Viper Moon (2 page)

What in the Earth Mother’s name had been in there?

When the fury abated a bit, I forced myself to my feet and headed for the car. Was the pavement moving or was it me staggering?

The sound of the explosion still hammered my eardrums. I opened the back door, peeled away the straps and protective covering holding the boy secure against my body. I laid him across the backseat. He didn’t seem injured, and he still slept from the sedative I’d given him to keep him calm.

It wasn’t until I climbed in the driver’s seat and fumbled for my key that I noticed the blood—my blood—too much blood. Slick wet crimson streaked down the side of my face and soaked half my shirt. Shards of glass protruded like rough diamonds from my forearm’s blistered skin. It didn’t hurt—yet. Pain would come soon enough.

I turned the key in the ignition. Nothing happened.

Another deeper blast rumbled under the street, shaking the car.

Sirens sounded in the distance, police, fire trucks, ambulances, rushing to the scene. They rarely entered the Barrows, but the magnitude of the blast I’d lived through couldn’t be ignored.

I turned the key again. And again.

Last month I’d had to make a choice. Fix the car’s starter or buy special hand-loaded bronze bullets. I’d chosen bullets.

The fourth time I twisted the key, the engine jerked to life. It sputtered twice, then smoothed. I popped it into gear and rolled forward, away from the fiery beast still raging behind.

Symptoms of shock crept in and pain found me. It rose by increments, increasing in intensity with every passing moment. My heart raced at a frantic pace and my arms shook so I could barely hold the wheel. Sweat formed an icy second skin as my body temperature took a nosedive. Sweet Mother, it hurt. The street blurred and shifted in my vision. Worse, though, was the feeling of pursuit. My little car chased through the deserted streets by some invisible, unimaginable horror. With considerable will, I kept my foot from mashing down the gas pedal.

Clouds drifted away from the cold, exquisite full moon. “Follow,” a soft voice whispered and urged me on. The white orb in the sky suddenly filled the windshield, rising to a brilliant mass of pure, clear light. I drove toward the radiance, navigating well-known streets as if dreaming of driving. North, keep moving north. A stop sign? Okay. Don’t run that red light. If a cop stopped me, they’d call an ambulance, take me to the hospital, and I’d die. I was already beyond the skill of modern medicine’s healing.

The child in the backseat moaned, as if in a nightmare. I had to stay conscious long enough to get him to safety. I wouldn’t go down for nothing.

The guiding brilliance faded as I reached my destination. Control of the automobile eluded me, however, and the mailbox loomed. Before I could hit the brakes, I’d rolled over the box and the small sign that marked the home and business of Madam Abigail. The sign offered psychic readings, but gave not a hint of the true power and grace of the woman who dwelled and worked there.

I plowed through the flowered yard. Abby was going to be seriously pissed at me. Two feet from the front porch, the car jerked to a halt. Abby would find me. Abby would care for me as she always had. Luminous moonlight filled the night again, then faded, leaving only sweetsmelling flowers that lured me into painless darkness.

 

The pounding wouldn’t go away and I figured someone was beating on the apartment door and not my head. It couldn’t be the landlord because I was only a week late with the rent. The soulless bastard knew me by now and usually didn’t start harassing me until the third week. The utility company didn’t pound; they flipped a switch downtown, like the cell phone people had three days earlier.

The air conditioner in the window hummed constantly, fighting to keep up with record heat washing in abundant thermal waves against the glass, even at the disagreeable hour of eight in the morning.

“Come on, I know you’re there!” a male voice shouted through the door.

Now what?

I climbed out of bed, staggered to the door, then stopped. My long mustard yellow T-shirt had DOES THIS SHIRT MAKE MY TITS LOOK TOO BIG? printed across the front. Of course, it would take a lot more than a T-shirt to make
my
tits look too big. It smelled like a two-hour workout, but it covered my panties. I didn’t plan to let the door basher in anyway.

He pounded harder and I winced. Each thud bounced around my skull and set my constricted blood vessels screaming.

Hell of a party last night. I’d gone out to celebrate my recovery from the injuries sustained at the last full moon. When did I get home?
How
did I get home? Something about my car . . . Damn.

