Crescent Moon (5 page)

What the hell?
“Duat?” He shrugged.

“The Land of the Dead.”

“A cemetery? Is that where you expected to be?”

Her breaths came faster, and she rolled slowly to her knees.

He tried not to stare at her perfect breasts, shaped like
apples and quivering with her movements swaying beneath her as she glanced up,
her expression wild and wary. “You should put on my jacket.”

She glanced down at her body. “Am I living then?”

Wondering if her strange actions and words were a sign of
her mental state, he frowned. “As alive as I am, sugar,” he said softly, not
wanting to alarm her, because her features were hardening, her expression
losing the last vestiges of fear and shock.

Her gaze speared him. “Has Selk risen?” she asked, each word
as hard as a bullet.

“Who the hell is Selk?”

“The other body. The one I was entombed with.”

“The second mummy?”

“Mummy,” she repeated and slowly nodded. “Yes.”

“Haven’t found it yet. Was he like you? Wrapped alive?”

She shook her head. “He was strangled before he was brought
to the tomb.”

“Strangled and in a tomb.” His mind sharpened. This might be
a real case after all. “How long do you think you’ve been like this?”

“I am thinking it must have been a while,” she said, eyeing
his clothing.

“Not so long. You don’t look any worse for wear.”

Her dark brows drew together. “Do not ogle me.”

“Then put on the damn jacket.”

Her chin lifted. Again, her gaze studied him, lingering on
his face and then scanning his body. “You said you are here to help me. Perhaps
my husband has sent you.”

Juste didn’t like the sting of disappointment that settled
in his gut. The gorgeous woman was married. “I don’t know who your husband is.
But he didn’t send me.”

Her lips curved.

He really wished she hadn’t smiled. If she was beautiful
before …

“Given I will need a guide, I accept your offer. We must
work quickly.” She pushed up, bending over to avoid crashing against the upper
wall of the crate, but swayed on her feet.

Still on one knee, he caught her before she fell. Holding
her against his chest, he kept his gaze straight ahead rather than at the woman
whose delicate curves molded against his body. “
Cher
, you shouldn’t have
stood so quickly,” he murmured against her hair.

She clung to him, her delicate hands wrapped around his
biceps.

He glanced down and her eyes were closed tightly. Her
emotions were seesawing between anger and horror. Something he totally got.

Moisture gleamed at the base of her lashes. A tremor racked
her body. “I thought I would remember. Something,” she whispered. “Not simply
wake.”

“Remember? About how you wound up wrapped like a mummy?”

“I remember that,” she whispered and shivered again. “I just
don’t know what happened after …”

“Should you?” he murmured, liking the way her body curled
against his, catching a waft of her natural feminine scent.

“I guess not. But I am no closer to understanding the battle
I must wage.”

Battle?
“You don’t have to fight. Let me do that for
you. I’ll figure this out.”

Her head tilted back and her gaze roamed his face. “Then you
are a warrior?”

He wondered whether she’d been drugged before she’d been
bundled. Her word choices were strange. And she didn’t seem to notice her naked
state. “Lady, I’m a policeman. Guess that’s as close to a warrior as you’re
gonna find here.”

She leaned back her head. “I am Khepri.”

“Just Khepri?”

“Amun’s wife.”

“No last name?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

“It is my first and only name. Should I have more? I was
born to farmers, not kings.” Her head tilted and her gaze narrowed, as though
listening to something far away. “You have more names. Three?”

Juste wasn’t sure why, but he smiled. Yeah, she was a
strange one. “Well, Khepri, I’m Justin Henry Boucher. I do have three names.”

“You must be very important.”

“Only if you think so.”

She smiled, and Juste’s chest tightened. He decided then and
there, whatever had happened here, whoever had touched her would pay dearly.
Khepri, Amun’s wife, was now his problem.

Juste watched the woman from the corner of his eye as he
navigated the late afternoon traffic. Her gaze was fixated on the
stop-and-start movement of the vehicles, almost as though she’d never seen such
a sight. Worse for his concentration, she didn’t notice she’d stopped clutching
together the lapels of his coat.

