Dreamveil (10 page)

She held the chalk above the board. “Fire away.”

“Loup de mer rôti aux herbes,”
he told her as he moved to stand beside her and watch.

“Roasted sea wolf?” Her grin reappeared. “Is that with or without the fur?”

“Roasted sea
bass
,” he corrected, “with herbs only.”

“Then why not just call it bass?”

“It would be confusing.” He loved to see her smile. “In French, bass is
un instrument de musique.
”

“It is in English, too,” she assured him, “and we never get confused.”

He pointed at the board. “
Loup de mer
, if you please.”

Dansant gave her the rest of the menu, throughout which she joked and even constructed a kind of story. His
poulet demi-deuil
was not a chicken with a truffle-stuffed skin, but a depressed widowed hen; the
filet de boeuf au vin
had done something unspeakable to the hen’s
coq
, probably by stewing him in the
petits pois aux morilles
, or dropping him in with the cabbage and potatoes to make
trinxat.

“The poor chick,” Rowan sighed as she finished writing the last item on the board in English. “She loses her guy to a side of beef, stuffs herself with high-priced ’shrooms, and then ends up roasting for it.” She chuckled as she gave him a sideways glance. “Ain’t love grand?”

Dansant’s amusement faded. Love was not grand; it was tragedy, it was horror. For him, there could never be love.

Last night, when Rowan had been in his arms, she had murmured something against his mouth, and another voice woke inside his head.

This life was never yours. Neither is she.

In dousing his need, that voice had been as effective as a fire hose. Dansant had groaned as he pushed Rowan from him, holding her arm only to keep her from collapsing. Commanding her made her pliant but also temporarily stripped her of her power of mind and will; she would do nothing but respond willingly to his desires. Even in that she had no choice, and once more Dansant was reminded of the monster that he was beneath his civilized veneer, that he could do this to a being as helpless as she.

“Before I kissed you,” he said to her, “did you want me? Give me your truth, Rowan.”

She nodded slowly, and then shook her head.

It seemed she shared his confusion. “Do you have a lover or husband?” Another shake of her head. At least he had not trespassed on another man’s claim. “You will remember nothing of this. As before, you will feel safe and at ease with me. You will trust me as you do a friend.” He couldn’t help adding, “More so than any of your other friends.”

He’d taken his hands from her, and knelt before her, and after releasing her from his control had tended to her injuries. She would never remember the kissing or the touching. Or how close she had come to being stripped and dragged to the floor and fucked until she screamed for him.

“Dansant?” A slim hand waved in front of his face. “You keep zoning out on me.”

“Forgive me.” Not for the first time he wished he could erase his own memories. “Talk of love . . . it is not always so grand.”

“
You
got burned?” Her chin dropped. “Come on.”

“It was a friend,” he lied. “He lost his beloved one, and it sent him into hell. I did what I could; I tried to bring him back to life, but he . . . he suffers still.” Part of it was true. They had both suffered, each in their own way, after discovering what had been and never would be again.

Her eyes became distant. “That’s why they call it true love, I guess.” A rumble came from the alley, and she put down the chalk. “Sounds like the first delivery is here. I’ll get it.”

As Rowan went to the back door, Dansant looked up the shadowy flight of stairs, almost expecting to see Meriden there, waiting, listening. He could almost see his black eyes, staring at him, knowing everything, despising him for what he had done to Rowan. Hating him for what he was, wanting to kill him.

It was a pity, Dansant thought, that he was already dead.

The tired-eyed girl nodded, cracking her gum as she punched the picture keys on her register. “Three-ohseven.”

He handed her four bucks. “Keep the change.”

She worked up a smile for him. “Thanks.” After she’d poured and handed him his coffee, she went to the doughnut racks. “Oh, crap. Mister, the bow ties aren’t out yet.”

Which was why he’d ordered one. “I’ll be sitting over there.” He nodded to a corner table.

“Yeah, okay.” She turned to the next customer. “Whadayawanlady?”

Meriden sat down and sampled the coffee, which was drinkable, and took out his notepad and the photo of Alana King. When the counter girl walked over with his bow tie wrapped in a two-sided bag, she saw the photo.

“That your daughter? She’s cute.”

“No, this is a girl I’m looking for.” He checked the counter, which was clear. “She was seen here getting some coffee.”

“Kid that age?” She folded over her bottom lip. “I don’t think so. I’d remember selling coffee to a little one.”

“She’s older now. About sixteen.”

The counter girl glanced back before she sat down across from him. “Is this that missing kid? I talked to a couple detectives about her.” She gave him a suspicious look. “You a cop, too?”

“Private investigator.” He showed her his identification and license. “I’m working for her father.”

“Runaway, huh?” She grimaced. “The cops don’t care much about missing kids unless they’re real young. So what do you want to know?”

“According to a witness who saw her here, you waited on her. She bought a small coffee, and you gave her a muffin.” He saw the uneasiness in her eyes. “It’s okay, I’m not going to say anything to your manager. I just wanted to know why.”

“If it’s the girl I think you mean, she’s a street kid. You know, living out there.” She grimaced. “I’m not supposed to give out stuff, but it’s hard, you know, when they look at stuff on the racks, and they pay in nickels and pennies, and you know they ain’t got enough to get something else.” She looked down at the table as if she was ashamed. “My ma, she says they can go to a soup kitchen or a church any time, but I can’t help it. I mean, a muffin, come on, it’s not a big thing. And she buys something every time she comes in.”

