Midnight Blues (3 page)

“No.” He took out a pair of steel handcuffs and snapped one end over her wrist. “What is your name?” he asked as he reached for her free hand.

“Sister Marguerite Aretino.”

“Sister Marguerite is dead,” Suarez told her. “Who are you?”

Bridget fell to her knees in front of the door, blocking in with her bulk. She closed her eyes, extending her hands and letting her head fall back.

“No.” Dani lunged against the detective’s hold. “Let go of me. Bridget, for the love of God,
no
.”

Two quarter-size wounds appeared in the woman’s wrists, and blood began to pulse from them.

Suarez took in a sharp breath. “
Dios mío
.” His arms fell away, and at last Dani was free.

She caught Bridget before she toppled over and turned to glare at Suarez. “Get the first aid kit. In the desk there.” Gently she lowered the heavyset woman to the rug, and yanked up her sleeves.

“What did she use to cut her wrists so fast?” he asked as he brought the white plastic box to her.

“Nothing.” She grabbed a roll of bandages from the kit and began wrapping the wounds. “Here,” she said when she had one bandage in place, and handed him the wrist. “Apply direct pressure.”

“We will take her to the emergency room,” he said. “She will require a doctor’s attention.”

“A doctor can’t do anything for her.” She finished wrapping the other wound and firmly pressed her fingers over it. The cuff Suarez had snapped on her dangled from her wrist as she met the detective’s gold-shot gaze. “No one can.”

“Don’t be foolish. At the very least she will need stitches.”

Dani closed her eyes. She had not used it since leaving South America, so it was much stronger now.

“What are you doing?” she heard Suarez demand.

“Praying.”

Suarez believed her, and gave her the time she needed to finish. As soon as it was done, she unwrapped the bandages and wiped away the blood to make sure the wound had disappeared.

Suarez did the same thing, and muttered something under his breath. “This is impossible. She cut herself—”

“No, she did not.” Dani gently wiped a tear from the unconscious woman’s cheek. “The wounds come as God wills. Sometimes, when Bridget is afraid, I think she can make them appear.”

“Now you are speaking nonsense,” he said as he checked both wrists closely. “No wounds appear just like that, without explanation or cause.”

“There is a cause, Detective, although I cannot explain it.” She looked down at the unmarked wrists. “Do you know what the stigmata is?”

“I know of the myth,” Suarez said. “Stigmata are injuries that zealots inflict on themselves to imitate the wounds Christ received before he was crucified.”

“You must be an ex-Catholic.” Dani pressed her hand to Bridget’s brow, and saw a drop of blood fall from her sleeve. If he saw… “She is feverish. I should give her some water. Please hold her up for me.”

As soon as Suarez had his arms filled with Bridget, Dani stood and looked down at him. For a moment she wondered what it would be like to be held in his arms, to be protected by such a man. Then she ran across the room.

“No.”

Sunlight filled up her eyes, erasing the open window and everything around her. The stucco wall came next, slamming into her face. Dani fell back and the light became a warm, lovely pool of gold. As she sank into it, she wondered how Suarez had made the sun rise two hours early, and if he would be the next one to die.

D
onatien strolled up A1A, enjoying the attention his magenta velvet suit and lacy white cravat drew from passing tourists. Such formal attire did not actually suit this time or locale, which even on this October night dripped with heat and humidity, but his immortal body had not produced much in the way of body fluids since his second rising.

The Spaniard would have to bleed for him.

His two favorite accessories, a beautiful redheaded girl on his right arm, and a handsome brunette boy on his left, walked on rhythm with his movements. Both said and looked at nothing. He felt it a pity that they had become so well-trained in so short a time. Nothing on this earth that amused him lasted very long.

That would have to change before existence bored him to death.

Donatien did not resent his present circumstances. He had been quite happy to leave the Middle East, where he had lived since Hitler’s fall from grace. As amusing as the descendents of the Saracens could be, the decades of carte blanche had gone too quickly. When the Americans came, the place had become a hotbed of night bombings and CNN exclusives. So he moved on. He had always wanted to go to South America to look up an old friend from the war they should have won. Unhappily Le Chevillard had been stupid enough to get himself drowned, but he had left behind some very amusing play things—and Cristál, his pearl among the swine.