Not that he was too worried about what anyone outside the
car might see. The city was
Nawlins
, where anything went and clothing
was generally optional. Viewing someone’s private parts was nearly a daily
occurrence, but this woman’s messed with his head. The
northern
one.

She seemed too innocent to be that unconcerned about
clothing.

The situation and her attitude just didn’t smell right.

He didn’t miss the irony that he wasn’t placing the blame
squarely on her. He almost never assumed innocence. Everyone was suspect. But
there was something about the woman. Something weird and kind of magical. Maybe
he had inherited more of his
grand-mère
’s witchy blood than he’d ever
thought. When he looked at Khepri, he felt he wasn’t seeing her at all, but
another woman, kind of fuzzy around the edges and dressed in a pale flowing
gown.

Was his mind fucking with him, making his imagination see
her as some kind of angel?
Merde
, he didn’t need this now. Still, he
didn’t dump her at the station for other officers to figure her out. The
thought of the guys getting an eyeful of her beautiful body and then expecting
a thorough, intimidating interrogation didn’t sit well in his gut. He knew he’d
fucked up the moment he’d steered her away from the others, especially his
partner, and bundled her into his car. He’d even allowed her to gather the
evidence—the wrappings and the objects that had fallen from the wrappings,
including the knife—and bundle them together to bring along.

She’d called the objects amulets. Fussed over finding every
one. And he supposed she had reason because they contained the same picture
writing as he’d seen in the museum. If they were “artifacts,” they’d be worth
something.

Just not to him. He could give a shit less about Dr. Dorman
and his missing ancient junk. Not when Khepri was breathing the air inside his
sedan. She was a mystery he wanted to unravel, and not just for the obvious
reasons she failed to cover up.

She wasn’t from around here. That much was sure. Not if the
sight of strippers dressed in spandex and stilettos, pretending to dance from
“air” poles for the men rubbernecking past, made her mouth gape.

Curiosity burning, he acted casual, watching her from the
corner of his eye as he asked, “You know where you are?”

Her lips pursed, and a frown bisected her brow. “I am in New
Orleans. The Crescent City. Gateway to the Mississippi.”

She said it as though she quoted it from guide book. “You
know who wrapped you like a Christmas package?”

Her eyebrows drew together. “His name did not matter. He was
Pharoah’s vizier.”

Yeah, she was special all right. Or maybe from some
underground cult. Had her parents kept her in a compound where the children
never saw a TV or a car? “Vizier. That like some kinda wizard?”

Her lips twitched. “As a high priest, I suppose you might
consider him such.”

“This some black magic hoodoo?”

“This is magic. Black, I cannot say.” She drew a deep breath
and turned her face away. “So many people …” Her gaze was snagged again by
tourists walking down sidewalks, cameras clicking, and shop owners calling from
doorways to interest them in their wares.

“It’s the city. My city,” Juste said, and then turned down
Canal, heading into the French Quarter and his row apartment in a redone string
of servant’s quarters attached to an old mansion. As he pulled into his
courtyard parking space, he wondered how he’d manage to get her inside without
one of his nosy neighbors glancing out. He liked keeping his business private.
And she was strictly business, even if he’d decided he wanted to keep her off
the official books.

With one last look at the area, he cut the engine. “Let me
come around the car.”

She glanced at the door, at the handle, and then gave a
vague nod. “The picture is in my mind, but I am not entirely sure …”

As he walked briskly around, Juste shook his head. She was
nuts. Certifiable. Wasn’t that his luck? He’d always picked women who needed
something. Money, attention, sex. This one needed a keeper.

He glanced around the parking lot. The sun was setting
behind the building and the trees. Mosquitoes were buzzing. She’d have bites in
interesting places if he didn’t get her inside quick.

He opened the passenger-side door and held out his hand. She
stared at it for a second, and then took a deep breath and placed hers inside
for him to grip gently as he tugged her up.

At the contact, Juste felt his breath hitch. Time slowed.
The air grew still.

