Spirit Song Page 8

  The last time Bastian had seen a Rogue mutiny was during the race riots of 1919. The evil spilling out from the unearthly battles infected the population, stirring a pot full of inbred hatred and ignorance into a fever pitch of destruction. Bastian and Viktor survived only by calling for aide, and four good Guardians were lost when the final tally was settled. The Red Summer lived up to its moniker, the streets running with rivers of the blood of Guardians and innocent bystanders alike. At the end, Viggo the Usurper stood victorious for another term as Lieutenant of the Midwest.

  Viktor shuddered. “Don’t even go there, brother. We can’t let something like that happen again. Especially in this tech savvy age. Every damned teenager with a cell phone would expose us, and I don’t know about you, but I’d rather not spend the whole of eternity with a probe shoved up my ass.”

  “Funny,” Bastian scoffed, an impish smirk on his face. “Here I thought that would be right up your alley.” He crossed to retrieve his boots, blatantly ignoring the colorful stream of Old Norse that slammed into the back of his jacket. The angry Viking was right. They did not need that publicity. As he tugged on the HD biker boots, smoothing the leathers over the calf-height tops, the main credo drilled into his mind since the night of his rebirth bounced to the forefront. Avoid discovery. Their job was to protect the innocents, and rules dictated the only way to ensure their survival was complete ignorance of their existence. Behind the scenes, in the background. This was their home. Skirt the limelight at all costs.

  But who created these laws? Where was their guidance?

  All of it was irrelevant, but it was when things were uncertain that Bastian found his thoughts to stray.

  He and his brethren were guided by heart and conscience, and he knew full well what consequences he would face if he failed his task. Any Guardian Warrior who failed was relegated to the ranks of their foes. Only once did he face a former brother in battle. His heart ached at the sight of Amancio, who had stood at his back, bearing down on him, eyes crimson as they locked weapons in the In-Between. Destroying his once friend was a lesson he continued to carry with him.

  After that fight, he recalled asking about the command echelon of the Guardian Warriors. To this day, he had never received any answer. It seemed no one truly knew of any one person or entity in charge. Nor did anyone know who the First Guardian was. The more devout brothers believed Archangel Michael to have been the first chosen to help the humans after the fall of Lucifer. Others spoke rumors of an ancient Greek who had yet to find his spiritmate, the calming female who would bring him to follow a mortal path once again.

  He tossed his head violently, hoping to knock out these useless meanderings. Yet the mere thought of each Guardian’s missing half had his mind conjuring images of his beautiful siren, wrapped only in her waving blonde tresses. And his leathers shrunk two sizes. His jaw snapped shut, muffling the pained growl as he readjusted the slugger knocking against the zipper’s bite. Behind his closed eyes, her pools of sapphire appeared before him, long black lashes fluttering in tantalizing innocence.

  He sucked in air between his clenched teeth, the fight to rein in a rising need to seek her out immediately slipping as seconds ticked by. Firm fingers gripped his shoulder, the pressure grounding him.

  “Sebastian?” Viktor’s level voice slid into his raging mind. “I’m not sure if the club is open just yet, but I have a feeling that she won’t be there until at least dinner time. Don’t glare at me, asshole. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that python you’re sporting is for someone other than the bit of fluff I shooed out of here.”

  Bastian leaned forward, his solid weight bearing heavy against Viktor’s meaty arm. The air crackled between them, barely tempered fury versus compassionate wisdom. He narrowed his eyes as he locked gazes with peaceful blue. He wanted his friend to be wrong. Wanted it so bad, it tantalized his tongue. Yet wanting didn’t make the fucker any less right.

  “You keep eying my python and I’ll knock your teeth down your fucking throat.”

  Viktor barked out a laugh, his hand relaxing to pat Bastian on the back. “Oh, sweet cheeks, you are far too hairy in all the wrong places for my tastes. But come. We have work to do.”

  The rest of the day was spent chasing traces of the local conclave of Rogues, only to find more lingering memories of lost battles and spilled blood. Viktor was right. It was another changing of the guard. And by the looks of the damage, Chicago’s boys were not going quietly into that good night.

