The Wolven (19 page)

“I
’d call today a bust,” Danyon said, leaning against the grave of Gustav Henry. They were sitting in St. Louis I Cemetery, across the street from Gris Gris’. They had hit a stalemate. At the moment, keeping an eye out for any unusual activity coming in or going out of Gris Gris’ shop, anything that might direct them toward their next move, was about all they could do.

“The night’s not over yet,” Shauna said, sitting on the concrete lip of a nearby crypt. “And besides, it wasn’t a total bust. We linked a couple of things together.”

“I’d say you’re being pretty optimistic. And even if we did link one or two things together, I wouldn’t try pulling anything with it. The links would break. They’re too weak.”

“So what about the whole thing with Banjo and Gris
Gris? I mean, he fingered the snake guy for heaven’s sake. Don’t tell me you’re just going to dismiss that?”

Danyon shrugged. “Really, when you think about it, Banjo could have been blowing hot air up our rear ends. He’s a junkie, I know, but he’s a conniving junkie. He might have rattled off the first name that came into his head just because he was scared.”

“Even if he did, can you blame him?” Shauna said. “You were pretty convincing back there. If I would have been the one trapped under your boot like that, I would have spilled my guts in a nanosecond.”

He gave her a half smile. “Hey, you know, that brings up something that’s had me stumped since we left the alley.”

“What’s that?”

“If I would have confronted a regular vampire, like I did with Banjo back there, don’t you think he would have at least flashed his fangs or something?”

“I’d bet on it.”

“Then why didn’t Banjo? What kind of vampire is he?”

“I don’t know what breed of vampire he is. David Dulac had said something about Banjo during the meeting. He knows the vamp is different, but said he wasn’t sure if that was due to him being the product of a cross-breeding, or if it had something to do with the drugs he’s been using for years. I really don’t have a clue myself. Fiona would probably know more, since she’s his Keeper.”

Danyon shook his head. “Now that I think about it,
I should have handled things differently back in the alley.”

“How so?”

“What I should’ve done was as soon as Banjo fingered Gris Gris, I should have grabbed the little weasel and brought him here with us. Then force him and Gris Gris into a face-off.”

Shauna laughed.

“What’s funny?’

“Sorry, I couldn’t help it. I know a face-off between the two of them would probably get serious quick. But when you first mentioned it, I suddenly got a picture in my head of Laurel and Hardy. You know, fat guy, skinny guy?”

Danyon grinned. “How do you know about Laurel and Hardy? Even the reruns of their movies stopped playing long before you were born.”

Shauna shrugged. “I like old movies, and they do make DVDs you know.”

Her smile made Danyon’s heart flip-flop in his chest. He forced himself to look away. He had to keep his mind on business. “Have you heard anything from Fiona, Caitlin, Jagger, anybody?”

“No,” she said, her smile quickly fading. “I won’t know anymore than you do until I see them again.”

“Wouldn’t your sisters call if they found anything?”

“Probably,” Shauna said. “But I don’t carry a cell phone, so they have no way to reach me.”

He cocked his head, surprised. “I thought everyone carried a cell phone these days.”

“I don’t.”

“And why is that?”

“Because wherever I go, I like to be where I am. A cell phone only divides your attention—all the texting, beeping, buzzing, call-waiting, call-forwarding, voice mail. It’s no wonder that there is so much anger in the world. No one has a moment’s peace to regroup their thoughts, to really think through their problems so they can find a solution.”

“Smart girl.”

“I know.”

Grinning, Danyon stood up and stretched, working out the kink forming in his lower back.

“You know, you may be right about something,” Shauna said.

“Me? Right?”

She smiled. “What you said about Banjo blowing hot air—that sort of ties in to what you said earlier about Gris Gris being in no physical condition to hold down a were.”

“Wait—are you saying I may be right about
two
things? We should call the local paper. That’s headline news!”

Shauna tsked, then chuckled. “I know, I know. But let’s think this through for a minute. Banjo ratting out Gris Gris doesn’t make very much sense when you take into account the big man’s physical liabilities. Banjo might be screwed up on drugs, and he might be conniving, but I don’t think he’s stupid. If he was lying, I think he’s sharp enough to have picked a much more likely candidate.
Either that, or he figured we were stupid enough to fall for anything.”

“Maybe, but since we’re thinking this through—you know, the two things I was right about? Banjo could have been telling the truth, only we’re looking at it from a physical perspective. Gris Gris may not be doing the physical work, like restraining the were, wrapping him in cable. Maybe he’s orchestrating the whole thing. Who the heck knows?” Danyon walked over and sat beside her. “It very well could have started out one way and wound up another.”

