Viper Moon (7 page)

The police do patrol River Street leading to the docks, but none venture deeper unless they are exceptionally well armed or exceptionally crazy. They fear the Bastinados, though, not the true danger that lies there. Some Barrows businesses with their own security force are safe enough and popular—like the Archangel. It’s in a bad section of town, but the Archangel has first-rate guards, unobtrusive but well trained and well armed. A tacky, out-of-place neon sign on the building’s facade spells out the name, along with a flashing representation of an angel, wings flapping with an erratic electric rhythm. Interesting name since it’s an exercise studio and health food restaurant. Mercedes, BMWs, Jags, and other high-end cars fill the parking lot, watched over by vigilant guards.

The uptown young professional crowd keeps their bodies in shape at places like the Archangel, because most of them sit on their asses all day and make money. They have to have lots of money to join the exclusive club of the Archangel.

I cruised the parking lot until I spotted someone pulling out. Of course, others were doing the same thing, and I had to face off with a Mercedes. I gunned the engine on my POS, which sounded particularly powerful thanks to a hole in the muffler. The Mercedes backed down. I guess he figured from the looks of my car I didn’t give a shit and would happily ram him and scratch his shiny paint job. Then I’d hire a lawyer and sue him. I smiled and waved as I climbed out of the car.

At times, people come to the Archangel in such throngs that they have to keep nightclub-style bouncers, discreetly referred to as attendants, to manage the line at the door. Tonight was one of those times. I ignored the glares of those in line as I entered. The attendants always let me in because Mr. Michael has given them strict orders.

Handsome, rich Michael owns the Archangel, and he has a thing for me. I’ve never figured that one out. He’s the star, the golden boy, the one the ritzy crowd comes to see—and worship. While I like him a lot, I have some standards. I’m one of the Earth Mother’s children. Michael is different. He belongs to the Barrows, and I’m not quite sure he’s entirely human.

The Archangel occupied a renovated brick warehouse, filled with all those machines, wires, pulleys, and weights that I’m sure belonged in a torture chamber in another life. Yoga and aerobics classes had their own special floor cut out and a health food restaurant stretched across the back wall. The modern decor featured light oak wood and brown carpet, with splashes of bright green plants in pretty pots. Lively music and laughter filled the air, covering the incessant whir and clank of machines. It was all a little too neat, clean, and contemporary for me, but my opinion doesn’t count for much because I’m a slob.

The Archangel’s small restaurant sat on a low balcony overlooking the area where people were twisting their bodies in rather peculiar positions. Michael tells me yoga is great. He regularly offers me private lessons, which I regularly decline. The restaurant has good tea, but the food menu consists of various mixes of grassy stuff and grains we let the cows eat back at the farm. The place even smelled like a pasture.

In a few minutes, as usual, one of the Archangel’s staff approached me. I recognized him as an employee by his lean, muscular physique, handsome face, and the little angel embroidered on his T-shirt.

“Mr. Michael would like you to join him upstairs,” he said. His fake smile reminded me of a doll with a painted face. I followed the staff member’s tight, shorts-clad butt up the stairs and into the elegant office with large one-way glass windows looking over the exercise area.

The office was a copy of the rooms below, clean modern lines broken only by a few potted plants and trees. The desk had a glass top and a cordless phone—period. No paper, no pens; only a spare mesh office chair, perfectly positioned, defined a possible work space. The room did contain a small bar with stools and a saffron leather couch stretched along one wall.

I went inside and the attendant closed the door behind me—reluctantly. He kept his adoring gaze on Michael as long as he could.

Beautiful, perfect Michael.

White blond hair flowed like liquid pearl across his shoulders and framed his flawless, symmetrical face. A tall man, built like a classical Greek statue, he wore a silk shirt that clung to his golden-skinned body. A body that made me clench my fists to resist the urge to run my hands over it. A godlike body.

I’d decided that Michael could not be completely human because of the way he manipulates people, the way he draws them. It’s not just the looks. His voice, his gestures, his very presence demand adoration and worship. I realize that some movie and rock stars are adored, but when you meet them in person, it fades. Not so with Michael. He remains angelic and compelling in person.

