Soul Meaning (A Seventeen Series Novel: An Action Adventure Thriller Book 1) (5 page)

Little Isabelle opened the door. She took one look at the silver tabby, shrieked, and ran back inside the apartment. Cornelius bestowed a wary look upon me.

A figure appeared in the corridor. ‘There, there, you’re acting like you’ve never seen a cat before, girl,’ grumbled Mrs. Trelawney. She wiped her hands on a dishtowel and frowned at her granddaughter.

The warm smell of cinnamon and caramel drifted from the woman as she drew closer. Little Isabelle clung to the back of her grandmother’s dress and peered shyly at us.

‘Oh.’ Our landlady stopped and inspected the silver tabby. ‘Why, he’s a handsome specimen, isn’t he?’

Cornelius made an approving sound.

I handed the cat over and placed an envelope on the table in the hallway. ‘This is for taking care of him.’

Mrs. Trelawney hefted the bemused feline in one arm and opened the brown package. Her eyes widened. ‘This is a lotta money.’ She paused. ‘In fact, I’d wager there’s enough here to cover your rent for the next five months.’

I sensed Reid’s hot gaze on the back of my head.

Our landlady hesitated. ‘You boys ain’t in some kinda trouble now, are you?’

‘Not anymore than usual,’ I said.

Mrs. Trelawney watched us for silent seconds. ‘Wait here.’ She disappeared down the corridor and returned with a cake tin in hand. ‘I baked this today.’ She shoved the container in Reid’s unresisting arms. ‘Now, get out of here. And take care of yourselves.’

Reid was silent on the way back to the SUV.

‘You would have refused if I’d suggested paying the rent.’ I maneuvered the Cruiser into the nighttime traffic before glancing at him.

‘That’s not what I’m thinking about,’ said Reid. ‘And yes, you’re right; I would have refused.’

I looked at the rearview mirror. ‘What is it then?’

Reid studied the tin box. ‘This is a lot of cake.’

I grinned. My eyes shifted to the side mirrors. I stiffened, fingers clenching on the steering wheel.

‘What?’ said Reid. He peered over his shoulder.

‘You got your seatbelt on?’

‘Yeah, why?’

‘We’re being tailed,’ I said grimly. ‘Hang on.’

Chapter Five

T
he clock on the central
console read midnight when we reached the outskirts of New York City.

It had taken a quarter of an hour to lose the two SUVs tracking us. Somewhere off Interstate 90, Reid helped me remove the racing stripes from the Land Cruiser and change the number plates.

Despite the lateness of the hour, the Henry Hudson Parkway was packed. I drove past the George Washington Bridge, exited onto Riverside Drive, and joined 12th Avenue. Moments later, I crossed Park Avenue and turned right onto Lexington.

“Solange” was a small, exclusive jazz club situated in a leafy street off 3rd Avenue. With a maximum capacity of a hundred heads, it was off the beaten track of the city’s busy nightlife. Entry was strictly by invitation. The owners liked it that way.

The doorman eyed us coolly when we strolled up to him. He scrutinized my business card before unclipping the black velvet rope from one of the gold-colored stanchions guarding the entrance. We moved past him and headed down a dimly lit spiral staircase.

The walls were lined with scarlet silk padding and adorned with old black and white photos depicting the club’s long history: Louis Armstrong, John Coltrane, Miles Davis, and Charlie ‘Bird’ Parker were among some of the names featured in the pictures. At the bottom of the steps, a pair of polished mahogany doors opened onto a wide, sunken floor.

The room was drowned in deep reds, dark purples, and rich earth tones. The furniture was Brazilian cherry wood, with elegant lines, plush velvet upholstery, and satin cushions. Discreet booths overhung with black rococo curtains afforded privacy to those that needed it, although the muted lighting provided enough of that as it was.

A woman in a shimmering crimson cocktail dress stood on a raised podium to the far left. She was crooning a French song in a deep, sultry voice, her eyes closed and her glossy, ruby lips glistening in the mellow spotlight. Behind her, cymbals vibrated gently, a piano tinkled, and a saxophone hummed.

Reid followed in my footsteps as I headed for the bar on the other side of the room. I stopped by a tall, black leather and cherry wood stool and observed the figure behind the counter.

‘Hello, Pierre,’ I said quietly.

The man finished polishing the wine glass in his hand and turned around slowly.

Pierre Vauquois had always reminded me of a very solemn Great Dane. Although the years had added padding to his body and silver lines to his hair, giving him a distinguished look worthy of Capitol Hill, his face remained as inscrutable as ever. He glanced at Reid, untied the apron around his waist, and handed it to a waiter hovering close by.

‘We’re not to be disturbed under any circumstances, understood?’ Vauquois instructed firmly. The waiter nodded, Adam’s apple bobbing.

The older man set a bottle of 1980 Krug Clos du Mesnil on ice and loaded the tray with four champagne flutes. He turned and disappeared through a door hidden behind a thick, purple curtain. Reid and I stepped behind the bar and followed.

Carpeted stairs led to a three-story townhouse above the club. We walked through a second pair of mahogany doors and entered a hallway with a polished parquet floor. Vauquois stopped and placed the tray on a gilded French console table. He closed the doors, turned, and embraced me in a tight hug.