“What do you mean?”

“Remember when August said that the murderer’s motive might be similar to a trapper’s? Someone who hunts alligators and bear, specifically for their claws and fangs, because they make jewelry out of them?”

“Yes, I remember when he told us.”

“Well, what if the murderer started off that way, you know, harvesting were claws and fangs to make expensive jewelry, it would have to be expensive because they’re rare. Then somehow, the murderer winds up ingesting a few granules of either the claws or fangs when he’s grinding them down for jewelry. He ends up with a serious buzz, one a lot different than he’s felt from any other drug. He discovers he’s stronger, faster, more agile. By process of elimination, he figures out where the buzz came from, and he’s off to the races from there.”

Shauna shook her head. “I don’t even like thinking about what those races might look like. People are so beyond their own limits now. Even a hint of something
that powerful being available on the street—it would be like August said. The death toll would become astronomical. Weres might even become extinct.”

“It’s a scary thought for sure.”

Shauna propped her arms on her knees and lowered her head. “Do you think that it’s only happened in this area? Do you think there are other weres in other states going through this right now?”

“I haven’t heard news about it happening anywhere else,” Danyon said. “And I hope we don’t. If similar were murders show up anywhere else that would only confirm what you just said—it would be the beginning of the end. I try not to think about how big the problem could get. I just want to focus on this area and our weres right now.”

Danyon glanced over at the voodoo shop. The lights were still on, and he saw shadows from people walking back and forth in front of the screen door. He had seen some customers leave the shop and new ones come in, but nothing out of the ordinary. No suspicious looking characters, only curious tourists.

“What do you think Gris Gris meant when he said you should be careful about what you look for?” Shauna asked. She was looking toward the shop, as well. “Idle threat?”

“I’m sure that’s all it was. The guy’s good at pulling off a con. Look how his accent and entire manner of speaking changed when he was pressed to the wall.”

“I know,” Shauna said. “I couldn’t believe it. I mean, it’s not like I know him well. I’ve seen him around a
time or two, occasionally cross him on the street in the Quarter, but I’ve never heard him roll into street talk that way. He always came across rather highbrow. You know what I mean?”

Danyon nodded, but didn’t offer more.

It was getting late and traffic was slowing on Rampart. The praline shop next to Gris Gris’ had already closed for the night. He felt frustrated and as useless as a spigot on a rock. Too many maybes had sent them chasing shadows that led them nowhere.

Maybe the claws and fangs were being pulverized and sold as a drug. Maybe Big Frank was tied to it simply because he wanted his gang to upstage the Bloods and the Crips. Maybe Gris Gris was involved. Maybe Banjo had been telling the truth when he had fingered the snake man after Danyon had put the squeeze on him. Maybe all of this was about a new drug, but then again…maybe not.

Danyon was used to addressing problems at the root cause. The challenge he had here, though, was that he had no roots to work with. His frustration and desire to do something, to find whoever, or whatever, was responsible for the murders, grew by the hour, and that was causing him to make bad decisions.

It would have been smarter had he taken a more subtle approach to Gris Gris, instead of confronting him head on. If the slime ball was responsible for the were deaths in any way, all Danyon had done was alert him to the fact that they suspected him. If anything, Gris Gris would be more cautious now about where he went and who he
spoke to. The same applied to Big Frank Macina, since Shauna all but shoved an accusation up his nose.

Banjo didn’t really concern Danyon. The guy stayed so drugged most of the time, he probably had trouble remembering from one hour to the next what he had said, much less what he had heard or done.

If he was going to be truthful with himself, then Danyon had to admit that neither he nor Shauna knew what the hell they were doing. If drive and heartfelt passion to save and protect the weres were the only two things necessary to solve this case, then it would have been solved long ago.

The bottom line was easy to sum up. He wasn’t a detective. Neither was she.

He wondered if Jagger, Fiona, Ryder or Caitlin had had any luck in the areas they were monitoring. If they had uncovered any clues that might lead everyone in a different, more productive direction.

And what about the weres? Had the sentinels who were assigned to post by the remaining Southern alphas spotted anything? Something that might shed more light on the case, offer some clarification?

If everyone returned empty-handed, then they would have no choice but to bring in additional help.

That wasn’t an easy thing for Danyon to admit. He took great pride in being an alpha, and never once had he ever considered his role as leader, protector, defender a burden.

It was his purpose in life.