Since I spent so much time in the Barrows, it was inevitable that I’d meet Michael. Five years ago, I’d found one of my runaways working in his kitchen. We’d had a small altercation. I beat the shit out of one of his bouncers. When Michael objected, I took him down, too. I surprised him. I wouldn’t be able to do it again. Another reason for doubting Michael’s humanity? He’s superstrong. Stronger than me, even with the enhancement from the Mother.

Michael had sworn he didn’t know the girl was a runaway, and very effectively persuaded her to go home. He invited me for a drink and I accepted. We talked. I told him I was a private detective—I still had my license then—and I found lost children. He seemed vaguely interested, but when he pushed me about why I was so strong, I left. Since then, I’d drop by occasionally and show him pictures of runaways; some of my biggest clues came from his staff. He has a fearsome reputation on the streets. People get nervous when they talk about him—but they won’t tell me why.

I’m not exactly sure when he became obsessed with seducing me. Or why. I figured it was a challenge because I was partially immune to his powerful charisma. I don’t know why I was immune, but he grabbed me and kissed me one night. I responded to his kiss for a moment, then shoved him away. Nobody grabs me like that. He immediately apologized. Since then, I’ve kept my distance.

Michael gazed at me with glacial blue eyes. He smiled and I broke into a sweat.

“The Huntress stalks her prey,” he said. “She hasn’t come to enjoy my company.” He spoke in a smooth, lyrical tone that made women and some men lean forward, desperate to hear more.

I edged away from him. “I have an idea where enjoying your company might lead.” My body reacted as it always did in his presence. It was purely physical. My skin tingled as desire rose. My body didn’t care that he might not be human.

“Would that be so bad?” Michael moved closer. Too close.

“No. Not bad. That’s the problem. And we’ve been through this before.”

“Indeed we have.” He brushed a finger over my cheek, a caress soft as a sparrow’s wing. “Who hurt you?”

His powerful body emanated possession. He would avenge any wrong against me.
He has no right to that. I belong to no man.
I didn’t answer his question.

“Tell me about the Goblin Den, Michael.”

“The Goblin Den is a dangerous place for you, Huntress.”

“The Barrows is a dangerous place for me, Michael.”

He still spoke softly, but I caught an edge of caution. Was I actually beginning to know him that well? Well enough to hear nuances in his voice? I drew the pictures of Selene and Richard out of my jacket pocket and offered them to him. “I have a thread leading to the Den.”

“You will not find these children at the Den. I will, however, inquire for you. I’ll keep the photos and pass them around.”

It was as much as I expected. “I don’t have that much time. I have to go. The Den is my only lead.”

“Then I’ll take you there.”

I stood silent, surprised, a rare thing for me.

Michael picked up the phone and ordered someone to bring his car to the front. He suddenly turned to me and, in a single swift motion, snatched me off my feet, removed my gun, and tossed it aside. Then he had me on the floor, on the soft carpet, my body pinned tight.

I stared into his face. His eyes burned with bright, savage intensity and he drew deep breaths like a man going into a life-or-death struggle. He crushed his mouth to mine and sent shock waves of desire racing through my body. My fingers locked in his silky hair. Great Mother, what would it feel like brushed across my bare skin? He released my mouth, but his hands caressed my breasts and I trembled under his touch. I spread my legs and felt him hard against me. Great Mother. I wanted . . . but I would not. I twisted under Michael. “Let me go!”

Michael instantly released me.

He rolled over and lay beside me, with one arm draped across my waist. “Why not?”

“You’re addictive.” The words came out harder than I’d intended. “You’re like a drug. Smooth as silk. If I get a taste, I’ll only want more . . . and more. I won’t let anything, or anyone, own me like that.”

I truly feared that kind of relationship. My deepest fear and the thing of nightmares: I refused to be overwhelmed by anyone. I’d seen men and women give up their souls to keep another with them. I’d seen men and women use love as a weapon to bend their partners to their selfish will. Surely Michael would tire of me eventually. Then what would I do?

