Demon Marked (25 page)

“I'm sorry. I really am.” She looked up, catching him gazing down at her. What she saw in his eyes made it even harder to breathe. He was still angry, but there was another emotion in those dark depths, something that looked like a word she was too afraid to think for fear of jinxing their future.

“I forgive you,” he said, the three words a promise she knew he would keep. They were in this together now, for better or for worse. Hopefully, they'd get around to the better part one of these days, after all the madness and mayhem.

“Thank you.” Emma dropped her head to Andre's shoulder.

“I should call Little Francis,” he said, “just so he doesn't get suspicious.”

“No, you shouldn't.” She lifted her head again. “It's better if he has no idea where we are or what we're up to. But we should call Ginger from one of the wall phones at the club. Maybe she'll answer if it's a Southie number.”

“After we take care of you,” Andre said, casting a concerned look down at her bare arm. “You're getting worse.”

“I don't feel as bad as I did last time.”
At least not yet.

The unspoken words hung in the air between them, making Andre pick up his pace as they eased into the alley behind Yang's, and Boudreaux's pink neon sign came into view.

T
here was a time and a place for strip clubs. That time was not eleven thirty in the morning, when he was stone-cold sober. That place was not some Southie dive where the girls swaying listlessly on the miniature stages looked like they were about to pass out or throw up from whatever combo of demon drugs they'd sniffed, swallowed, or injected before starting their shifts.

The madly pink walls—covered with black velvet paintings of rock stars from the 1980s that glowed neon yellow and orange in the dim light—only made the strippers look more tired and worn. They also gave Andre a splitting headache. That particular shade of pink should never be used for anything. Ever. It was an aggressive, testosterone-killing color. It made it hard to imagine any man had gotten a boner in this room in the past ten years, no matter how up close and personal the girls at Boudreaux's were alleged to get.

But then, he was a little pickier than the average Southie client. There were only a couple of men slouched in the black, wrinkled, faux-leather chairs crowding the space, but if they were anything to judge by, the patrons here weren't any more sober than the women who danced for them. They were probably so high they couldn't even see the walls.

Hell, for all he knew, the glowing portraits of Billy Idol and an aged, bloated Elvis added to their experience.

He didn't doubt that the manager here was dealing demon drugs and probably bribing law enforcement officials to keep them from raiding the club. If he didn't, this place would have closed down years ago.

What he didn't know was whether that made Jeremiah a suitable source of energy. Now that Andre believed Emma, the reality of what she was churned in his gut. She
killed
people. Bad people, yes, but what was her definition of bad? And did any definition or any code make it okay for her to stand judge, jury, and executioner to other people?

All he knew was that he was falling for her, fast, and needed to believe there was an alternative to more death. There had to be a safer way for her to feed. Or had he been wrong when he assumed their lovemaking hadn't harmed him? For all he knew, he could be ready to drop dead on the damned stairs up to Jeremiah's office.

Still, he was willing to risk it. For her. No matter how angry he was, or how hurt by her assumption that he was as evil as every other bastard she'd ever laid her glowing hands on.

Speaking of evil bastards ... he wondered when Little Francis would get around to returning his message. Despite Emma's veto vote, Andre had left Francis a quick voice message while he was paying their admission to the club, telling him they'd been delayed because Emma wasn't feeling well. He'd assured his cousin they were in a safe place and would be back soon, but that wouldn't appease him for long. Andre had to figure out what to do about his turncoat cousin ... as soon as he made sure Emma was going to live to see the sun set on this shitty day.

“I don't know if I can make it up the stairs,” Emma said as he stuffed his wallet back in his coat and fetched her from the faded couch by the door. She leaned heavily against him, her skin sparkling even in the dim light.

But the man he'd paid for their admission didn't blink an eye, only grunted that Jeremiah's office was at the top of the stairs, past the bathrooms.

“I'll carry you,” Andre said, but Emma pushed his hand away.

“No, it's too narrow. I'll get up there somehow. It will be easier if I'm alone.” The way her fingers trembled made his throat tighten. He hated to see her like this, so fragile, poisoned by the drugs rushing through her system. If he hadn't run after her, she would have been too weak to defend herself from the Striker demons. They would have eaten her alive.

The thought enraged and terrified him all at the same time.

It upset him that she'd run. No matter how damning her vision, she shouldn't have doubted him after all they'd been through together in the past few hours. It terrified him that her safety already meant so much to him, that his stupid heart was so eager to make excuses for her behavior. In the short time it had taken them to reach Boudreaux's, he'd found at least a dozen reasons to give Emma another chance.

Could he blame a woman who'd been through everything Emma had been through for having trust issues? He should have expected that her first instinct was to run away and anticipated her need for more reassurance than the average person. He should have believed her about her demon mark sooner. He should have talked more and teased less, he should have, should have, should have, blah, blah, blah, until he wanted to scream.

In less than a day, Emma had him thinking like a man in love. Worse, she had him thinking like a
woman
in love, second-guessing himself to the point that he'd let her talk him into coming to this cesspit to kill a man.

He knew that's why she wanted to be alone. She didn't want him to see what she'd do to the man at the top of the stairs. The thought made his stomach roil. He couldn't do it, not even if the alternative might mean risking his own life.

But would she agree to what he had in mind? Probably not. So maybe he'd pull an Emma and refrain from telling her the entire truth until it was too late for her to protest. ...