Her eyes widened as her gaze trailed from his hand, up his
arm, to his face.

Abruptly, he let her go and shrugged. Just a weird kind of
day. Not a sign. He ignored the voice of his
grand-mère
, harping in his
ear about listening to the silence. With cars whizzing by outside the little
courtyard, and distant honks and shouts, he couldn’t hear any damn silence,
much less one that would bring him answers if he stood still and listened. “The
jacket’s open again,” he gritted out.

Her free hand was wrapped around the plastic bag he’d found
to hold the wrappings and the amulets she’d gathered from the crate. He didn’t
know a woman alive who wouldn’t have been more concerned about the amount of
skin she showed.

But one corner of her mouth curled.

He narrowed his eyes, wondering if she’d known her nudity
bothered him all along and was messing with him now. “Uh, you’re flashin’
again.”

She glanced down at her exposed décolletage. “I’m sorry for
my immodesty.”

“I’ll find somethin’ you won’t have to think about to keep
covered,” he muttered. “Once I get you inside.”

Her gaze widened a bit. “I guess I hadn’t thought much about
our destination. Not with everything out there.” She glanced toward the noisy
street outside.

He reached into his back pocket, pulled out the leather
folder, and flipped it open to show his badge. “Promise, I’m one o’ the good
guys. I didn’t think you wanted to go to the station. There’d be more people
drillin’ you for answers.”

“Police station?” she asked. At his nod, she dipped her chin
as well. “I wish my presence to remain unnoted.” Her lips twitched. “Not that I
would be in your system.”

“You an illegal?”

Her chin lifted. “I am an ancient.”

More cult talk, no doubt. Cryptic, but not yet annoying. He
placed a hand at the small of her back, ignoring her gasp, and herded her
toward his door. Once inside, he hit the light switch, realizing this was the
first time he cared that his place was sparsely furnished, not a single picture
on the walls or a cozy rug on the old wood floors. But it was clean. He had a
cleaning lady come in every week because he missed things, like pizza boxes
shoved under the couch.

He gripped her shoulders and waited for her to quit sweeping
his place with a wide-eyed stare. When she raised her golden-brown gaze to meet
his, he said. “Don’t move. I’ll get you somethin’ to wear. Then we’re gonna
talk.”

“As you are my guide, I will do as you ask.”

Her guide. Sweet Jesus, he wished she didn’t talk like that.
Or trust him so quickly. Made him feel guilty about the vision her words
conjured in his mind. All sweetly submissive. Eager to please.
Merde
, he
was a horny bastard. But his thoughts couldn’t be reined in any more than his
libido. Heat seeped from under his collar and pooled in his groin. He sucked in
a deep breath and willed his heart to stop thudding so hard against his chest
wall. Subservience from a woman wasn’t something he normally craved. A woman
who needed to be led was too much damn work.

And she didn’t really seem the least bit submissive. Just
confused. When he started questioning her, he’d have to keep that in mind. But
maybe she needed something to eat first. Or a shower …  He cursed under his
breath, realizing he deserved to ache, head to toe, for stepping over the line
with this woman.

Entering his bedroom, he pulled open the bottom drawer of
his bureau and rifled through his sweats. Something with a drawstring because
he didn’t have anything that would fit.

Juste knew he wasn’t acting like a cop. Right now, he was
thinking like a man. One who was just a bit flustered by the beauty in his
living room. One who hadn’t been in a relationship for a while because then
he’d have to be on time for things, or simply be there when his girl wanted to
talk. And he knew better than anyone he wasn’t made for that. There wasn’t a
woman on the planet who’d kept his interest longer than the time involved to
get her into bed.

Although they’d met under strange circumstances, the girl in
his living room wouldn’t be any different. He’d unravel her mystery, maybe see
someone else arrest her, because he’d screwed his chances at being part of the
investigation. Or maybe he’d simply help her reunite with her husband …
someone he kept forgetting she had in her life.

The static roar of the TV turning on in the living room
surprised him. He hadn’t seen the remote in a while and had given up on it,
nursing his heartache in the quiet.

