Eveillez: Deny Your Blood Lust (15 page)

Jerking to his feet, he took off on foot toward the pedestrian stairs, pulling his phone from his pocket as he ran. He dialed 911 as he leapt down the stairs. If he was fast enough, he could probably catch the Accord on the bottom level.

He was right. The late model car was pulling out of the garage as he emerged from the stairwell.

"911 what's your emergency?"

"My name is Detective McCoy," he panted into the phone. "There is an officer down at Tulane Medical Center in the…" The car had turned onto Tulane Avenue and he kicked his stride up. "Lasalle garage. I'm in pursuit of an escaped—Shit!" The phone went dead. "Goddamn cell phones," he swore.

It didn't matter. He wasn't letting Lohr escape. Tossing the phone back into its holster, he sped up even more. His muscles moved effortlessly, tirelessly. He felt like one of the African big cats tracking its prey. Stalking, hunting … he was ready to pounce and make the kill.

As he suspected, Lohr turned toward the French Quarter. The car wouldn't help him much there. Now, all Kevin had to do was keep him in his sights.

Chapter Sixteen

Julia was so engrossed in the novel she was reading that at first, she didn't hear the quiet rapping on the bedroom door. She wasn't expecting someone to knock, and it wasn't until her name was called that she registered the noise.

Setting her book aside she rose from the bed and tentatively went to the door.

"Julia?" Armand called again.

Leaning against the door jam, she crossed her arms. Why didn't he just come in? The door wasn't locked. "What is it?" She'd like to think she wasn't still angry, but she'd be full of shit. She was pissed.

It took a moment for him to answer. "You were right," he said, his voice strangely hollow as it seeped through the door. "I need to trust you. I mean, I do, it's just—I'm…" He paused and she could visualize him, eyes closed as he composed his thoughts. She rested her head on the jamb. "…frightened I guess. I know I'm not handling this bullshit with Lohr well, but what I need … I need … you—your help." He paused again and she touched the door. He sounded so vulnerable. She heard his exhale it was so loud. "I'd like to take you somewhere. I
need
to take you somewhere."

God, this is what she was waiting for wasn't it? Had he finally come back to her? Was he finally letting her all the way
in
? "What do you have in mind?"

"I want—I'd like." Pause. "Maybe it's best if you just open the door."

She was almost too scared to. Preparing herself for the worst, she twisted the knob and pulled.

"Oh my God."

"Is that a good,
Oh my God,
or a bad,
Oh my God
?"

"Um, good." It was more than good. He looked spectacular. Dressed in a black fishnet shirt clinging to every defined muscle, skin tight red latex pants with a studded and spiked codpiece, and black boots covered in buckles and steel hardware, he looked like he'd stepped out of one her romance novels. She swallowed. "Where are we going?"

"A private … fetish club."

She was having a hard time not staring at his codpiece. "I should change then," she murmured.

For the first time in several days he smiled. It was tense. It was strained. But it was a smile. "That might be best."

She suddenly felt giddy. "I have the perfect outfit."

"The dress with the laces?" His tone was almost wistful.

She blushed at the memory. Last Valentine's Day they'd shared a rather steamy encounter on the stairs leading from
Luxure
to their apartment
. She'd been wearing the dress in question. "I have a new one," she replied. "I'll be right back." Heart racing, she closed the door on him and dashed to the closet.

In a rush, she stripped off her clothing and threw on the dress she'd purchased two days earlier: a liquid leather number with a high collar and full length zipper running up the front. She switched out her bra for something sexy but skipped the panties—she had a feeling they would only get in the way—throwing them in her purse instead. In case she needed them later.

A smattering of makeup, a quick brush through her hair, some strappy platform heels … and she pulled the door open shyly.

Armand's expression assured her the shyness was misplaced. "Perfect," he murmured, taking her hand and pulling her close. "First things first." He bent and kissed her. "I am sorry," he said. "And I do trust you. I just—I hope this isn't too much…"

"Stop. I'm your wife. Don't forget it."

"And about Angel…"

"Forgotten." The last thing she wanted was to rehash the whole deal. It was time to put this mess behind them.

