Forbidden (25 page)

Giovanni tilted the glass and listened to the ice clink together. Using the swivel stick, he stirred the Bloody Mary and jiggled his foot as he waited. He hated waiting. It wasn't that he was in a hurry; there wasn't a time consideration at all. But he hated being inconvenienced. And
this
was an inconvenience.

Finally, the back door opened, and Lynn stepped out on the porch, his footsteps light as ever. He looked as if he weighed no more than a pocketful of air and moved like a wisp of a breeze. It had taken some training, but Lynn had become a fine servant. He swept toward Giovanni and gave his usual bow. “Orphelia has arrived.”

“Send her in.” Giovanni drank a deep gulp of the salty drink, licked the vodka-tainted blood off his upper lip, and set the glass on the arm of his chair. “And, Lynn, make sure we are undisturbed.”

“Yes, of course.” Lynn bowed again and disappeared through the doorway.

Slowly, Giovanni slid his hand down his thigh and prepared himself for this most unpleasant meeting. He'd been in charge of this district for almost a hundred years. When he had first experienced the change, he'd been thirty-five and an officer in the Mexican army. He much preferred New Orleans—its slower pace and lively nightlife—to how he'd lived in Mexico.

A moment later, Orphelia wrestled her overly large body through the narrow opening of the French door. Sweat dotted her forehead and made her dark skin glisten in the afternoon light. She mopped her face with a handkerchief and tucked it between her gallon-sized breasts.

“Good afternoon, Giovanni.” She stepped hesitantly forward. “How can I help you this fine day?”

He didn't respond to her greeting or question, just watched her, her hands twitching with nerves, more sweat gathering above her upper lip. This kind of waiting he enjoyed. The anticipation.

She shifted before him from foot to foot. Her sarong-styled dress draped over her lumpy figure, and part of the hem dragged along the wooden planks. “I guess you heard the bad news.”

He templed his fingers in front of his chest. “And what might that be?”

“About Acacia.” Her eyes, black as midnight, dipped at the corners. “She was a good girl. Most of the time. Really, she was. But she could be so mischievous. And I reckon she done poked that little pug nose of hers into the wrong spot. That's the only thing I can figure. Because who would want to harm someone like her? She was as innocent as they come.”

“Innocent? Are any of us innocent, Orphelia?”

“We are what we are. But—”

“Who did it?” He interrupted her. “Who killed her?”

“I…I don't know.”

He tapped his index fingers together. “You've heard the rumors.”

“No one can hold with rumors. Can they?”

“Then tell me the truth.” He banged his hand on the arm of the chair. “Who did it?”

Orphelia flinched and edged back a step. “Some says Stephanos did. He may have wanted to. When he found Acacia in his room, watching him and that girl…well, he was none too happy. And I tore into Acacia. She shouldn't have been watching something like that. But he wouldn't have killed the girl. I don't believe that at all.”

“I put you in charge of her, didn't I?”

Her thick neck convulsed with a swallow. “Yes, you did. And I did my best with her. I did. But—”

“You should want to know the killer as much as I do. You of all people know the plans I had for that girl.”

She whisked the handkerchief from the front of her dress and swept it over her features. “I can find you another girl. Just as perty. You can pick her out. And I'll take care of everything, I will.”

“Who did it?” His voice remained low and threatening.

“Could've been Akiva. He borrowed Acacia for a time…when he came here to see you.”

Her insinuation pointed a fat finger at him. His gaze narrowed, and he leaned forward, pressing his lips against his index fingers. “That so? Why would Akiva do such a thing?”

“He don't understand our ways. He's a rebel for sure. Why, he is wild and unpredictable. It wouldn't surprise me one bit iffen—”

“He will pay. You can be sure of that. But first, there is another debt to be paid.”

“That's right.” Orphelia slid her damp palms along her hips. The white hankie fluttered in the breeze. “And you just pick out the girl…I'll bring you several to choose from. It won't be no problem—”

Giovanni moved as fast as lightning, rising from his chair. His glass tipped over and broke, blood and glass shooting outward. Before she could react, Giovanni grabbed Orphelia, wrapped an arm around her neck, and with a swift, hurling action, he ripped off her head.