But the sound of channels changing, from music to the rev of
engines to the exaggerated voices of cartoon characters, and moving faster than
his remote had ever managed, drew him to the doorway. He stuck his head out of
the door to spot her standing with a hand on the screen and the channels
changing at a blinding speed. “Hey, how’d you do that?”

Her hand pulled away and the screen went blank. “How did I
do what?”

But her eyes were a little too wide. And again, the lapels
were parted, giving him a view of a strip of flesh straight down her torso to
her bare mound. Good lord, he started to sweat.

Her gaze noted where his had landed, and she glanced down at
herself. “Again, I am sorry for my immodesty.”

“But not sorry enough to cover yourself.”

She shrugged and the jacket landed on the floor behind her.
“I am ready for my bath.”

Juste’s mouth dried right up. His tongue must have stuck to
the roof, because he stood there quietly while she walked toward him and his
heartbeats revved like a stock car engine. He swallowed hard and forced his
gaze to rise to her honey-gold eyes. “Who are you, really?” he asked.

“Amun’s wife. The God’s Wife. Although, by your expression,
you have no idea what that signifies.”

He cleared his throat, forcing his gaze to remain locked
with hers, because she stood close enough that if he sucked in a deep breath,
their chests would touch. “You some kinda nun?”

Her head tilted. Her gaze blurred as her lashes lowered,
before they widened as though slowly digesting his words. “I suppose … that
is similar. I live to serve Amun. Or at least I did. And now I must bathe
before I pray to him.”

“Amun is a god?” he asked, his tone gruff because she stood
near enough he could have reached out and pulled her against him. More than
anything, he wanted to feel her lithe curves against his body. Her scent, like
some incense he’d once smelled in a head shop, was pleasant, making him a
little dizzy.

“Yes, Amun is the god I serve,” she said softly, her lush
mouth pillowing when her lips closed. “He speaks through me.”

“Uh huh.” Juste shook his head. Crazy as a loon. Just his
luck. “The bathroom is down that hallway,” he said, indicating with a hand
wave. “First door to your right.”

“Will you draw my water?”

“All you have to do is turn the tap.”

Her eyebrows drew together.

He sighed. “I’ll show you.” He walked ahead of her, aware of
her soft tread behind him. Flicking on the light switch, he ignored her gasp.
After stepping to the tub, he pulled back the shower curtain and bent to turn
on the faucet, placing his hand beneath the stream to test the temperature
until it warmed, and then quickly straightened.

She stood so close, he bumped into her. Her eyelashes
fluttered down to fan across her cheeks, which were reddening. “I am sorry. I
wanted to watch what you did.”

“Turn them counterclockwise to close the tap,” he said,
unsure whether she was mocking him or being serious. Didn’t nuns have running
water?

“Clockwise?”

“Just get in.” He shook his head. “I’ll turn it off for you
when the bath is full.”

She stepped into the tub and lowered herself.

Juste turned to the cabinet and pulled out a washcloth and
towel. “Shampoo’s on the ledge. It’s for your hair,” he explained, since she
didn’t appear to know anything else. Which should have been suspicious, but a
condition he was quickly accepting as a fact.

The woman had led a sheltered existence. Light fixtures
astounded her. Traffic amazed her. She didn’t know how to operate faucets, and
yet, she spoke perfect English. Better than his. The situation just didn’t add
up.

His own actions confused him too. He’d hustled someone from
a crime scene, without telling a soul or taking her to the station. Or at the
very least alerting his partner. He’d followed his gut, not his training, and
he didn’t give a shit if he lost his job over it.

He couldn’t have let anyone else solve the mystery of who
she was and how she’d come to be wrapped up like a mummy and left for dead.

Khepri stared at the shampoo bottle with her brows lowered.

Shoulders slumping, he sat on the toilet next to the tub,
resigned that the next half hour would be pure torture. “Get your hair wet,” he
growled.

She bent her legs and slid her whole torso and head under
the water, her eyes open and staring up at him.