A Taste of Love and Evil Page 4

  “I have no idea.” Jack lay down and covered his face again. A moment later he raised the pillow. “How many times have you run away from home?”

  “Lately?” Juma countered. “Or in my whole life?”

  Jack made an exasperated noise in his throat.

  “That sounds rough,” Rose said. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Of course she wants to talk about it,” scoffed Jack. “That’s hardly the point.”

  “Of course it’s the point. If we know what’s going on, maybe we can help.”

  “We already know what’s going on. She runs away, she gets hauled back home. She runs away again, she gets hauled back, ad infinitum. It has to stop.”

  Despair slammed into Juma. “No! I won’t go back! You can’t make me stay there forever!” She grabbed at Rose, tears flying. “Pull over, pull over now. Let me go!”

  “For God’s sake, Jack!” The van swerved and Rose pumped the brakes, straightening the wheel with one hand while the other, warm and kind, took hold of Juma’s. “Sweetie, I won’t let you be taken back. Any way, I don’t think that’s what he meant.” When Jack said nothing, she added, “If you do the same thing over and over and it doesn’t work, it’s time to try something different.”

  Jack was silent.

  “Right?” Rose let Juma go with a gentle pat.

  “More or less,” Jack said as if the words were squeezed out. “If you don’t confront a problem head-on, it keeps coming back.”

  “But how?” Agonized longing jostled Juma’s misery aside. “My grandma never listens, and nobody believes me.”

  “We’ll make her listen,” Rose said. “We won’t give her a choice.”

  “But she’s got Stevie. And Stevie has muscles and guns and friends like Biff. We can’t fight the whole Bayou Gavotte underworld.”

  “Maybe you can’t,” Jack said, “but I can.”

  Chapter Three

  “But it won’t come to that,” he added. The words were out before Jack realized he felt compelled to explain himself, to excuse himself for sounding like a posturing ass. Lucky he’d sworn off vamps, because judging by the glance Rose exchanged with Juma, he’d totally blown his chance with this one.

  Not that he wanted a chance.

  And if some part of him did, it only went to show that after all these months, he hadn’t learned a thing. So what if a minute earlier she’d understood exactly what he meant? Rose was intelligent, but so was Titania, in her twisted way.

  He sat up. “I’m bringing some infractions at the Threshold to their attention. I’ll add your experience with Stevie to the list.”

  “What are you?” Rose demanded. “Some sort of spy?”

  What? “No.” Not really. “But I’ve been checking out the clubs, and the Threshold is doing some dangerous rule bending. It would be irresponsible not to let the underworld know.”

  “They might not like that,” Rose said. “Mobsters don’t take kindly to criticism.”

  They’re not mob—

  He caught the tilt of her lips just in time, sharing, in spite of himself, the humor in her eyes in the rearview mirror. She had lovely bright eyes when she wasn’t enraged.

  He shook off the attraction and turned to Juma. “I’ll help you on one condition. You only get one chance. Do as I say, and I’ll present your case and ensure your safety. Lie, disobey me, or run away, and I’ll wash my hands of you.” He gave her a look. “Understand?”

  “One chance?” Rose’s voice was incredulous. “That’s all?”

  “Only one. Those are my rules. Juma?”

  “Sure,” Juma said, so insincerely he had to stifle a laugh. “Whatever you say.”

  Jack put the pillow over his head for the third time. Next he’d have to worm the girl’s history out of her, but for now he needed to get his throbbing arm into a comfortable position and his brain around what really mattered.

  Fact 1: Chicago. In spite of her Montana plates, Rose had come from Chicago. Not in a little Toyota as expected, but in a funky yellow van. Fact 2: She knew about the Bayou Gavotte clubs, notably Blood and Velvet, which was owned by Violet Dupree. Fact 3: With Mardi Gras less than a month away, Violet Dupree would need an elaborate costume, and Rose was transporting just such a gown.

  Then there was the question of last night’s hotel. A lone woman, attractive and in her midtwenties, should have been easy to pick out. Even at capacity, such a small hotel wouldn’t have many guests. And there won’t be much chance of escape when my thugs come, Violet might have added.