Pride would have to take a backseat. The only thing
that mattered was the safety of the weres, protecting them against the psychopath who had already killed three of their own.

If it took a boatload of vampires, a battalion of shifters and every breed of were in North America to find the murderer and stop him from killing again, then bring them on.

Since the final directive to call in additional, outside help had to come from August, Danyon planned to speak to him about it as soon as everyone met up again. And they were scheduled to gather in August’s conference room in the morning.

He swiped a hand over his face, wishing he could wipe away the fatigue that weighed him down, and the sense of defeat that wanted to drown him.

In that moment, he felt Shauna rest a hand gently on his arm.

So reassuring and soothing. So calming. It was as though she had heard his every thought.

Danyon closed his eyes, and allowed himself to get lost in her touch. And in that one blissful moment, he found absolute peace.

A
fter quietly slipping back into her clothes, Shauna grabbed her sneakers and snuck out of Danyon’s bedroom, where he still lay sleeping, then out of the penthouse. She rode the private elevator down to the back entrance, then put on her sneakers and headed outside.

It was a little after 4:00 a.m., the only time of day when New Orleans’ streets were relatively quiet. This morning she heard a chorus of hydraulic hisses from trash trucks cleaning the streets down in the Quarter. She certainly didn’t envy their job this morning. No doubt the mountain of trash left over from a half million people celebrating Nuit du Dommage would rival Mt. Everest.

Shauna glanced up at the dark, clear sky and saw that the moon was nearing its apex. She didn’t worry about Danyon’s wolven during a full moon because they
were a breed of werewolves whose transformation trigger wasn’t dependent on the moon. But she did worry about humans, because their emotions seemed to be at the mercy of any full-faced moon. Any policeman or hospital worker would testify to that. During a full moon cycle, the number of crimes blew through the roof, and emergency rooms overflowed with victims, as well as perpetrators, of gunshot wounds, stabbings, cuts and broken bones from fights, and a myriad of injuries from car accidents spurred by road-rage.

A full moon always made Shauna restless. Add to that restlessness her worry about a murderer targeting her weres, and she wound up with a bad case of insomnia.

Although she hadn’t said anything to Danyon, Shauna feared he was right. They had been running after shadows and were making little to no progress. Even worse, she had an unsettling feeling that all hell was about to break loose. She had turned all the few, ragged pieces of information they had collected over the last two days over and over in her mind until they made even less sense than they did before. The only way she knew to clear her head was to move—jog—run.

The predawn air was crisp, and the humidity low. Shauna breathed in deeply, then began to stretch her back, arms, and legs. There were very few street lights along Burgundy, almost non-existent when compared to the heart of the Quarter, but, with the help of the moon, she had plenty to light her way.

After a few minutes of stretching, Shauna started off with a slow jog. She quickened her pace after two blocks,
then broke into a full run after four. The wind in her face, heart rate rising, the sound of her sneakers thumping rhythmically on the sidewalk—this was her safe haven. The rest of the world was welcome to all the Xanax on the market. This was her drug of choice.

Soon, the worries that clogged her mind began to slip away.

Shauna was only a few blocks from Esplanade, which she planned to take south to the French Market, when she caught sudden movement off to her left, out of the corner of her eye. It barely had time to register in her brain before she found herself abruptly slammed to the ground by a flying tackle.

In a flash, a hand clamped over her mouth and a knee dug into her back. Shock kept Shauna immobile for a moment or two, then she started kicking, tried to scream, flailed her arms in an attempt to throw her attacker off balance. Something cold and metal was slapped across her left wrist. Then it tightened and clicked.

Handcuffs?

In a full blown panic now, Shauna screamed into the hand covering her mouth and swung her right arm wildly to keep it from being restrained. The struggle proved futile, however. Her attacker pinned her arm and cuffed it so quickly she might as well have been paralyzed.

Shauna kicked out with both feet, jerked her body from side to side, frantic to escape. Another hand grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked hard, forcing her to her feet. She had yet to catch even a glimpse of her attacker.

With one hand clamped over her mouth and another wrapped tightly in her hair, Shauna was shoved into motion. She kicked backwards, first with her right foot, then with her left, wanting to connect with a knee, a shin, testicles. When that failed, she tried to run, but was immediately jerked back by the hair, then shoved forward faster.

Soon she was forced into an alley on the right, then left, behind a building—left again into another alley. Tears streamed down Shauna’s cheeks, which made her angry. The last thing she needed to do right now was cry. With a hand over her mouth, if her nose got stuffed up, she wouldn’t be able to breathe. And what good would crying do anyway? She had to keep her head clear and figure out a way to break free.