I stuck my eye to the peephole, but all I could see was a warped, unrecognizable face.

“Who is it?” I shouted.

“Detective Flynn. Duivel Police. Open up.”

Police? Did I do something really awful last night?

“Show me your badge.”

He held what looked like a badge up to the hole. He’d made enough noise that all my neighbors were probably peeking out their doors to see if the cops were hauling me away in handcuffs—again. Living vicariously through my troubles brightened their ordinary lives.

I opened the door a few inches. Whoa! This was a nice one. He appeared around thirty, maybe a little older. His jet-black hair gently curled around his ears and he needed a shave, but he still looked yummy. He wore a rumpled jacket, a T-shirt, and blue jeans that fit a fine, strong body. Detective Flynn. Too bad he was a cop. I kept one hand on the door, but I doubted I could close it fast enough if he wanted to force his way through. “What do you want?”

“I want to come in.”

“And I should let you because . . . ?”

“Because I’m a nice person. I had your piece of shit car towed off the sidewalk in front of Zeke’s Deli this morning. It’s downstairs. It could be at the impound lot.”

Zeke’s Deli was three blocks down the street. Funny, he didn’t look nice. Sexy as hell—but not nice.

I opened the door wider and he stalked into the single room that made up my kitchen, living, and dining area. He stared around the apartment like a health inspector surveying a roach motel. Then he stared at me the same way. “You look like shit.”

“Thank you. Glad you noticed. Hello. I’m Cassandra Archer and I’m delighted to meet you, too, Detective Flynn.”

I went to the fridge, grabbed the bag of coffee, and tossed it on the counter beside the coffeepot and pack of filters. “Make some coffee. Did you bring donuts?”

“Fuck!”

Oh, my goodness. I must have pissed him off. I gave him what I hoped was an evil smile. “I’ll take that as a no. I’m going to shower. If you’re not here when I get back, I’ll understand.”

I headed for the bedroom. I really didn’t want him to arrest me in a T-shirt and underwear. Arrest wasn’t what he had in mind, though, or he’d have locked the cuffs on me as soon as he stepped in the door. He muttered something unintelligible behind me.

I went into the tiny, windowless bathroom with its depressing, anemic, industrial gray tile and turned on the shower. Five minutes later, a thin stream of warm water made its way up from the basement. I stripped off my shirt and panties, climbed in, and washed the lumps out of my hair. A couple of twigs, some leaves, and a few pieces of—That smell . . . was there a dog at the party? I washed my hair again, this time with a bar of citrusscented soap my mother had sent me.

The situation was a first for me. I’d had only two beers last night—I think. I’d
never
been so drunk that I couldn’t remember what I did. Now I’d lost everything past nine p.m. Entirely my fault, though. I hadn’t followed orders.

Dear Madam Abigail said no beer for at least a month. The medicine, the foul-tasting potions and slimy oils that magically brought relief to my seriously burned skin did not peacefully coexist with even minute amounts of alcohol.

My laundry basket produced a reasonably clean pair of jeans and I found a tank top and panties in the drawer. My body is lean, muscular, and athletic. A few freckles dot my nose and cheeks, and my eyes are a dull brownish green, not the emerald so prized in redheads. I have great hair. I dried and brushed it to a copper sheen.

Now to see what the sexy yet abrasive Detective Flynn wanted.

Flynn sat at the table drinking coffee. My ancient appliance gurgled and gasped through its long cycle, but made a great brew. The nutty odor filling the room made my mouth water.

He’d removed the jacket that covered his gun and the badge he’d clipped to his belt, and hung it on the back of the chair. Not that it mattered. He could wear a tux but savvy people watchers would mark him as a cop by the way he moved. Tough, confident, ready to face whatever came his way.

I poured myself a cup and sat at the table across from him. He didn’t smile. Intense weariness settled in eyes as dark and deep as the liquid in the cups. How long since he’d slept?

Flynn reached in the pocket of his jacket and tossed a picture, a four-by-six snapshot, on the table. He watched me with narrowed eyes. His grim mouth betrayed nothing.

I glanced at the photo of a little boy. Five years old, brown hair, wide innocent eyes, with his mouth turned up in a gap-toothed smile.