  The Greens yielded another body, this kill much fresher than even the corpse of last night. Viktor called in mortal reinforcements while Bastian tapped into the Void. The path was strong and clear, guiding them to a location neither of them could have imagined.

  The shimmering trail stopped at the back door of Francciolli’s.

  “Fuck. Me.” Bastian stared, his jaw agape as the weight of this discovery sunk in. Viktor rapped his knuckles on the steel door as he patted Bastian on the shoulder.

  “Look at it this way, lillebror. At least now you have more of a reason to get out of the house, right?”

  The door creaked open, a young Hispanic boy peering up at them myopically behind bent plastic frames. “We don’t open til six.” He tried to return to his workstation, but a meaty hand kept the heavy door from budging.

  Bastian edged his shoulders past the now terrified kid, but could find no further trace of the shimmering line that had led them here. It simply vanished. His palm tingled the longer he held it to the overly thick barrier of the door.

  Copper. The door had been lined with bands of copper wires, virtually negating any and all evidence of the In-Between.

  His gaze narrowed into focused daggers, pinning the boy in place. “When was this put in?”

  “I-I-I don’t know, man. I just work here for a couple months.” With a trembling limb, he directed Bastian’s eyes to a sign near the fire extinguisher. According to the permit displayed, the restaurant first applied for a liquor license on December 6, 1933, the day after Prohibition was repealed.

  The corners of his lips twitched as a guttural snarl rumbled behind the scars along his throat. Only a voice at his back stopped him from creating a Jackson Pollack-worthy display of the quivering busser in front of him.

  “Thank you, young man. You have been most helpful. We will trouble you no longer and we were never here.” Viktor made short work of adjusting the boy’s memories before tugging Bastian out by the sleeve of his jacket.

  With the door once again safely closed at their backs, Bastian flew into a rage, slamming his fist into the huge metal trash bin in the alley. Three massive dents later, and after a string of impossible and painful curses directed toward the restaurant’s namesake, he gripped Viktor’s lapels and shoved his friend against the damaged bin.

  “You fucking knew this was a Rogue spot, didn’t you?”

  Viktor raised his hands, palms open in surrender. “Easy, lillebror.”

  Bastian smacked his fingers away before his friend could rob him of his wrath. “Don’t easy me, asshole. You knew.”

  The air between them crackled as Viktor let slip the leash on his own formidable powers. Bastian sensed the solid push of his Guardian brother’s skill, logic overriding primal possession. “I had a suspicion, yes. I had felt something faintly when I stopped in here about a month ago. That was when I befriended Leslie. I needed some reason to return, to continue poking around. You saw the crowd in there, nothing but blue-collar dockworkers and the like. I kinda stick out like a sore thumb.”

  Viktor’s calming forces oozed their way between the chinks in his armor of anger. He was speaking the truth; a Guardian could do nothing less. The asphalt beneath his feet soaked up the castaway fury, his icy breath returning to a more respectable rate and temperature.

  “I hoped that with you along with me, we’d be able to figure out who was the contact and why this was the spot to meet.” The next squeeze on his shoulder was more supportive than subversive. “We can stil
l do this, lillebror. You have to know that I could not have dreamed you would find your spi—um, special lady there.”

  The cold daggers in his gaze must have triggered his friend’s hasty rethinking of his vocabulary choice. Hell, he couldn’t even imagine the possibility of his own spiritmate. Never had he given much credence to the notion of the perfect woman for him. He was a Guardian now; any other choice was moot. She was not meant for him, not forever. His life was dangerous at best, with a chance of deadly at a moment’s notice. If he were half the man he believed himself to be, he would put her out of his mind, allow Viktor to make her forget about him and let her live a full life. Without him.

  Yeah, sure. The strange, crushing pain in the center of his chest refused to listen to his rational and sensible mind. That thundering part screamed for him to rush in and sweep her into his arms. It demanded he hide her away from the tinge of evil that coated the very bricks surrounding them. He had a difficult time breathing imagining his beautiful angel trapped in that hateful world.