  Except Violet really had no reason to kill him. She was self-centered, manipulative, and temperamental—a typical vamp—but when Jack had approached her almost a year ago, returning the earrings he’d stolen from her car, explaining that Titania had tricked him into believing she owned the purple sports car and had lost her keys, she had been amused. You win some, you lose some, she had said. I win more often than Titania, of course. Sympathetic, even: Don’t get maudlin about it, darling. Even if you did think it was Titania’s car—I’m not saying I believe you, though—you couldn’t control yourself. She’s a vamp.

  He’d held on to his temper. He wasn’t a thief, and he damn well could control himself, and would in future. She’d dismissed him with a vague promise to take him up on his offer to make up for it. Yesterday’s call had been a surprise and a relief.

  God, he hated owing anyone.

  He’d been stupid to call and tell her he’d wait till morning. He’d made himself a sitting duck.

  Quack, said a snarky voice in his head that sounded like his partner Gil in Bayou Gavotte. You shouldn’t have taken the job. You have better things to do.

  I owed her, damn it. What choice did I have?

  There’s always a choice. That sounded like himself, lecturing one of the women he rescued. And where did the wrong choice lead you?

  You were outed by a vamp.

  If only she hadn’t seen the chameleon thing. Bad luck, pure and simple.

  Not quite. If he’d been more vigilant, if he’d had better control over his camouflage, if he hadn’t blindly trusted Rose instead of picking a better place to go to earth…

  Up in the front of the van Rose was playing mother hen, putting on stately, soothing baroque music and telling Juma to get some sleep. Complimenting her on the ridiculous man’s suit jacket and two ties she had decked herself out in. Not vamplike behavior, but Rose sure as hell wasn’t trying to impress him. A bizarre notion occurred: perhaps she was, quite simply, being kind. He shifted his arm again and closed his eyes.

  He fell asleep to Bach and woke to the Dave Matthews Band. Jack sat up. Dizzy.

  Shit.

  After a few moments his head cleared and he got his bearings. Another hour to Bayou Gavotte. He dug in his backpack for his cell and remembered it was broken. He’d rather not ask to use Rose’s; he intended to keep the balance of favors equal, or better yet, firmly weighing on his side. But he needed to get word to Gil, and not just about the shooting. If Jack stayed out of touch too long, his mother would start worrying and call his father, and his father would try to drag him into even more schmoozing for conventional charities than he was already stuck with.

  He eased to the middle of the bench seat and watched Rose through half-closed eyes. Should he spell it out clear and simple? You keep your mouth shut and so will I. So far she hadn’t blabbed, but vamps were known for their terrible tempers. An ultimatum would amount to lighting the fuse on a bomb. Better to say nothing at all for now.

  In his calmest, most detached voice he said, “Take the next exit, if you don’t mind.”

  Rose switched off the music. “Sure, I could use a pit stop.”

  “I was thinking a late breakfast at the truck stop. It’s on me.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Rose said.

  “It would be my pleasure,” Jack said, with the exact degree of politeness he used toward guests at charity dinners.

  Rose responded with the slightest hunching of
the shoulder, as if she were distancing herself from his insincerity. For which he should be thankful. He tried reminding himself that she was a blood-sucking time bomb, but instead he felt almost ashamed. They pulled into the parking lot of the truck stop, and Juma opened her eyes and stretched.

  “Park around the side where it’s less noticeable,” he said. “Facing out, in case we need to leave in a hurry.” He hoped it was an unnecessary precaution: no one knew he was with Rose, and Stevie’s SUV needed new belts and cables before he could pursue Juma.

  Jack caught Rose wrinkling her nose at the smell of stale cooking oil as they entered the cramped restaurant. Cindy, the rescue he’d brought here six months earlier, hadn’t loved the place much, either. Neither had Jack when he’d bought it a few years before, but it was small and relatively clean, with showers for both sexes, racks of cheap T-shirts and videos, and heaps of Mexican blankets. Three of his rescues had successfully started new lives here. Cindy hadn’t waitressed since college, but she’d taken the job without blinking an eye. Gratitude was the worst part of every rescue gig. Embarrassing, unwarranted, unneeded.