At first Donatien had not believed what he had read in the old journals. Le Chevillard had been a madman, and his ramblings (while vastly entertaining) could hardly be called reliable. Donatien had consoled himself for a time by playing with the savages, all of whom proved to be vigorous and in remarkably good health. Then he had seen it for himself, first in the scars of horrendous wounds on the bodies of his playthings, then by listening closely to the babbled tales of miracles.

The Hand of God had not saved them. A girl had.

They had tried to protect Cristál by denying she existed, denials that Donatien had quickly reduced to pleas and sobs. The girl had been clever, too, hiding away at night and resisting his lures. The entire matter had wasted a great deal of Donatien’s valuable time, during which someone had summoned that Catholic cunt, Sister Marguerite, to spirit away his Cristál.

The years of searching did not sting as much as the nun who had deceived him. She had sworn he would never touch Cristál or her, and had settled the matter by setting fire to the convent where he had found them. Fool that he was, he truly believed the old bitch and his pearl had been consumed in the flames.

Reading of Marguerite Aretino’s actual death years brought tears of hope and joy to Donatien’s eyes, or would have, had his tear ducts still functioned. Further inquiries confirmed that she had not, in fact, killed herself or Cristál. She had faked everything in order to escape to America. Learning from an old Kyn ally that the Spaniard lived in south Florida as well, serving as seneschal to the newly-appointed suzerain, had been Fate’s dessert course.

Arranging for the Spaniard to meet Cristál had been a simple matter. Doubtless in the short time they were together, Donatien’s old love and his new would become fast friends. Donatien preferred his toys to have feelings for each other, at least for as long as they could feel something. It brought out displays of heroism and sacrifice that he always found touching.

The Spaniard had honor, and Daniela compassion. It was a match made in hell.

Donatien did congratulate himself for maintaining around-the-clock surveillance on the convent. Such a terribly modern thing to do. Waiting for her to emerge had been boring, but he had been there to see her being carried out in the arms of Richard’s former emissary, the angel of light with the hellfire eyes.

Now he would have them both. His angelic demon and his demonic angel.

“ID’s,” the large, fat man dressed as an evil clown at the entrance to the fetish club said as they stopped before him.

Donatien patted non-existent pockets. “Dear me. I do believe that I left mine at home.” He urged his accessories forward. “Of course, my friends will vouch for me.”

The bouncer gave his companions a cursory glance. “We don’t admit perverts or their underage friends.”

“Fortunately I am a libertine, not a pervert,” Donatien said. “My companions are much older and wiser than they were a week ago.”

“Look, moron, I’m not—” the bouncer reached out to grab the front of his jacket.

“Mind your bowels, young man,” Donatien said, placing one hand on the bouncer’s frilled sleeve. “One never knows when their contents are about to exit in a decidedly explosive manner.”

The bouncer’s hand dropped to clutch at his abdomen. A low, wrenching groan crawled through his clenched teeth as he doubled over.

“We’ll see ourselves in, thank you.” Donatien guided his accessories to the door.

The gruesome atmosphere and dangerous-looking members of Club Dominion never failed to cheer up Donatien, who led his accessories to the best table in the house. The occupants, clad as they were in various rigs of leather and chains, rose from their seats as soon as they spotted him. Donatien felt pleased at the automatic deference, and graced them with an approving smile, and a round of intense migraines.

Now to find the last pawn.

The assistant manager of the club, a fellow named Butcher, whose body had been pierced as often as the Virgin Queen Elizabeth’s maidenhead, appeared with two waitresses and a staff dominatrix. All were dressed in ghastly costumes and makeup.

“Your Excellency,” Butcher said, and bowed. “You’re early tonight. We are honored.”

“You are likely missing a doorman, however,” Donatien advised him. “Bring my young friends mineral water.”

Butcher dispatched one waitress with a snap of his black-nailed fingers, and sent the other staff members off to supervise a flogging exhibition. “Your Excellency, may I ask if you have seen the club’s owner, Erik? He was the young man who left with you last week, and no one has heard from him since that night.”