‘Lucas.’ He patted me gently on the back before examining me with a critical eye. ‘You look awful.’

My lips parted in a small smile. ‘I’ve been better.’

Vauquois looked to my right. ‘You must be Reid.’ He held a hand out to the former US Marine.

Reid hesitated before shaking Vauquois’s hand. ‘I’m afraid you have the advantage of me.’

‘Ah. I see Lucas is being secretive as always,’ murmured Vauquois. He collected the tray and led us down the hall to a beautifully decorated drawing room with a tall, vaulted ceiling. We settled in the period seats arranged around a low table while Vauquois poured the champagne. He handed us a glass each.

Reid studied the bubbles in the flute. ‘This looks expensive.’

‘It is,’ said a voice from the doorway. It was the woman in the red cocktail dress. ‘The nineteen-eighty Krug? You’re spoiling us.’

She crossed the room, kissed the cheek of the smiling Vauquois, and took the glass he proffered. She watched us carefully over the rim of the champagne flute while she sipped the golden liquid.

‘My name is Solange Vauquois,’ she said finally. ‘Pierre and I own the club.’

She moved behind Vauquois’s chair and leaned on the headrest, her hand on her husband’s shoulder.

‘You are Reid?’ A faint trace of her birth accent modulated her voice as she gazed at my partner.

Reid nodded.

A smile lit up Solange Vauquois’s face. ‘Lucas speaks very highly of you.’

Reid’s eyebrows rose. ‘He does?’

The woman grinned. She looked at me. ‘Did you drive?’

‘Yes,’ I replied.

Solange turned to Reid, a sympathetic grimace twisting her lips. ‘Was it awful?’

‘It was one of the scariest experiences I’ve ever had,’ Reid admitted with a heartfelt grunt. ‘I thought I was going to die.’

Solange burst out laughing, the sound clear and musical.

I shifted in the chair. ‘It wasn’t that bad,’ I mumbled.

Reid scowled. ‘You were like a stuntman on the Nürburgring. I’m surprised a patrol car didn’t pull us over.’

‘I’m afraid he’s always been one for fast things,’ said Solange, her eyes sparkling.

Reid scrutinized the couple. ‘You’re immortals, aren’t you?’ he said after a while.

Solange’s expression sobered. She glanced at Vauquois.

‘Yes, we are,’ she replied quietly.

I first met Solange and Pierre in Paris in the late sixteenth century, not long before I began my travels through Asia. In those days, I was a homeless, unruly, and willful mutt who lived on the streets of the not-so-fair city and was forever in trouble with the law. One winter night, at the end of a long day drinking cheap liquor distilled in the backyard of a friend’s home, I got into an ugly fight with one of the patrons of Pierre and Solange’s tavern. Instead of hauling me to the closest gaol and leaving me at the hands of whichever bastard sergeant was in charge of the prison that day, a fate I no doubt deserved, they offered me food and a bed for the night. In my short immortal life, I had only ever known compassion from my parents. It took a while for my mistrust to fade.

It was Pierre who encouraged me to go on a voyage to foreign parts, to “broaden your mind and your views of the world” as he put it. Upon my return two decades later, they realized I was an immortal, as I did them. From then on, Solange and Pierre adopted the roles of surrogate parents and mentors; their two children, François and Claude, had died from the Red Death in the late fourteenth century, and they themselves had been afflicted with the curse of infertility. When I left Europe after the end of the Second World War, they followed me to New York.

‘I see,’ Reid murmured after Solange explained the circumstances of our meeting. ‘Does that mean you knew Olsson?’

‘We never met,’ said Vauquois. ‘But we knew of him.’ The older man looked at us quizzically. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Mikael’s alive,’ I said. Shock and surprise dawned on the couple’s faces. ‘And for some reason, he’s joined forces with the Hunters who’re after me.’

I gave them a brief account of the events of the last week.

‘Oh, Lucas! Your sixteenth death?’ Solange whispered, her face ashen as she lowered herself to the seat next to her husband.

I avoided her eyes, aware that this knowledge brought her great pain.

‘Have you heard anything unusual recently?’ I asked Vauquois.

Although they kept mostly to themselves these days and rarely associated with other immortals, the Vauquoises had contacts who regularly apprised them of significant events in both the Bastian and the Crovir societies; having been spies during the Seven-Year War, the French Revolution, and most recently members of the French Resistance, it was a hard habit for the couple to break.

My heart sank as I observed Vauquois’s troubled expression.

‘A secret meeting attended by several members of the Crovir First Council took place in Washington a few weeks ago,’ the older man said finally. ‘I don’t know the exact details of what was discussed, but whatever it was, it’s stirred things up.’ He hesitated. ‘Our friend inside the Second Council told me the Crovirs are on the move. Not only here, but in Europe as well.’ He rolled the neck of the flute between his fingers. ‘It’s the largest mobilization of Hunters we have seen since the immortal wars. They’re looking for something. Or someone,’ he added gravely.

Reid glanced between us. ‘The First Council?’