  Viktor’s Channeler skills ebbed away, leaving the two of them in relative silence. Sirens whined in the distance and nearby dogs answered the wailing. A car stereo thumped and boomed by while off-key singing in Spanish drifted down from an upstairs open window. He focused his gaze on the clear blue eyes across from him. No guile reflected back at him, nothing but open honest concern.

  “I know this isn’t an ideal situation,” Viktor continued, “but I really could use your help, Sebastian. She is safe as long as you are there. We wait until dusk. As soon as they open, we’ll be there.”

  Bastian nodded, words useless when all had already been said. He clung to three in particular. She is safe. No way could he stop the predatory growl that slipped from his lips as he checked his watch. Fucking hell. Still two hours to go, and even his patented glare at the gleaming palladium face of his Rotondo de Cartier watch did not terrify Father Time into speeding things along.

  With a heavy sigh, he released the remaining tension in his shoulders, gaining a beaming grin that split Viktor’s face.

  “Come on. I say we get you changed into something less scary and grab something to eat,” Viktor said. “That should buy enough time. I’d say Italian, but I don’t want to get hi— Hey!” Laughter warmed the cold air as his friend rubbed his shoulder after Bastian’s somewhat cordial cuff. Truth was, his knuckles still ached from pounding the trash bin, but he was nowhere near done with his need to beat the crap out of something that would feel the pain.

  And he needed to be levelheaded when he saw his lady.

  In just two more hours.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Miranda stared at her reflection as she caked on the final touches of her nightly mask. Thick foundation covered the light dusting of freckles on her nose, while deep red lipstick shone on her naturally full lips. The kohl-black eyeliner coupled with the feathery false lashes made the blue of her eyes look unreal. As she tucked the last stray curl of her deep auburn hair under the blonde beehive, she repeated her ritual mantra, this time with an unexpected twist.

  “All right, Andy. Just don’t suck out there. Mr. Sexy might be in the audience tonight.”

  Her whole day had been spent flowing from one daydream to another, each one steamier than the one before. One particular fantasy buckled her knees in the frozen food aisle at the downtown Merz Apothecary. Had it not been for a strategically placed Butterball display, she would have ended up in an embarrassed heap on the floor.

  A pink glow bled through the MAC Studio foundation, and the corners of her lips refused to stay down. Daring her gaze to rise, she saw a different version of herself. Her bright blue eyes shone from within, her heart buoyed by a simple possibility. Once again, she remembered the pure joy that her singing brought her when she was a child.

  So lost in her happy place, she failed to hear the door to her back open.

  “Now, that’s a smile I wanna see, doll.” The oily voice dripped down her spine, thrusting her painfully into the stark reality of her dressing room. She froze, her eyes wide as they followed Sal into the small space. His meaty hand found her bare shoulder, and she swallowed hard against the overwhelming urge to shudder.

  “You were looking like you was thinking of something real romantic like.” Trapped in her fear, she could only stare as he leaned closer, a sparkling chain in his hands. He spread the necklace with a flourish, ensuring that she caught sight of the large pear-cut ruby surrounded by smaller flecks of shimmering diamonds. The stone was cold and heavy as it hung between her breasts. Panic set in as her brain scrambled to cover her dangerous misstep.

  “N-no, Mr. Francciolli. I was—”

  “Cuz I know,” his steel voice cut off her words with an edge of lethal intent, “you weren’t thinking about that goon I heard about that was in here last night. The one making all the goo-goo eyes at you.”

  His fingers, completed with the task of fastening her necklace, stroked her neck before coming to rest at the apex of her shoulders. One strong snap and her life would be a memory. She remained still, her trapped gaze refusing to waver.

  “Mr. Francciolli, how can I—”

  The fingers tightened a fraction, stealing her breath and her nerve. His face loomed closer in the mirror’s reflection, one thick vein pulsing at his temple as the thick stench of Aqua Velva clogged her throat and nearly coated her skin.