“She’s been here more than once.”

The counter girl nodded. “She comes in regular, late at night. Maybe a couple times a month.”

“Is there anything else about her you can tell me?” When she shrugged, he added, “Does she always leave in the same direction?”

“I’m sorry, I just don’t look after they leave the counter.”

“If you remember anything else”—he slid one of his business cards across the table—“give me a call. Anytime.”

“Sure.” Her expression turned dubious.

“One more thing.” He slid a ten across the table. “A muffin
is
something, and you’re a good person.”

“Yeah.” She offered him a genuine smile. “I just wish it was enough.” She pocketed the ten and went back to work.

Meriden worked the area for the rest of the morning, questioning the merchants with businesses around the coffee shop, and making no headway on the case. He grabbed a sandwich before he went to the garage, where he intended to put in a couple of hours before he called it a day.

Rowan Dietrich’s bike sat at the back of his bay, delivered there by a tow-truck driver who owed him a favor. He resented it like everything else Dansant stuck him with, but the sooner he got it repaired, the sooner the girl would be on her way.

He didn’t like her living in his back pocket, but he had to admit she had a sweet ride. He’d spent a lot of time biking when he’d lived overseas, both for convenience and to save money. A motorcycle didn’t require as much fuel, which was outrageously expensive over there, and it could be parked almost anywhere. He suddenly realized why he disliked the bike so much. It was a Ducati.

Nathan had loved Italian racing bikes.

Although his own years in Europe were just a blur of anger and confusion now, Meriden could clearly remember a few things about Nathan. The rest he’d put together after some careful, painstaking research. He’d been sent to Rome to study, but he’d left there after a year to hitchhike his way across a half- dozen countries, paying his way by picking up work as a cook. He’d met Gisele at her father’s restaurant, and it had been all over for Nathan the moment she smiled at him. She felt the same, for she had been the one to convince old Giusti to take him on as an apprentice.

Meriden knew Nathan had fallen for her, hard, and had gambled everything to have her. They’d had only a year together, but from all accounts they’d been incredibly happy. If the dark men hadn’t come for Nathan, he’d still be there, cooking beside Gisele’s father.

When he’d learned the details of what had happened to the Giustis, Meriden had gone back to Nice to make sure Nathan was dead. He’d bribed a hospital employee in Nice to obtain copies of the medical records. Nathan had been horribly burned in the accident that had killed his wife, and despite attempts to resuscitate him, had died that night in the hospital. His death certificate had been signed by the attending physician.

The facts were undeniable. Irrefutable. Inescapable. Pain spiked through Meriden’s skull. Thinking of those days gave him a migraine; if he didn’t stop he’d end up locked in a dark room. He’d accepted what had happened to Nathan, how he had died, and the bizarre aftereffects that had brought Sean together with Dansant in France. One accident, one horrific, tragic choice, and three lives had been changed forever. Sometimes he wondered what Nathan would think of him and Dansant. If he would be as accepting, or if he’d want them dead, too.

If he had known what would happen, Sean thought, would he have still run into the flames?

Despite his and Dansant’s efforts to discover the truth about Nathan’s past, and if there was any possibility of it affecting them in some way, there were still countless, troubling gaps in the man’s personal history. Nathan had gone to Rome, but then he had disappeared for almost a year. There were no records of when he had left Italy or how he had traveled to France; it was as if he’d simply rematerialized there. He’d been running from something, or he wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of forging his papers and creating an entirely new identity for himself. He’d done an excellent job of becoming someone else, but the dark men had still caught up with him. Why they would wipe out an entire family simply to get their hands on an expat who liked to cook made no sense to Sean, but few things about Nathan did.

“Hey, Sean.” Eugene, one of his regular customers, strode in through the shop door. “Where you been, you lazy bastard?”

“Job across town.” Sean stood up and shook hands. “What can I do for you?”

“I need to order some parts.” He bent sideways to look at the bike. “Is that a Ducati Monster?” He whistled. “Tires are fucked. What’d the owner do, get spiked?”

Eugene had a couple of motorcycles he was perennially working on, and Sean didn’t mind asking for a consult. “Collision in an alley. You ever seen two tires blow at the same time?”

“If they were spiked, yeah. Or maybe some shitty retreads.” Eugene crouched down to finger the split in the rear tire. “This don’t look right. See how the rubber is peeling outward? This bitch blew fast and hard.” He stood up and walked over to look at the front tire. “Same here.”

“Overfilled?”

“If you filled ’em with cement or something.” He scratched his head. “This is some fucking weird shit happening here, my brother.”

“I’m putting two new tires on it.” Sean made a mental note to order them from his supplier. “Come in the office and I’ll write your parts.”

Eugene glanced back a few times as they crossed the bay. “Hey, can I have the old tires off that bike?”

“For what? Bookends?”

“I want to show ’em to a friend of mine,” Eugene said. “He’s got a junkyard, and collects spooky shit. He’s got this eight-track he pulled out of a wrecked van that went over a bridge, killed a bunch of kids back in the seventies. It’s got a tape stuck in it, but when you turn it on it only plays ‘Free Bird.’ Creeps me out.”

Sean chuckled. “Sure, you can have ’em if you haul ’em.”

“Excellent.” Eugene took a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket. “Okay, let’s talk carburetors.”