  And unavoidable. Bracing himself, he led the way to a secluded corner booth with a view of the front door. Juma and Rose had hardly slid onto the bench when from the kitchen door Cindy cried, “Miracle Man!” and tossed herself in his direction. He caught her thin form—fuller and cur-vier than a few months ago—in his good arm and gave her a smacking kiss on the cheek. “You’ve filled out. Looking good.”

  “Feeling good, too!”

  Before she could start gushing, he gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “We’re in a hurry.” He introduced Juma and Rose.

  Juma waggled her fingers, and Rose said cheerfully, “Happy to meet a friend of Jack’s.” She sounded so sincere he wanted to…believe her. Damn.

  “I don’t have any money for breakfast,” Juma said.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Rose said just as Jack repeated, “Breakfast’s on me.”

  “See?” Rose spread her hands. “You can eat twice if you want.”

  Cindy laughed and gave them menus, and Juma grinned. “Thanks, I will! I’m starved.”

  “Better order both meals now.” Jack’s smile was so phony his cheeks hurt. No way was Rose paying a cent. He continued smoothly, “The guys with the guns are still out there somewhere. Juma, do you have anyone to stay with in Bayou Gavotte?”

  “I have friends at the university, but Stevie knows them, so he’ll find me again. I could have sworn no one knew where I was in Baton Rouge, but he found me right away.”

  “I’ll find someplace safe for you.” Yet another reason to call Gil.

  When the women had ordered breakfast and headed together for the restroom, Jack waylaid Cindy. “I need a phone to make a private call. In the office won’t do.”

  “Sure.” Cindy fished in the pockets of her apron for her cell. “They’re rescues?”

  “The kid will be, if she doesn’t sabotage herself first.”

  “So who’s Rose? A girlfriend?”

  “Just an acquaintance,” Jack said repressively.

  “Maybe you should get better acquainted. She looks hot.” His expression must have betrayed him, for she laughed. “And nice, too. Go for it.”

  “Considering what you’ve been through, I’m surprised you’re recommending romance to me or anyone else.” He took the phone. “If Rose tries to pay, tell her it’s been taken care of.”

  “Oho! You do like her. Better snatch her up before someone else does. Did you see how many guys were eyeing her?”

  Shit.

  “She’s got that certain something,” Cindy added.

  It’s called fangs.

  “Take her away quick,” Cindy laughed, “or the truckers won’t look at me anymore.”

  “I’m not in the market for romance, and neither should you be.” And I won’t be able to help you if there’s a next time. He didn’t need to say it out loud; she already knew.

  “Just because I had bad luck, it doesn’t mean love isn’t out there waiting for whoever needs it.” Cindy rolled her eyes. “And no, I’m not gonna get serious about any of them. I’m enjoying being me way too much to risk messing up with another no-good man.”

  Out through the back door, Jack leaned against the cool concrete wall and punched in Gil’s number. “I’ve been trying you all morning,” his partner griped to the click of computer keys in the background. “Your mother left a message first thing. Two of the African charities called, and so did a literacy group. Where have you been?”

  “Running an errand.” A pigeon bobbed toward Jack, picking up this crumb and that, headed for the bonanza of half a hot-dog bun on the pavement next to his shoe. “Violet Du-pree called in that favor I owed her.”

  “You and your favors. Hey, you’re calling from Cindy’s number. Is she okay?”

  “She’s fine. My phone’s broken.” There was no way to sugarcoat today’s fiasco. “Somebody shot at me this morning and stole my Jeep.” Jack shifted, breaking into Gil’s exclamations, and the pigeon skittered a couple of yards to the right. “I’m fine. I’ve hitched a ride, and I’ll be back in a couple of hours. I’ll take care of the calls then. I need you to find somewhere for a sixteen-year-old girl to stay.”

  “What sixteen-year-old girl?”

  “A runaway named Juma, likely from Mississippi or Louisiana. See if you can ID her. She’s scrawny, olive-skinned white, five foot six, black hair—”

  “We don’t do runaways.”

  “We do when they were handcuffed to the steering wheel by their abductors.”

  Gil sighed. Understandably, some bad experiences with runaways had left him wary. “No choice, then.”