The hand over her mouth pressed harder over her lips, but Shauna still managed to open her mouth just wide enough to bite down on a small pad of flesh. She bit hard into the palm, and twisted from side to side, like a dog with a bone.

It was then that something hard and heavy slammed down on Shauna’s head. And the moon went from full…to black.

When Shauna’s eyes fluttered open, it didn’t take long for her to realize she wasn’t waking from a bad dream. Her hands were still cuffed behind her back, and she was standing, bent in half, the upper part of her body lying on a sheet of plywood that appeared to be some kind of makeshift table. The left side of her head throbbed
terribly, and she felt something sticky on her neck and left cheek. She figured it was blood.

Shauna tried to stand up and realized that her legs had been pulled back and spread wide apart, and her ankles restrained. She lifted her head and looked about, trying to figure out where she might be. But she could hardly make out a thing. Her eyesight was blurry, and two huge spotlights that stood about twenty feet or so in front of her blinded her all the more.

She pressed her right cheek against the scratchy plywood and turned her head to the left. Even without the light in her eyes, she only saw shadows and darkness. But there was depth to that darkness, indicating a vast space. She turned her head to the right and saw the same. Whatever this place was, it smelled of dirt, rust, and motor oil.

Suddenly, a loud clatter echoed around her. It sounded like a heavy tool, like a pipe wrench, falling to a concrete floor. The sound jump-started Shauna’s heart and sent it racing. She lifted herself as high as she could and yelled, “Help! Somebody, help! Hel—”

Her head was slammed to the plywood, sending a shower of shooting stars before her eyes. Someone held her face down, smashing her nose, forehead, and chin into the plywood. They pressed harder, harder still, fingers digging into the wound she already had on her head. The throbbing pain she had felt only moments ago was turned into an excruciating fireworks display in her mind.

Shauna felt herself fading to black and fought it.

Can’t lose consciousness! Can’t! Have to fight!

The shooting stars returned briefly, then blinked out, only to return seconds later in multiples of a thousand.

Somewhere between dark and light, Shauna realized that her shirt and been pushed up, almost under her arms. And someone was tugging on the waistband of her jeans.

Tugging—pulling…

Oh, God, no…not that! Please, not that!

She had to scream—needed help. Heard a ripping sound—felt a sudden breeze on the back of her thighs.

Her jeans had been cut off!

That realization fueled Shauna’s struggle to remain conscious, enough at least for her to open her mouth—to scream.

Her hair was grabbed again, her head slammed hard against the plywood.

Now the stars weren’t only before her eyes, they surrounded her—they were her. Nothing else existed.

Except one sound.

One…familiar…sound.

A high pitched, twittering laugh. That laugh. That horrible, wretched laugh snapped Shauna back to consciousness, like a bullwhip coming out of high flight.

“Banjo!” she yelled. Shauna wanted him to know that she knew he was the one behind her.

He laughed.

She felt hands on her bare back, rough clothing rubbing against the back of her thighs. And the laughter grew louder and louder.

“Banjo, stop! It’s Shauna MacDonald. Stop!”

He began to singsong and wiggled his body against her thighs, her buttocks. “Gonna get me some—get me some—get some!”

“Shut the hell up, Banjo!” a woman’s voice shouted.

It sounded like it came from a distant place, and it was immediately followed by a metallic echo, as if her voice had bounced off metal walls—aluminum walls…

Was she trapped in a warehouse? Who was the woman?

“Hehehe, SQUAWK!” That laughter again, then, “She ain’t gonna give it up, give it up. So Banjo’s gonna take it! Take it—no give it up—I take it!” Banjo squealed like a school kid excited over Christmas.

“I said shut your goddamn mouth, you little turd!”

Shauna screamed, “Help me! Help!” If Banjo wasn’t able to hear her because he was too doped up, she had to hope that someone, somewhere would hear her screams.

“Shut that bitch up!” the woman yelled.

“Ain’t nobody gonna hear. Nobody gonna. Too far—too far in the middle of nooowheres!” Banjo sang.

“Stop with your ’effin singing and just do it already!”

“You leave me alone!” Banjo said, his voice suddenly clear and his words sharp. “You understand? Leave me
alone!
”

“Screw you, you sonofabitchin’ half-breed. You wanna dick around with me? Fine, then consider your turn lost,
asshole. Get the hell away from her. He’ll take his turn
and
yours, too.”