  “I tell you what you can and can’t do, you get me? I. Own. You.” He spit out the words, squeezing her shoulders past the point of a friendly massage. “And after your brother’s screw up yesterday, you’re gonna be more mine for a very long time.” His fingers slid down, the rough pads tucking under the edge of the sequined black satin neckline.

  Miranda white-knuckled the half-forgotten make-up brush in her trembling hand. She watched aghast as his lascivious green eyes pulled down to peer down the valley between her breasts. Bile climbed up the back of her throat, only sheer willpower keeping her calmly seated.

  The dressing room door swung open, a blonde head popping in with two words, “Five minutes,” before closing the door, not even glancing in.

  Sal’s lip curled up in an ugly snarl, jealousy burning in his murky green orbs. She was assaulted by one last pass of his fingers against her skin as he rose to stand at her back.

  “Just you remember what side your bread is buttered on, doll.” He turned on his heel, pausing as his fist grasped the door handle. “I see that mook making eyes at you again and he’ll be leaving in a bag.”

  Her resolve held out long enough to hear the door click shut behind her. She bit hard on her knuckles, shoving the sobs back down before they started the inevitable cascade. Sucking in gulp after panicked gulp of air finally settled her racing heart. Tears hinted at the edges of her eyes, the thick false lashes caked with mascara holding them in their inked net.

  Please, God. I can’t do this anymore.

  She jerked as the door swung open once more, relaxing only when she saw the concerned expression on Eddie’s face.

  “Aww, girlie. You gonna be OK to go on tonight?”

  Sighing heavily, she shook her head, forcing a weak smile to the surface. A full card of bobby pins kept the nest of hair safely perched atop her head, so no amount of denial would shake off the bouffant.

  “It’s nothing, Eddie. I’ll be fine.” Terror stopped her from putting voice to her deepest fears. The overt threat still hung in the air, evil in the form of cheap cologne. Rising to her feet, she smoothed out the satin sheath, her spike heels pinching her toes as she strode with false bravado to the dressing room door.

  Eddie placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, his old voice barely above a whisper as she passed. “Don’t let him steal your soul, Andy. You don’t owe anyone that much of yourself, much less the likes of someone like Slick Sal. You will find a way out of this hell. You have to keep believing that.”

  She threw her arms around his neck, careful not to smudge her make-up or smear foundation all over his black suit jacke
t. “Thank you, Eddie. I wish I had your confidence sometimes.”

  Eddie’s warm chuckle brought a smile to her as he gave her a fatherly squeeze. “Girlie, you just need to keep singing the way you did last night. Brought a smile to everyone’s face to hear you like that.” He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm as they walked the corridor leading to the stage entrance.

  The smile on her face told a completely different story, as did the heated blush that nearly melted her make-up. Her gaze hit the floor, both to hide her response and to make sure she wasn’t blinded by the white spotlight aimed at the ebony baby grand. After carefully traversing the two steps to reach her place on the dais, her eyes adjusting to the bright pool and the darkness beyond, she trailed her fingers along the narrow metal stand, taking courage from the band at her back as she launched into her memorized opening.

  Barely two words in and the magnetic pull of a hidden pair of eyes called to her. She lifted her gaze from the floor.

  There, just beyond the fringes of the focused light’s glow.

  The mysterious man who haunted her dreams as well as every waking step. He was here, bigger than life and hotter than hell. His broad shoulders ate up the rounded booth a hair shy of dead center of the room, something dark and warm flowed across the muscular expanse, the collar butting up against his jawline. Struggling to stay calm and focused, she offered him a timid smile, the dangerous words of her unstable boss ringing in her ears. Her breath hitched as she shifted her gaze to include the rest of the patrons as the band launched into the opening chords of “Stormy Weather.”

  She let the music take her away, the words carving a path her soul wanted to follow. Tonight, she was drawn to the fire within those whiskey eyes. Her heart turned the words around, the message of loss spun into a plea for something more. Something she hoped only he would discover. Would he understand? Could he save her?

  Did heroes exist anymore or would her dreams of freedom doom him to an early grave?