"Please, let me clear the air." Actually, she'd rather just get to the sex. Plus, she was a little fearful whatever he was about to confess was going to start another argument. "I don't want you to think
I
think you're not vested in this Community, or your feelings are less important than Angel's. When I said that the other night, I should have just told you the truth." Oh God. "But I didn't feel comfortable discussing someone else's guilt."

Okay, that wasn't so bad.

"What do you mean, guilt?"

"Angel felt—
feels
—responsible for what happened to Melanie and Kate, because she's the one who took them to Lohr. Obviously, I can relate to that. It's why she came in so upset, but it's still no excuse. I shouldn't have touched her."

Julia suddenly felt a little like a heel for being so angry about the whole ordeal. Angel believing she delivered one woman to her death and another to torture was definitely a valid reason for being upset. And given Armand's guilt over Eve, it was no wonder he felt the need to console her. She still didn't like the idea of Angel in Armand's arms, though, crusty heel or not.

"No. You can comfort your friends. Well, maybe not Angel. I mean, I'd rather you didn't … comfort her. I know it's petty of me—"

"Not at all. Angel and I have a history, and I certainly wouldn't be happy to see you in the arms of a past lover, no matter the reason. I'm sorry for dismissing your feelings about it."

And now she remembered the gazillionth reason she loved him. "You're forgiven." She planted a quick kiss on his cheek. To let him know she was in a hurry. "So … should we go out the front or the back?"

Something almost resembling a grin tugged at his mouth. "The back. We need to take the car."

* * * *

Sweat was beginning to trickle down his back but it felt good, really fucking good. His energy level was on
full
and Kevin felt like he could run all night. Shit, this was better than a cocaine bender.

Keeping the black Accord in his sights, he emerged onto Canal just as the light changed to red. There were people and cars everywhere. He dodged between them like a running back clutching the winning football five yards from the end zone. He felt unstoppable.

A blaring horn tore through his eardrums. Shit! Streetcar!

Jumping, twisting and rolling, he narrowly avoided the red and gold streetcar as it tore down the tracks dividing Canal Street. Landing on his shoulder, he somersaulted to his feet and kept running. He could just make out the taillights of the Accord two blocks ahead.

Pushing his muscles and lungs until there wasn't an ounce of energy to spare, Kevin tore down the quiet French Quarter Street. As long as Lohr stayed on Burgundy, he'd be able to track him. If he turned…

Shit, he was turning toward Bourbon. The car wouldn't make it ten feet, but Lohr would instantly disappear in the clusterfuck of people no doubt clogging the street.

He wasn't wrong. The Accord sat empty and abandoned on the corner of Dauphine and Toulouse, the orange jumpsuit crumpled in the passenger seat. He scanned Dauphine right then left. A smattering of people negotiated the sidewalks, but not a single raven-haired freak.

Lohr could be anywhere.

Taking the chance that Lohr was trying to disappear into the crowds and hadn't gone into a building, Kevin headed for Bourbon. When he stepped onto the street, he slammed into a wall of people, music, and something that felt like a fog of lust and desperation. He was briefly reminded of the layers of emotion that poured from Angel from time to time. He'd been on Bourbon many times but never noticed the energy signature.

Shoving through the throngs of super heroes, slutty nurses, pirates, devils, you name it, only put him in the middle of more and more costumed tourists. There were short skirts, wigs and glitter as far as the eye could see. Scanning the street in either direction, he quickly realized he'd never spot Lohr in these crowds unless he got somewhere higher.

There was no time to get to a balcony. Instead, he jumped onto a wrought iron support pillar and shimmied up until he was at least twelve feet off the ground. The crowd beneath loved it.

He swept over them. Their numbers had to be in the thousands. Every square inch of the street and sidewalk were packed with bodies. Taking a deep breath, he concentrated on using his instincts to spot Lohr. It was more than that though, he was trying to
feel
which way Lohr had gone. Sniffing the air for Lohr's … energy? It was the only analogy he could imagine. He wasn't sure what on earth made him think to try it. It just
came
to him.

