunken girl to the side, grabbing another from the midst of the melee and passing her off via his other arm, throbbing or no, before she went down under the wave. The bouncers moved fast with whips and bludgeons to control the mob, but not fast enough for the pushiest, who crowded the back hall. Shouting for blood, they surrounded a screeching, naked girl being hauled on a leash toward a private room where only the elite were allowed.