Jackson 05 - The Immortals (7 page)

Nashville
11:45 p.m.

R
aven lay on his narrow bed, watching Fane apply her makeup. Next to feeling his body inside hers, her warmth enveloping him, it was possibly the most sensual experience they shared.

She was an expert, her hand sure. First the layer of foundation, two shades lighter than her skin, which gave her a pearly glow. Then a dusting of powder, also two shades lighter, to set the makeup. She used a sponge to feather the color into her neck so there was no line of demarcation. She put just a hint of blush on her cheeks, from the apples right into her hairline, then started on her eyes.

Raven had filmed her doing her makeup once. He overlaid it with music, a pulsing track from The Crüxshadows called—appropriately enough—“Immortal.” He'd known it was their song the first time he heard it, the lyrics crying out to him, “With hearts immortal, we stand before our lives.” It was perfect for the video—fast, wicked hot and theirs.

He'd sped the tape up to five times speed and posted it to YouTube as a Goth makeup tutorial. It had garnered more
than five hundred thousand views so far. It gave him an unbelievable rush to think about all those baby bats out there using his woman as a guide.

They'd have even more to admire him for now.

Raven sat up and put his chin in his hand, watched Fane create the mystical black cloud that made the green of her eyes look like fifteen-carat emeralds. The long swoops of black liquid eyeliner, the deep black M-A-C eye shadow, more liner, five coats of mascara, then the intricate swirls dripping off the edges of her eyes like she was a bedouin princess decorated for her wedding night. A dark princess. The ruler of his heart.

She finished, screwed the top on her liner, then outlined her lips with a burgundy pencil. She dug into her makeup tray and pulled out a deep, deep cherry-black lipstick. He appreciated the symbolism. Fane sometimes had difficulty talking to others, and the black lipstick reminded her that she was the one with the power. He knew she'd imbued it with strength—they'd done the spell together.

She bent over and ratted her hair so it stood out from her head, allowing it to fall in glorious waves nearly to her ass, then finished with a liberal dose of Aqua Net.

When she flipped up and smiled at him, he could barely contain himself. His love. His perfect, perfect love.

“Your turn,” she said, shrugging into her corset. The stays made her waist about the span of his hand.

Raven tried to distract himself from his woman's faultless form and glossed his face with makeup, disappearing behind the foundation. He never felt so strong as when he was in full Goth mode. He had to temper it down at school a bit—the administration had strict rules about boys wearing makeup. Capitalist bastards. They had no idea how strong he was.

But tonight, in celebration, they were headed to a club. They would feed on the energy of the crowd, be themselves. There was nothing like a good night of clubbing. Subversion had a five-dollar cover in honor of Samhain, and there
was a guest DJ in from Los Angeles, a guy called The Baron. Raven had heard some amazing things about his playlist—he always seemed to have the newest bands at his disposal. He supposed that was the whole Hollywood thing—the Nashville Goth scene rocked, but it was still Nashville. Full-on industrial wasteland. He'd been to a couple of clubs in Washington, D.C., that were out of this world. But beggars couldn't be choosers—traditional Goth was all Nashville could offer tonight. One day soon he and Fane would head out to Los Angeles, would ride the wave of the Goth scene, rising to the top, glorified in their power. Their art would be watched by millions, and they would never be parted. That day was coming. He'd already purchased their tickets—they'd be gone on Monday. Just a few things left to accomplish before then.

In the meantime, they had to make do with what they had. First Subversion, then they'd hit Salvation to cap off the night and meet up with Thorn and Ember. Ember was going to have to sneak out tonight, especially after—

“Raven, love, you need to get moving. I want to get downtown.”

Fane had her hands on her hips, stamping her foot in frustration. The platform industrial boots with buckles up to her knee made her six-foot-four and ethereally spectacular. He smiled at her in the mirror, baring his fangs, running his tongue lovingly along the sharp edges. They'd cost him a pretty penny, but they were so worth it. Fane loved hers just as much—it made biting one another so much easier. Better teeth than the athamé any day. It was so much more real.

He took one last swipe of black shadow under his eyes and turned off the makeup mirror's light. He grabbed Fane by the hand, danced in a circle in the center of his room.

“Let's go.”

Blue lights were revolving one street over, but theirs was quiet. Raven felt a rush of excitement, squeezed Fane's hand. The commotion was for him.
Him.

They folded themselves into his beat-up Elantra, Rattything, the Rat, and drove away from the turmoil.

The Rat was feeling feisty tonight, so he let it have its head. Besides, all the Nashville cops were hung up in Green Hills. They took the shortcut through the west side of town to Twenty-first Avenue, then got on Broadway. The streets were hopping tonight, everyone dressed up. It was the one night of the year that he and Fane could walk among the masses and fit in.

And he found that pedestrian. He didn't want to fit in. He wanted to stand apart, to be different. Different was arresting, exciting. These poseurs, thinking they were being so avant-garde, their individuality cloaked in Halloween getups, were nothing compared to Raven. His ability to be unique was legendary among their brethren.