And so did Lohr's scent, or whatever it was. Nothing more than a faint tingle, it pulled his gaze down Bourbon, past a couple of girls flashing for beads, to Lohr's black, shining hair. The creep wasn't running—that would have made him easy to spot in the first place—but casually strolling through the crowd. Kevin thought he even saw him slip a strand of beads over one of the flasher's necks.

Jumping from his perch on the balcony pillar, he took off toward his Perp. He didn't want to bring too much attention to himself, so he refrained from flashing his badge and commanding people to move aside. Not that it would have worked anyway. Police horses were needed for that.

He was gaining on Lohr though. He could feel it. Maybe the energy was stronger or maybe his gut was simply telling him Lohr was close. Whatever it was, he knew it wouldn't be long before Lohr was in his grasp.

Suddenly, he broke through the crowd and emerged in a sea of bodies kneeling and lying on the street. There were hundreds of them, reaching from corner to corner of the entire intersection, surrounded by a thick ring of watching tourists.

Music started: howling, a slow drum machine, and the bodies began to rise. They pawed at his legs as he tried to step around them, over them. They were everywhere and he didn't get far. Fake blood, tattered clothes… He was surrounded by an army of zombies.

A familiar musical score screamed across the intersection. Oh shit, he was in the middle of a Thriller flash mob.

All of the bodies were on their feet and they started to dance. He tried squeezing through them but their zombie bodies were surprisingly rigid.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Lohr at the edge of the crowd. When Kevin caught his eye, Lohr grinned, and then disappeared down the street.

He started for him, but there was an impassive zombie in his way. He shoved the woman aside and she shoved back. Arms came up, and the zombies marched left-left-right-left in alternating rows. He ducked under splayed fingers, trying to avoid losing an eye or being trampled by a stomping zombie. He got turned around a few times, or possibly spun around, coming face to face over and over again with expressionless zombie faces. It was very surreal.

He resisted the urge to throw them to the ground as he tried to push his way through the mob. There were surely dozens of cameras recording the event and he could only imagine the headline the next day if he injured one.
Innocent performer victim of police brutality…

When he finally sprang free, he took off at a dead run in the direction Lohr had disappeared. Less gentle with the watching tourists, he ignored screams and shouts as he pushed people aside. Lohr was just up ahead. He knew it.

Only a hundred feet from Bourbon the crowd thinned considerably. And Lohr was nowhere to be seen. He was near-by, Kevin would bet money on it. He kept running even though he was only chasing a feeling. He should call for backup, increase the manhunt, but he wanted to concentrate. Like a bloodhound following a trail, he needed all of his senses to focus on Lohr's scent. The phone would only distract him.

Just as he passed one of the many gated walls keeping the public out of private residences, all of his senses prickled. He slowed and then stopped. The hairs on his arms demanded he return to the gate. He obeyed. Peering through a tiny slot in ivy covered iron, he caught a glimpse of Lohr's shining black hair just as he disappeared around the corner of a building.

The gate was locked and the top of the brick wall was covered with shards of broken bottles embedded in concrete.

At least it isn't razor wire
, he thought as he began to climb.

His muscles were stronger than he remembered them ever being. He scaled the wall in seconds. Taking a moment to carefully place his hands, he still managed to tear open his palms as he reached over the top of the wall.

"Fuck it," he muttered. Gripping the edge of the wall with each palm, he ignored the pain in his hands as glass dug into them and concentrated on not disemboweling himself as he used all the strength in his arms to cartwheel over the wall.

It felt like his ankles shattered when he hit the brick floor. Blood poured from his palms. He yanked his gun from the holster. Sprinting down the alley, he emerged in a plant filled courtyard. Lohr was at the other end, back to him.

He didn't hesitate. Without uttering a word—no,
"halt, stop, cease, police"
—he squeezed the trigger, hitting Lohr squarely in the shoulder, maybe even piercing his lung. Grimly satisfied, he headed for the fallen man, half hoping the bastard was dead.

Something grabbed his ankle and he catapulted forward. Gun in hand, he didn't dare try to brace against the ground quickly rising to meet him. Twisting his body, he tossed the gun into the bushes just as his head hit something hard, and inky blackness immediately swept through him.