Michael rolled away from me. He was on his feet in a single graceful movement. He offered me his hand. I refused to touch him. I hoisted myself to my feet with the grace and elegance of a giraffe. He watched silently as I straightened my clothes, then found and holstered my gun.

Michael came close, but the sexual tension was missing. No, not missing. Only buried deep inside him, along with other desires I didn’t want to know. He grasped my shoulders in gentle fingers. “What can I do to make you want me?” His voice brushed me like fine fur and I swallowed hard, desperate not to give in.

“Why do you want me?”

“Because you are brave and beautiful. I have watched you. You defy evil with courage and—”

“Stop it.” That was too much. It was not an answer. “You are desirable. I am not totally immune. If you’ve watched me, you know I do things in my own way at my own time.”

His hands slid down my arms, caught my wrists, and lifted my hands to his lips. I balled them into fists. He brushed a soft kiss on each one. “No, you are not one to give in to the shallow commitment of physical desire, Huntress. I’ll be patient.”

I pulled my hands from his. He could be as patient as he wanted. Michael, the Archangel, had something wild in him. He had secrets. Instinct told me his secrets could kill me. Once I finished this assignment, I’d never place myself in such a precarious position with him again.

A line had formed at the front door while I was upstairs wrestling with Michael. His admirers exhaled a few gasps and a collective sigh when he appeared. He recognized them with a regal, impersonal smile. After that, he ignored them. They paid lots of money, hoping to get a glimpse of the man. Exercise was the consolation prize if he didn’t bless them with his presence.

A delicate silver-painted angel shimmered on the midnight hood of Michael’s Jaguar. One of the bouncers opened the passenger door for me, and I slipped into a slate-colored leather seat so comfortable I’d fall asleep if I closed my eyes. It had a showroom kind of new-car smell. The Jag’s engine barely made a sound when Michael climbed in and touched a keypad on the dash.

Euphoric confidence overwhelmed me and I stretched out to enjoy the rare freedom of power and money. The windows silently glided down. Some prefer not to use the AC. I do if it’s available, but this was his car, his choice.

The light breeze coming through the windows fanned Michael’s silky white blond hair. When a few strands drifted across his face, I laid my hands on my thighs and squeezed tight to crush the urge to reach over and brush them away. His heavy, magnetic presence still tugged at me, and if I touched him, he might draw me in again.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked. “The only help you’ve ever offered before was a few names and addresses. Good information, but some of those places were probably as dangerous as the Goblin Den.”

“It amuses me to help you. What else would I do on this fine evening?”

“May I ask you a personal question?” Sitting in luxury, my confidence level soared.

“Please, be as personal as you like.” Laughter sparkled in his musical voice.

“Are you human?”

Michael’s eyes widened and he seemed locked in an astonished silence. I’d never asked him that before. Much as I feared his domination, I did like him and genuinely wanted to know. His stillness broke as he laughed softly. “What makes you believe I’m not?”

“Nothing I can define, but I bet you know what I mean.”

“I belong to the Barrows, Cassandra. It makes me different, not necessarily a monster.” A bit of anger threaded its way through his voice like a needle stitching cloth. “I’ll show you something. Maybe you can find an answer to your question.”

I hadn’t called him a monster, but obviously he thought I had. I desperately wished I hadn’t said anything at all. The more interaction I had with him, the more he would draw me into his life.

Michael didn’t drive fast. The Goblin Den sits near the river, so we stayed on River Street. Since the roadway leads to the docks, the city of Duivel keeps it in good condition. All semblance of other civic responsibility ends on the sidewalks. This far south, the few operating storefronts have steel bars on windows and doors, and after dark, when decent folk leave, the street slips into anarchy. Prostitutes, male and female, stood on the street corners outside the bars, some of them so young they made my heart ache. They watched the Jag with hungry eyes and hunched their shoulders as if they knew deep in their hearts such precious possessions would never be theirs.

The falling moon had disappeared behind river fog that dropped low like the roof of a somber cave. Where taller lights fought it back, the hanging vapor stirred to a sluggish, poisonous-looking brown.