He turned left on Second Avenue, then scooted the Rat into the parking garage above SATCO, the San Antonio Taco Company. The garage was packed tonight—they had to drive all the way up to the sixth level to find a spot. They bundled out of the car and into the elevator, Fane getting more and more exasperated when they stopped at every floor to let revelers on board. They gawked at her, and she didn't like it. Raven finally bared his fangs at one idiot dressed as a pirate, and he flipped Raven off and turned around.

They ran across the street, not bothering to go to the intersection, and narrowly missed a car barreling up Second. Choking with laughter at the man's shocked face, they ran into the club, cloaks flowing behind them. They handed their money to Tony, Subversion's gargantuan bouncer, climbed the darkened stairway, feeling the
bam, bam, bam
of the bass line thrumming through the walls.

When they entered the strobe-lit room, Zombie Girl's “Creepy Crawler” was on the turntable and the energy nearly knocked them off their feet. Raven grabbed Fane's hand and pulled her through the masses into the center of the dance floor. He dug into his pocket and extracted two
little blue pills, ones he'd carefully dipped and kept separate from the rest of the stash. He fed one to Fane, slipped the other under his own tongue. The Ecstasy started working quickly, sending golden warmth through his body.

Then the trip began in earnest. They kissed, feeling the energy rushing between them, coursing through their veins. They swayed and jumped, threw their arms in the air. Raven felt a scream building deep in his chest and went with it, riding the energy, building and building until he let loose with a war cry so intense he realized he had an erection and was inches from coming.

This was what it was all about. This was his place, his life, his world.

He stopped, stood still in the middle of the dance floor, his head thrown back, the music building in his very soul, feeding. As the music peaked, his orgasm built to a crescendo, and he howled. He was a God now.

 

She watched from the corner of the darkened space. Word had spread like wildfire through her community that a series of murders had been committed, and she knew in her soul that whoever did it was in this room, right now. A few minutes before she'd felt the air change, felt the energies shift. A very powerful spell had been cast, and she began to drain. Someone was feeding, close by. Damn vampires. She snapped back and shielded herself deeper, stronger, felt her strength return. She kept her eyes sharp on the crowd.

He was here. She could feel him.

What he'd done was wrong. It broke all their laws. He would have to be punished.

She sighed. Tonight was supposed to be a sober, somber evening, one of great reflection and inwardness, a night to make contact with the departed and assure them that memories of their lives were still precious. A night to look forward with great anticipation at the dying of the God and the rebirth of the Goddess. She'd conducted her spells earlier, at sunset. Set her altar with a white candle and a
black, her athamé, her wand, a small skull, real and very powerful, that she'd purchased at the Pagan Festival at Montgomery Bell State Park a few years back, plus black, red and white ribbons.

She'd snapped sprigs of rosemary off her windowsill during the last new moon, let it dry for full potency, then made a posy with it, braiding the ribbons and winding them around the rosemary thrice, chanting, “Rosemary is for remembrance, tonight I remember those who have passed. Those who have crossed through the veil, I will remember.” She'd meditated about those she'd lost, communed with their spirits. She'd left the ceremony feeling peaceful. The posy would stay on her altar until Yule. She always felt such an affinity with Samhain—celebrating the circle of death and life was how she'd begun in Wicca.

Though her phone was off, she had begun to receive calls before her ceremony was over. By the time she had finished and checked her voice mail, she had eight messages. When she heard the news, she knew her evening's peace was over. It was her responsibility to find who had broken their laws. She needed to look through the veil again, so she lit a fire, set her altar and did a scrying ritual. The flames told her she needed to be among the masses tonight, so she'd hurriedly dressed and come to the gathering.

She recognized many of the faces in the crowd, though not as many could place her. She'd done a strong shielding spell with a cloaking element so she could walk among her kind relatively unseen. It wasn't like she was invisible, ghostly—far from it. The spell just worked to entice people to look away. She didn't need the attention.

There was the usual buzzing in the crowd, but it had spiked a fever tonight. Word was spreading about the multiple murders, that there was a satanic component. Everyone in the room knew that was a joke—Satan was a Christian deity, and none of them were practicing Christians. Wiccans, pagans, Goths, vampires—all coexisted in the harmony of the club. Satan was for those who didn't understand.

But when crimes like this happened, they all got a bad name. What small foothold they enjoyed in the community was immediately severed, and they had to hide again.

She secreted herself in the corner that afforded the best view and watched. The club was crawling with poseurs tonight, civilians who wanted to walk on the dark side for an evening. They were easy to spot, with their inexpertly applied makeup and ridiculous, darting eyes. They'd come in, dance for a song or two, shove each other around in embarrassment, then leave. The true followers would sigh in relief and go back to being themselves.

There.

At the center of the dance floor, two swayed in time to the music. A male and a female, young, but powerful. The moment she saw them her heart constricted. Divination was an elegant art, one best practiced by those with a true understanding of path work. She had the gift of understanding, was able to see into their minds. She felt the evil lurking there, and knew.