I shrugged. “Maxie Fountain. Picture in the
Duivel Chronicle
, maybe a month ago. Kidnapped. Snatched off his bicycle.”

He produced another photo.

I picked it up. “Abandoned store. Exeter Street, near the docks. Blew up and burned, oh, two weeks ago. Bastinados stashed arms and ammo. Or so the
Chronicle
said.”

The Bastinado gangs—the Exeter Street Slashers, Pythons, Blood Beasts, Butcher Boys, and Slum Devils—had recently found a source of heavy weaponry, something that greatly concerned me, given my last spectacular encounter. It probably unsettled cops like Flynn, too. I laid the picture down on the table. It reminded me of the pain I’d endured because of that blast.

Bitter frustration echoed in Flynn’s voice. “That building blew, and the next morning Maxie Fountain was back in Mommy’s loving arms.”

“Good.” I grinned at him, but wondered if—and how—he’d made a connection between me and the boy. “Happy ending.”

Flynn scooped the photos up and stuck them back in his jacket. “When
we
couldn’t find Maxie, Maxie’s mother started seeing psychics.”

I stayed calm, sipped my coffee, and let caffeine race through my nervous system, hot on the trail of any lingering alcohol residue.

“So what do you want?” I asked.

“I want you to tell me what happened. Tell me about Maxie.”

“Why don’t you ask his mother? Or Maxie.”

“Mom says she found him on the doorstep, wrapped in a blanket, sound asleep. All Maxie remembers is falling off his bike.” Flynn leaned back in his chair and studied me. “The last psychic Maxie’s mother saw was
your
good friend Madam Abigail.”

“Kidnappers are usually runaway parents or perverts, not psychics. Why were you watching the mother?”

“Because parents are always the first suspects. Maxie’s mother is a hotel maid. The day he came home, she went to the bank and withdrew all her savings. A total of three thousand nine hundred and twelve dollars. She went straight to Madam Abigail, stayed ten minutes, then went back to the bank and redeposited all but four hundred dollars.”

Of course she did. Poor woman had suffered enough without me and Abby taking her last dime.

He stood, went to the coffeepot, and poured himself another cup. He held the pot out for me, but I shook my head. He returned to his chair.

“And what did Madam Abigail say?”

“Not a damned thing. In fact, we sent two detectives to talk to her. They don’t remember anything after going inside her house.”

Many people sensed Abby’s strength, and while they couldn’t define its source, they walked a wide path around her. Abby’s loving care and magic medicines had saved me many times before my most recent injury.

I sighed. “Are you going to believe me if I say I don’t know anything?”

“No.” Flynn stared at me with those dark, searching eyes, as if his unwavering resolve alone would draw a confession of evil acts from me. Criminals, beware!

He laid another photo on the table, this one of an adolescent girl.

“This is my sister, Selene.”

Okay, now I knew why he’d come.

“How old is she?” The girl had Flynn’s dark hair and eyes.

“Thirteen next month.”

“Runaway?” Experience taught me the most likely scenario.

“Some of her clothes were gone. She left a note. It’s not her handwriting, though.” He handed me a piece of paper, a photocopy of a handwritten note. It said she was grown up enough to make her own decisions and she wanted a different life. A twelve-year-old preteen didn’t write those words. I’d read many genuine farewell notes. Desperate parents searching for a child would shove them in my face, begging me to tell them what I couldn’t. Was their child safe? What did they do wrong? The young authors usually spilled out their souls in cries for help or howls of rage.

“How long has she been gone?” I asked.

“Three weeks.” He spoke with the uncompromising voice of a man holding his emotions under strict control. He believed she was dead. “She went to the mall and didn’t come home. Someone stole the security videos before we got them.”

“You filed a report?”

Flynn nodded. “She’s one of ours. Half the force is working on the case.”

“So why come to me?” I knew the answer to the question, but wanted to know what he knew. I had a reputation for finding kids, usually runaways. That I sometimes used methods beyond the law was supposed to be a secret.

“I’m told you’re the person who finds kids lost in the Barrows. I went to the Barrows. I heard wild stories, most pure bullshit. Crazy even. But they have one common thread. You. And the kids.”