Her body twisted around from the force then swayed as if in shock for a few seconds before her legs collapsed. Her body crumpled and flopped jerkily to the porch planks. Blood spurted and poured from the open neck. Holding out the head by her hair, Giovanni backed up to his chair and sat again. He held the head out and it dripped blood onto the floor.

The back door opened discreetly, and Lynn stepped out. He slid a fresh, clean glass with ice and vodka beneath the head and caught some of the blood. He exchanged Giovanni's glass for Orphelia's head. It would be strung up on a branch of one tree and Orphelia's body from another until the blood was drained from each and the job complete. It would then serve as a warning to other vamps not to cross Giovanni. Finally, the remains would all be burned until there was no more.

What was Pop thinking?

Samuel snapped his suspender in place, scratched his head, and walked toward the odd fellow who had moved into their upstairs bedroom. “Look here!”

Keeping an eye on this fellow, who didn't seem to know the first thing about livestock, was proving an annoyance. He knocked the shovel against the stall door. “You use this first.”

Roc sneezed.

Samuel clapped a hand on the pole handle and shoved it toward Roc. “Not all manure clumps together.”

“So I've noticed.” Roc propped the pitchfork against the wall and rubbed his face with the front of his untucked shirt to rid it of sweat and bits of hay. He'd already removed his coat and rolled up his sleeves. Through the thin cloth of his shirt, Samuel noticed, it looked as if a bandage covered the man's shoulder.

Roc hesitated, the shovel swinging reluctantly in the air, and then he shoveled manure, wincing as he did so. But then, trying to reach beneath the horse without getting too close, he jabbed the shovel into the hay instead.

Samuel laughed but hid it beneath a cough. “You might find it easier if you took ol' Linda there out of the stall.”

Roc leaned on the shovel handle. “That so?”

The mare snorted and stamped her foot. Roc jerked upright, making Samuel laugh out loud this time. He walked into the stall then and took hold of Linda's halter. As he led the mare out, Roc gave them a wide space. But before they'd fully left, the mare lifted her tail and made another deposit on the hay-strewn floor.

“Thanks, stud.” Roc grimaced.

Samuel chuckled. “Linda's a mare.”

“Right.”

Glancing downward, Samuel added, “Take the manure out to the garden. Mamm uses it for fertilizer.”

Roc frowned. “Take it out how?”

Samuel looped the lead rope around a weathered board then patted the side of the mare's neck. “The wheelbarrow works well.”

“Wheelbarrow,” Roc repeated as if he didn't know what one was. “I'd thought of using that motorcycle I saw out back.”

“Well, you'd have to get it working first.”

“Is it yours?”

Samuel nodded. “Yeah. Paid good money for it but—”

“Maybe I can take a look at it.”

Samuel paused, tilted his head, and studied Roc for a moment. “That would be appreciated.”

“No problem. That is…if…”

“If what?”

“If you take the manure out to the garden. Deal?”

“It's your job.”

“Your decision.”

Samuel scratched his head. “How do I know you'll do more than look? That you actually know about fixing a motorcycle.”

“Guess you'll just have to take a chance.”

Shaking his head, Samuel went back to the feed storage and scooped out the oats for the horses.
Why
had
Pop
allowed
this
man
to
come
here?
For the life of him, Samuel couldn't figure Pop out. Ever since Jacob had died back in Pennsylvania, Pop had been a bit tetched in the head. Mamm said, “Give him time.” Samuel had tried, but he missed his brother. He wished they could at least speak of him now and again. But his brother's name had been shunned.

Samuel shooed a momma cat off its perch on the pile of feed sacks, and hefted a fifty-pound bag onto his shoulder. He set it down against the barrel drums and pulled the string to open one end. Pouring the contents into the empty barrel, he wondered why Pop had allowed Rachel to come here. Pop had never particularly cared for Rachel. She flirted with the boys in the district. Pop had warned Jacob years ago about taking her on his trek across America, but Jacob had held firm.

Rachel had come home before Jacob had. Maybe that was enough to cause Pop to forgive her. Or maybe Rachel's father had written and asked for a favor. But Samuel didn't think Pop kept in touch with anyone from the old district of Promise. Even here in Ohio, Pop kept to himself. There had been a time when Pop laughed, but those days were gone.