  “Try for a place in Bayou Gavotte, but if necessary I’ll bring her to New Orleans.” Jack repeated the physical description, and Gil resumed clicking on the keys. “Her grandmother owns a hairdresser’s shop. Some guy from her hometown named Stevie works at the Threshold, and he’s friendly with an underworld thug called Biff.”

  The keyboarding stopped dead. “What does this girl have to do with the underworld?”

  “Enough that I don’t want them to find out I’ve got her.”

  “Perfect,” Gil grumped. “I thought we came to Bayou Gavotte to get the underworld’s help. Not that I ever believed it would work. This town is full of weirdos.”

  “Which is why you and I fit right in,” Jack said, hoping he knew what he was talking about. He and Gil were anomalies, just as vamps were, as was the town’s local rocker, Constantine Dufray. For some unknown reason, Bayou Gavotte attracted people with strange abilities. Most of the inhabitants, though, were garden-variety screwups like everywhere else.

  “I’ll never fit in. I don’t like the feel of the place at all.”

  “You’ll get used to it.” A fat woman and a small boy went into the building. An eighteen-wheeler rolled ponderously out of the parking lot. Diesel fumes tickled Jack’s nose, and the pigeon headed for the hot-dog bun again. “I’ll approach the underworld when Constantine Dufray comes back from his tour, but first I have to know who’s pissed at me, and why.”

  “Isn’t it obvious? You rescued somebody they didn’t want rescued. Maybe somebody paid for her.” Jack felt his friend’s shudder through the phone lines. The occasional sale of some hapless virgin to the worst of the clubs was one of the issues Jack intended to bring to the underworld’s attention. “Maybe that somebody wants revenge.”

  “No, the rescue didn’t happen until after they shot me.”

  “Great, so they’re after you for two reasons now.”

  Jack held himself still and gray, nowhere near invisible but mostly unnoticeable against the bare wall, wondering if, with practice, he could blend his voice with the rumble of engines, with footsteps and toilets flushing and the opening and closing of doors. “If the underworld is what it’s cracked up to be, Stevie and Biff will be in big trouble, which gives me more of an edge when I contact Dufray.”

 
“What makes you think he’ll care about your rescues? He has a reputation for violence, he’s rumored to have driven people to suicide, and he probably poisoned his wife. Why would he even remember you? You knew him ages ago.”

  He’ll remember me.

  But he couldn’t explain that to Gil without revealing secrets that weren’t his own. “That’s why it’s useful to have an edge. I’ve been interfering in the clubs. It was warranted, but this girl’s problem helps tip the balance in my favor.”

  “What do your dumb balances matter?” Gil sighed again. “I’ll see what I can find.”

  The pigeon nipped a chunk from the bun. “Short-term will do. She’ll probably blow her chance within a day or two, but she’ll have served her purpose by then. In the meantime, see what you can find out.”

  “Wait! What if they’re planning to ambush you outside the shop?”

  Jack frowned down at the pigeon, which ripped its third hunk off the bun as another two pigeons muscled up to share. “Not in Bayou Gavotte. Unwanted people disappear; they don’t get shot on the street. The underworld wants to keep the tourists safe in Bayou Gavotte, not scare them away.” Even hours away in Mississippi, why pick such a public place to get rid of him?

  “Stay where you are,” Gil said. “Just till I get some information.”

  “My ride won’t wait.” Jack shifted his feet to counteract the urge to camo. The new pigeons scattered, but the old one stuck with the bun. “The underworld has no reason to connect me with my ride, or with the rescue for that matter.” Here we go again. “Yes, my ride has a phone. No, I don’t want to get her number for you. This is someone I can’t afford to owe.”

  “Don’t pull that ‘even Stephen’ crap,” Gil said. “It’s a phone number. Why does it matter?”

  Shit. But he wasn’t about to lie. “Because she’s a vampire.”

  Gil groaned. “Another one? Where do you find these women? Get over it. I have to be able to reach you if there’s an emergency. She can’t force you into bed.”

  Jack’s insides curled with uneasiness, drawing him toward the safety and comfort of total camouflage. He resisted, pacing along the wall past a bench and a trash can.