‘The immortal societies are ruled by nobles who form the Councils,’ said Vauquois. ‘The First Council is the most senior, made up of the Heads of seven Sections. The Order of the Hunters, the Counter Terrorism group, Human Relations, Commerce, Immortal Legislations and Conventions, Research and Development, and Immortal Culture and History.’

‘The Second Council is the Assembly,’ Solange continued. ‘It consists of the Regional Division directors under each Head of Section. Below them is the Congress of the Council, who function as local authority chiefs.’

‘The Head of the Order of the Hunters is the most powerful member of the First Council. This applies to both Crovirs and Bastians,’ said Vauquois. ‘The Hunters are essentially the assassins, bodyguards, policemen, and soldiers of the immortal nobles.’

‘So, it must be the Crovirs who’re after you,’ said Reid, his gaze shifting to me.

I sighed. ‘I don’t understand why I’ve become a priority again after all this time. The last attempt on my life was in nineteen ten. ’

‘Whatever or whoever they’re after, they’re getting desperate,’ said Solange, her tone somber. ‘I have rarely known them kill a human in such an open fashion.’

Reid’s eyes never left my face. ‘On the other hand, if you were to become a suspect in an ongoing homicide investigation, it would slow you down considerably, and make it easier for them to get to you. That’s what it was about, wasn’t it?’ he said slowly.

I nodded, my hands fisting on my lap. The same thought had crossed my mind after our client’s murder. The Hunters must have grasped the opportunity when they came across it.

Silence fell across the room.

‘I hate to ask this of you, but do you think you can find out more?’ I asked Vauquois.

‘No,’ he replied. ‘
I
can’t.’ A faint smile crossed his face. ‘But our contact might be able to point you in the right direction. Excuse me.’ He rose and disappeared through a door at the end of the room.

‘What will you do?’ Solange asked quietly while we waited for his return.

‘I don’t know.’ I placed the empty champagne glass on the tray. ‘Try to stay alive until I get to the bottom of this, I guess.’

Vauquois finally reappeared with a piece of paper in his hand. ‘Our friend was reluctant, but I convinced him to give us a name at least.’ He passed the note across.

I studied the name and address scrawled on it. ‘Who is this?’

‘Someone high up in the Crovir Councils.’

I raised my eyebrows. ‘Will he help?’

Vauquois chuckled. ‘I doubt it. But you might find something useful at his place.’

I tucked the note inside my coat and rose to my feet. ‘Let’s go,’ I said to Reid.

‘Won’t you spend the night? It’s been so long since we last saw you.’ Solange crossed the floor and stopped in front of me.

I leaned down and kissed her gently on the cheek. ‘I don’t want the Crovirs to track us here. If anything was to happen to either of you, I would never forgive myself.’

A sad smile flitted across her face. We said our goodbyes and left the building through the back door.

‘They’re nice people,’ Reid said when we got in the Cruiser.

‘Yes, they are.’

He stretched his shoulders and yawned. ‘So, where to now?’

‘We’re going to Washington.’

Reid made a face. ‘Straight into the lions’ den, huh?’

I shrugged. ‘Put your seat belt on.’

He stiffened, eyes moving to the rearview mirror. ‘Why, we being tailed again?’

‘No.’

Reid frowned. ‘I think I should drive.’

We took turns behind the wheel, stopping for a few hours’ sleep outside Trenton. We had a generous portion of Mrs. Trelawney’s angel cake for breakfast and made the outskirts of the District of Columbia by six am.

The address Vauquois’s contact had provided was in Capitol Hill, in a leafy suburb just south of Lincoln Park. I pulled over several doors down from a large, detached Victorian residence and switched the Cruiser’s engine off. Lights were on behind the wide bay windows on the second floor.

I leaned back against the headrest and closed my eyes briefly. The events of the last days were finally catching up on me; I had rarely felt so exhausted. Still, the question of why the Crovirs wanted me dead would not go away. Even more puzzling was how Olsson fitted into any of it.

An hour later, a black chauffeured Lincoln town car stopped at the curb. The front door of the house opened and a man in a gray wool coat stepped out. He locked the door behind him and strolled down the steps to the tiled path crossing the short fore-garden, a cell phone to one ear and a brown leather briefcase in the other hand. He acknowledged the driver of the Lincoln with a brief nod and got in the back of the car. The chauffeur closed the door after him, climbed in the front seat, and drove off. I put the Cruiser into gear and followed.

The Lincoln headed south and merged with the morning traffic on the I-295. It moved to the I-395 freeway, crawled past the Washington Monument Memorial on Maine Avenue, and turned onto 17th Street. It went by the Ellipse and the White House before pulling into an underground garage below a dark glass and steel tower on Pennsylvania Avenue Northwest.

I stopped the Cruiser on the opposite side of the road and studied the building. There were no visible nameplates on the facade.

‘Investment bank?’ hazarded Reid.

‘Lawyers?’ I said.

Reid shook his head. ‘Lawyers don’t go around in chauffeured Lincolns. Not in DC, anyway.’ He glanced at me. ‘Well, we won’t get anywhere just sitting here. What do you wanna do?’