A clattering at the other end of the barn alerted Samuel. He glanced over his shoulder but couldn't see around the bend. With a sigh, he made his way back to the stranger who seemed ill suited to the work and clothes of the Amish.

Linda, the sorrel mare, had pulled the lead rope loose. Now, she had the stranger backed up against the wall and was nuzzling his beard.

Samuel laughed as he approached. Hooking an arm around the horse's neck, he turned her head. “Come on, ol' girl. He's not your type.” The warm mare's breath puffed against his hand. He grabbed the halter and led her back toward the stall. To Roc, he said, “You haven't been around horses much, have you?”

“Not much, no.”

“Then I reckon you know cars or motorbikes. So it's a deal.”

The strange man laughed and handed Samuel the shovel.

When Samuel left the stall, he noticed Roc's coat had fallen off the post where he'd placed it earlier, and reached to scoop it up. As he did, something clunked against the post.

“Whoa there!” Roc called and snatched his coat out of Samuel's hands. “Thanks. I…uh—” He hung his coat over his forearm and held it against his stomach. “I'll get the wheelbarrow for you.”

Sunlight scorched the flat clouds, bleaching them to a lifeless white. Feeling depleted, Roc sympathized. He hadn't worked this hard in years, and anticipating the close of the day, he was thankful the Amish turned in early.

He had spent much of the day in the workshop, unloading a truck, which had delivered planks of wood. Jonas Fisher seemed to take perverse pleasure in handing out chores. At least with the chore he was headed to now, Roc would be alone for a few minutes.

He trudged toward the barn, head down, shoulder aching, and stopped at Samuel's motorbike. Kneeling at the engine, he checked the lines, valves, and—

“Ouch!” The high-pitched squeal gave Roc a jolt. It came from the barn.

It sounded like someone…Rachel maybe…was in distress.
Had
something
happened?
Was
she
in
labor?
Or
was
it
something
more
dire?

He bolted toward the barn opening, running the thirty yards, and rushed inside. His eyes adjusted quickly to the dimmer light provided only by the sun's rays slanting through the doorway and cracks in the wood-plank walls. His heart pounded unevenly as he scanned the shadows.

“You stinker!” Rachel sat on the hay-strewn dirt floor. Her voice tilted into laughter as she pulled a calico kitten off her lap, its claws clinging to her apron. She held the little creature up in the air and peered into its furry, whiskered face. “What do you think you're doing?”

The kitten mewed, and a gray one darted around from behind Rachel. She laughed, her eyes brightening. Then she saw Roc. The light in her eyes remained like a beacon. She tilted her head toward the kitten, nuzzling the furry critter against her cheek. “Aren't they cute?”

He was breathing heavily and slumped against a stall door. “Yeah.”

Her brow puckered with concern. “Are you okay?”

He nodded, his heart rate subsiding to a steady rhythm. “I thought—” He shook his head. “I'll just—” He backed toward the doorway.

With a forefinger, she stroked the calico under its chin. “Come sit down for a minute.”

“I need to…uh—” But he didn't know what he needed to do. He simply wasn't needed here.

“Oh, you can spare a minute. Or are you so eager to get back to helping Jonas?”

Certainly not. He'd regretted all morning saying to Jonas, “Sure, what can I do?” when asked if he'd like a chore or two to earn his keep. Of course, he thought he was earning his keep by protecting the Fisher family, but the Amish way of thinking, he'd learned, was definitely not his.

“I guess he can do without me for a minute,” Roc said as he cautiously moved forward and sat a couple of feet away from Rachel, his legs folded. He clasped his hands in his lap, tapping his thumbs together. “I don't know much about carpentry work anyway.”

She smiled as if understanding.

“Or horses. You like animals, I gather?” he ventured, not knowing what else to say or do.

She giggled at the kitten, which scrambled out of her grip. “Don't you?”

“I don't have anything against them. Never was around them much, though.”

“Really? No cows in New Orleans?”

He eyed her curiously and decided, in spite of her serious expression, she was teasing him. “We get our milk at the grocery store.”