“Erik decided to move on to a better place,” Donatien said. “He did sign over this establishment to me before he left. Would you care to run it for me?”

“I am honored.” Butcher hid his surprise by bowing deeply. “I will not disappoint you, Your Excellency.”

“No one ever does in the end, dear boy.” He scanned the surrounding tables. “Now bring me a blonde. Something young, nubile, and as untouched as possible.”

“Would Your Excellency wish a blonde girl or boy?” Butcher asked.

“I never discriminate,” Donatien said, quite truthfully. “Either will do.”

The band onstage played something as unpleasant and ungainly as the dancing being performed on the floor in front of them. Donatien didn’t mind the ugliness of the music or motion. One had to be born with elegance; it could not be taught, bought or otherwise acquired. Seeing humans behave like the pitiful apes that they were merely reinforced his notions of evolution.

The waitress delivered drinks for his accessories and a young blonde female dressed in a too-tight merry widow and leather skirt. She had applied fake blood and adhesive scars to much of her exposed skin. Beneath the cheap cosmetics he could smell a trace of fresh blood, likely from some self-inflicted nonsense hidden under her clothes. The ennui in her eyes beckoned to him like dying candle flames.

“This is Tragedy,” the waitress said.

“Of course it is. Do sit down, dearest,” Donatien said, indicating the chair across from him.

The girl moved with all the grace of a sack of root vegetables, and immediately propped her elbows on the table. “My
name
is Tragedy.” She had a dreadful overbite, and ears that had been pierced in the most unlikely spots. Cheap, weighty jack-o-lantern earrings were pulling her earlobes into taffy, but her hair appeared to be natural, and under her heavy makeup lay somewhat dewy skin. “You’re very pretty.” She made it sound like a criminal offense.

He inclined his head. “I am Donatien.”

“I’ve heard about you. They say you’re a bigshot new master around here.” She fiddled with her spiked vinyl bracelets, miming boredom. “Whenever you come to the club, they say other girls have cat fights just to talk to you. I guess ‘cause you’re so pretty.”

“Bigshot, yes, new, no, cat fights, I cannot say. And please, do think of another word with which to describe me. I know you can, dear Tragedy, because you are not like other girls, are you?” She had the voice of a fishwife and the manners of a gutter cleaner, but he smelled no chemicals or alcohol on her breath, and along with the hair and the skin that was all that mattered to him.

Tragedy preened. “I’m not like anyone you’ve ever had.”

Youth, freshness, clean blood, functioning nerves, and misplaced pride and arrogance. What more perfect clay could be found? “Tell me why you come here, to such a terrible place.”

“It’s something to do.” Her shoulders moved out and back into her slouch. “I’m free, white and twenty-one. I bottom and top. No cutting or bathroom games.” Her glance flicked with studied indifference to his redhead. “I do girls sometimes.”

She wanted his toy instead of him. She, who had called him pretty. For that, he would make her beg him to kill her long before the night’s games concluded.

“If I permitted you to play with my sweet little strawberry shortcake,” Donatien asked, stroking his hand over his redhead’s shoulder, “what would you do to her for my amusement?”

Interest finally enlivened the dull eyes. “Biting, licking, twisting, spanking. I’ll use vibrators, whips and clamps, whatever you like.”

Dear God, would humans ever abandon these pedestrian desires? Where was the imagination in this century? They could land space craft on Mars, but in matters erotic, they were still as infantile as the Saracens and the Nazis. “That’s all?”

The blonde’s bottom lip protruded. “What do you want me to do?”

It amused him how the humans of this era wished everything spelled out for them in advance. One had to almost hire an attorney and strike a contract to arrange a proper liaison. “Give me your hand.”

Tragedy did not. “I don’t like you.”

“I don’t require you to like me.” Donatien rested his hand on his boy’s shoulder, noting the slight jerk his touch produced. “I asked you to give me your hand.”

His brunette struck without warning, clamping onto the blonde’s forearm and dragging it across the table. The girl opened her mouth to shout, only to find herself being kissed by his redhead.

Donatien folded his hand around Tragedy’s as his redhead broke off the kiss and inserted her slim hand down the front of the merry widow to fondle the groaning girl. “Show me your pleasure,
mademoiselle
.”