“I'm not letting you go alone,” he said. “It's not safe.”

“It's perfectly safe.” She nodded to the tall, dark shadows skulking in the corners of the room. “There are three bouncers down here to protect you.”

“No,” he said, his tone clipped and final, refusing to acknowledge her attempt at humor. “Let me help you walk up, or I'm going to carry you up. End of discussion.”

She sighed and looped her arm around his shoulders. Andre could tell she didn't like it, but that was fine. She didn't have to like that he was looking out for her; he was still going to do it. Andre started up the stairs, pulling Emma beside him, praying harder than he'd prayed in a long time that he'd be able to help her. He wanted her to know that she didn't have to spend the rest of her life looking for her next victim, that she could get what she needed in another way, from another man, if it came to that.

Damn.
The thought made him physically ill. He didn't want to think about Emma with another man. He couldn't help remembering the look on her face after they'd made love, when she said she'd “like to try.” There had been something in her eyes, something amazing that made him pray even harder as they reached the top of the stairs and shuffled down the hall.

Mercifully, the walls on the second floor were a relatively innocuous light blue, but the stench was as aggressive as the decorating scheme downstairs. A thick, lurid odor hung in the air, a mix of unwashed flesh, sex, and ... meat. Barbecue chicken, to be specific. It was almost enough to make Andre gag, even when breathing through his mouth.

“God, it's like ... I can
taste
that smell,” Emma said, echoing his thoughts. The gold shimmer of her spark did nothing to conceal the unhealthy green that tinged her skin. She was going to be sick if they stayed up here much longer.

Andre had nearly decided to screw Jeremiah's rooms and seek out another private place when the man they were looking for stepped out of his office. Jeremiah Boudreaux was even more repellent than his stench. As the obese black man oozed out into the hall—the front of his gold T-shirt smeared with barbecue sauce and the close of his pants not quite zipped—it became clear he was the source of the stink in the hall.

Behind him, in his equally filthy office, two of his employees—still dressed in nothing but gold thongs and matching tassels—crouched on top of his desk, digging into a bucket of chicken as if they hadn't eaten in days. And maybe they hadn't. They were both as painfully thin as Jeremiah was fat, their ribs standing out clearly beneath their skin.

Andre turned his eyes back to Jeremiah, finding him the less disturbing of the two sights.

“Raymond said you wanted to see me?” Jeremiah bared a mouthful of even, white teeth that were at odds with the rest of his appearance.

“We need some antivenom for Hamma claws and heard you were the person to ask. We also need a room, and we need you to make sure no one knows we're here, not even my family,” Andre said, feeling the man saunter up behind him. A glance over his shoulder revealed a giant bald guy with a stun gun on his hip standing at the top of the stairs.

He should have known Jeremiah wouldn't talk to anyone without security. He was a shady, disgusting bastard, but he was a rich bastard with a prime piece of Southie real estate several people would kill to see back on the market.

“But, Andre, I—”

“Emma, I'll take care of this.” Andre shot her a pointed look, silently willing her to trust him. She pressed her lips together, then thought better of it and opened them again, the better to breathe through her mouth.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Conti. I believe that can be arranged.” Jeremiah drew the words out into a half dozen syllables. Whether real or affected, his Cajun drawl sounded like the genuine article. “I most certainly can help you. Tyrone.” He motioned to the man behind them with two thick fingers. “Take these fine people up to a sweat room, the best available. I'll have that antivenom sent right up.”

Without another word, he turned and waddled back into his office, shutting the door behind him. Seconds later there came a grunt and a giggle from one of the women still inside. Tyrone strode past them on the right, continuing down the hall to another set of stairs, hopefully leading to a floor unaffected by Jeremiah's profound personal odor.

Emma cursed beneath her breath. “What are you doing? I don't need the antivenom.”

“I know.”

“Then why are we going to the sweat room?” she whispered, pulling away when Andre tried to lead her down the hall. Clearly she was aware that the sweat rooms were where the strippers took clients who could afford a “private dance”—the kind where the thong came off and the customer had his turn to work up a sweat.

“Relax.” He reclaimed her arm, the very thought of “sweating” with Emma arousing him, despite the stench lingering in the hall and the knowledge that the room they were being led to was probably extremely unhygienic. “I told you we'd take care of you.”

“Andre, please.” Her eyes darted down the hall to where Tyrone waited for them at the bottom of the second set of stairs. Her next words were so soft he could barely hear her. “Listen, I thought I could ...” She paused, taking a deep breath through her mouth, fighting the effects of the venom. “I know Jeremiah's done a lot of bad things to the girls here. I know he'd work, but I'm not sure about Tyrone. I don't know if he's done anything to deserve what I'd do to him.”

“Just trust me.”

“I can't. I—”

“Then what are we doing here? Why did you tell me all those things you told me in the ruins?” he hissed, anger flaring to life inside him once more.

“I ... I thought I could try, but I don't know. I—”

“Well, I know. So shut up and let me help you,” he said, his harsh words shocking even himself.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd told a woman to shut up, or whether he'd ever. He'd been raised to treat women with respect, to consider them fragile and sensitive in ways that made them both finer than the male of the species and lesser at the same time. But Emma was different. She wasn't nearly as delicate as she looked. She was tough, hard, strong—his equal in every way, including her nearly debilitating fear of trusting another person. He knew what she was going through, and he knew they could get past that fear. Together.