He? Someone else besides Banjo and the woman?

Shauna prayed for a miracle. If Banjo was that clear-headed now, maybe she could get through to him. Maybe he would hear her and realize what he was doing and who he was trying to do it to.

“Banjo, it’s Shauna! Don’t—help me get out of here!”

A dirty, oily smelling rag was suddenly shoved into her mouth. Shauna gagged against it. She shook her head frantically and pushed her tongue against the rag, trying to force it out of her mouth.

It was shoved in farther.

“I said back off her. You lost your turn!”

“And I said leave me the hell alone, bitch! It’s about damned time somebody started giving
you
orders, Kara Matiste!”

“What the hell is wrong with you? You just said my name! She’s not deaf, you dumb shit!”

“Whoa ho ho—scare now, are you?” Banjo’s piercing laughter was the one thing that didn’t change. His voice and words may have found a balanced cadence, but
not
the laughter. The change in Banjo’s diction reminded her of how Gris Gris had gone from his usual snooty repertoire to “home talk” in a matter of minutes.

And Kara—alpha of the West Bank—one of her weres had been a murder victim. Why was she here? How did she tie in to Banjo? And why was she encouraging him to do the unthinkable?

“You are going to do what I say, when I say it!” Kara yelled at Banjo.

Banjo pressed his body firmly against Shauna’s naked thighs, then began to hump them, the way he had dry-humped the stage in the strip club.

“Who’s got the power now, Missy Pissy Kara?” Banjo said. “You’re the one who’s the goddamn idiot. The biggest mistake you made was giving me a sample of that mojo. See what it did? Who’s in control now? Guess who’s got all the power now? Oh, and looky, looky who’s gonna get some of this sweet, sweet stuff.” Banjo wriggled against Shauna, and she feared she would vomit and wind up smothering in it.

“If you don’t shut the hell up, I swear I will take a tire iron and shove it clear up your ass, all the way up to your ugly, pointed head,” Kara screamed.

“Yeah? Then whatchu gonna do? Who ya gonna get to lure your little weres to a special place so that fat freak over there can do his hoodoo? Who ya gonna get to bait ’em, if I ain’t around, huh? Ain’t nobody else gonna do your dirty work for a little Lacodah and a piece of ass. They gonna want cold cash, baby. Something you and that fat snake freak ain’t never gonna wanna part with. Noo, you gotta save up that blood money for new digs, like you had when old Carl was around, ain’t that right? Tell me, whatchu gonna do, Kara Matiste, when everybody finds out you two been killin’ off weres? How you gonna explain that, Miss Badass? Killin’ ’em off for the power trip, ’cause only the strong survive, right? Power, man—it’s the power trip rush. It’s the money rush. You
stuck in it, tangled all up in its web. You’re one sick bitch.”

A monstrous growl echoed through the building.

“You’d better get your head out of your ass and remember who’s still in charge of this operation,” Kara said.

Shauna couldn’t believe what she was hearing. If what Banjo was saying was true, Kara had genocide planned for her own species! And all for money? How was it possible for anyone to do such a horrible thing to their own kind?

Banjo began to sing a crippling tune…“Money-money-money, yeah! You don’t have me to use as bait, and you not gonna be rolling in the dough no more, baby. Stashin’ all that blood cash away.” Banjo tsked. “Uh-uh, no more, no more Lacodah to sell, not without old Banjo.”

Another growl, this one so loud and menacing it hurt Shauna’s ears and seemed to make the building vibrate. Then she heard a loud
thump,
then…silence.

And then came the horrid, twittering laugher—that wretched shriek of a laugh told her that Banjo was about to take possession of his final payment for being such a good and helpful boy.

Shauna tried to scream, but the rag muffled it to a mumble. She shoved her tongue against the nasty piece of cloth again and again, but was only able to move it a fraction of an inch. She had to stop him somehow. Call out his name again—hope he’d hear her, really hear her. Her brain had trouble processing all that was going on. This was the same guy who came into the shop regularly, the
one Fiona fed, and now he was trying to rape her? How could he allow himself to do this? Why? What made his jitter talk change? Did he have a split personality? Was it that Lacodah? Or was it the same quirky, unknown thing that made Banjo so different from every other vamp?

It was evident by Banjo’s frantic movements, that he wasn’t up for hearing another word from anyone. He was in another world, and right now he was working his way toward the next one. The one right between Shauna’s legs. Her tears refused to be held back any longer. They streamed down her cheeks, made her nose clog up.