“Eggs too, I suspect.” Her eyes twinkled.

“Exactly.” He focused on the kittens—calico, gray, and orange tabby—as they tussled and rolled over one another. One ran across his lap. “Like normal kids.”

She grinned then, and the effect of her smile had him shifting uncertainly.

“What about a dog or cat? You never had one as a pet?”

“Couldn't afford it when I was growing up. Then was too busy, I guess.” Although he remembered how Emma had wanted a puppy, and he'd avoided the subject…until it was too late. “Guess you grew up with a lot of these.” He flicked the tail of an orange kitten as it darted past.

She rubbed the gray kitten's head against her cheek. She touched noses with the little pink one. “Every animal has a function.”

“Cats? They're decoration…and they rule, right?”

“They eat barn rats and mice.”

He smiled and looked at Rachel in a new way—she was tough in a practical way most other women were not. At least not any women he'd ever known.

She placed the squirming calico kitten into his arms. The kitten bolted, leaving a tiny red line across the back of his hand.

“Oh, I'm sorry.” Rachel reached for his hand. “That's my fault.”

“You're not the one with the claws.” He wiped the back of his hands on his black trousers. “Did you come out here to play with the kittens or—?” He paused, not really knowing what to say.

“I wanted to smell home.”

“Home?”

She smiled. “Hay and horses. Makes me think of home.” Her gaze drifted. “What did your home smell like?”

“Booze.” He said without thinking and regretted it when Rachel gave him a sorrowful glance. “And magnolia blossoms. My mother clipped them and placed them in a bowl on the table sometimes.”

“That's nice.”

But it had never covered the smell of booze nor the indefinable scent hovering in the New Orleans air like incense.

“Do you miss home?”

“Not so much.” He avoided her gaze and searched for a new topic. The kitten returned and arched its back, rubbing the top against his knee. The long gray tail curled over his kneecap. “So now you want to be friends, eh? Just like a woman.”

Rachel studied him. “You have difficulties with women?”

“Not all. Just seems typical.”

Dipping her chin, Rachel stared at him. “Are you speaking of your wife?”

She couldn't have surprised him more if she'd punched him in the shoulder. Or hurt him worse.

He remained silent, not knowing how to answer her. He hadn't been thinking of Emma. Or had he? But maybe that's exactly how Emma was…loving him, making him believe and hope, and then carving out his heart and taking it with her when she died. Not that it was her fault.

“I'm sorry, Roc.” Rachel interrupted his thoughts with her soft voice. “It isn't any of my concern.”

“It's okay.” He shrugged, batted away the calico kitten, and pushed against the floor to stand. But Rachel placed a hand on his arm.

“Did she hurt you so awful much?”

He met her inquiring gaze, his defenses squarely between them. “She died.”

She withdrew her hand as if he'd slapped her.

“What'd you think? That she divorced me?”

“I…I didn't know. I'm sorry, Roc.” She swallowed hard. Suddenly, she looked pale, her blue eyes filling with tears. “I know what it's like to lose someone you love.”

He'd heard it said before: “I know how you feel.”
But
did
anyone
really?
Most of those who had declared such empathy had lost loved ones to cancer or a car wreck or a grandparent to old age.
But
had
anyone
lost
a
loved
one
the
way
he'd lost Emma? Suddenly? Violently?
And yet, he'd seen Rachel's husband dead on the ground. So he held back his usual sharp retort and simply nodded his acceptance of her sympathy. She understood. And he understood her. Which made him nervous and in need of distance.

He jerked to his feet, unsteady for a moment in an awkward fashion. “I better get back to work.”

She nodded and stretched out a hand to him. “Me too.”

He hesitated before taking her hand then helped her to her feet, clasping one hand and bracing another beneath her elbow. Although burdened by her growing belly and the baby inside, she stood easily, light and graceful. She held on to his hand even when he would have released her.

“Thank you, Roc.”

He took another step away. “For what?”

“For all you're doing to keep me and my baby safe.”

He stared down at the floor. It's what he hoped someone…Brody…would have done for Emma, if he'd been the one to die and she had lived. A hard lump formed in his throat. He walked out of the barn and glared at the fiery sun in the sky until it burned away watery emotions.