She stood, ready to approach, but halted when a small girl strode through the crowd, went directly to the male, pulled at his shoulder until he faced her, then slapped him, hard. His head snapped to the side and tears formed in his kohl-lined eyes. They started to argue, so she hung back to see what would happen. The boy looked startled for a moment, then shrugged. The interloper took off, tears running down her face. The tall girl put her hand on the boy's shoulder and they conversed, then followed the girl. As they left, the air in the club lightened. The music became louder, and the room felt happier.

What kind of baby bats were these three? Dominants, that was certain, possessing a darkness and authority unusual in ones so young.

She followed, building energy, cloak swinging out behind her. She'd need all of her extensive power to deal with them.

Nashville
11:58 p.m.

T
heo Howell's house was obviously the place to be.

It seemed like most of Hillsboro High School's senior class was in attendance, congregating at the Howell home. The street was lined with vehicles, Jettas and BMWs and Mercedes and Volvos and Jeeps parading up and down the skinny road with wheels half in the ditch and half on the scree. McKenzie's unmarked was parked across the street.

There was no loud music or yelling, though, just a somber grayness. The rain had started in earnest again and the lights of the Howells' house did little to illuminate their driveway. A dog began barking incessantly next door. Taylor felt each yap in the back of her skull.

Time to enter the land of text messaging. The door was red, with a bold brass lion-face knocker. Taylor grasped its protruding tongue and banged on the plate three times.

A handsome teenager opened the door, brown hair cut long over his forehead, wearing a Ralph Lauren button-down oxford cloth shirt and khaki trousers. His eyes were puffy, the trace of tears past shed. He gave her a sad smile, looking much older than his age.

“I'm Theo Howell. Please.” He shook her hand and gestured for her to come in. Once she was in the foyer, he threw the dead bolt on the door.

A hush fell over the group of kids. Taylor was faced with a bevy of scared teenagers, all looking her over, and a few parents—she counted seven in all—drinking coffee in the living room. They stood when they saw her, faces bleak and scared.

She could hear the murmurs.
What's happened? Are there more?

McKenzie extricated himself from the group of teenage girls that surrounded him in the kitchen, trying to comfort one another, and came into the foyer to greet them.

“Oh, good. You're here. You've met Theo, I see.”

“Yes,” Taylor said, turning back to the boy. “Thanks for keeping everyone here for us.”

“You're welcome, ma'am. To be honest, I think everyone realized we could be safe if we had strength in numbers. It would be hard to get in here and take anyone down. A few kids' parents insisted they come home, and the rest just came on over. We were most appreciative that you sent Detective McKenzie to keep an eye out for us. Do you have any ideas who might have done this? Who killed our friends?”

The locked door. The air loaded with fright. The poor kids had been sitting here all night, friends dying a few streets away, worrying that they were being targeted, too. And the parents didn't know why, or how, or who had threatened their children's lives. Not that she blamed them. She'd been worried about them being targeted herself, but seeing their abject fear gave her a whole new perspective on this tragedy.

She faced the group and answered the unasked questions. “We're doing everything we can. Nothing has changed. We don't have a suspect or a motive just yet. You're doing the right thing, sticking together. We'll keep you posted.”

The murmurs began again, this time tinged with relief. She stepped back into the foyer to get out of their line of sight, and turned to Theo.

“We're hoping you can shed some light on what's been happening. I know you were close friends with Xander Norwood. I'd like to talk to you about him, about everyone who was killed today. Is there someplace private we can go?”

“Yes, ma'am. My father's office is just through here. No one is allowed in there when we, I mean Daisy and I, have guests over.”

“Who's Daisy?”

“My sister.” He pointed to a neat blond girl sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter. “She's in there with some of her friends. She's a junior. They all knew Amanda, and Chelsea and Rachel.”

There was a knock behind her and Theo started. Poor kid.

“That's going to be Detective Wade. McKenzie, do you have everyone's statements?”

“Nearly. A few more to go.”

“Okay. Don't let me keep you. Marcus and I will talk with Theo.”

“Gotcha, boss. I'll let him in.”

“Detective, sir? Please lock the door behind you,” Theo asked softly. McKenzie nodded at him. She was happy to see that McKenzie had established some rapport with these kids—it would help. In her experience, teenagers were a secretive lot.

Marcus joined her, and she introduced him to Theo. He shook Marcus's hand, then led them to a set of closed double doors. He fetched a key out of his front pocket, turned the lock and swung the right-hand door open. He allowed her to enter first, twisted his arm around the door frame to pull the chain on a floor lamp. The warm wooden space glowed in the soft light. The walls were lined with bookshelves, and a ladder on rails leaned against the far wall. It smelled pleasantly of paper and leather, without a hint of must.

Theo turned on a few more lights, then stood calmly by a large rosewood desk with a leather top. He saw Taylor looking at the books, waved nonchalantly toward the shelves.

“My father is a collector. He owns the Classics Bookstore in Franklin. He does some work with the public, but his passion, his occupation, is with serious collectors overseas. He's at a conference in Geneva right now. My mom's with him. They had their eyes on a first-edition Hemingway. They're supposed to be bidding on it at auction tonight. Dad thinks he can get it for a steal. He's got a client in Toronto willing to pay through the nose for it.” He broke off. “I'm sorry, I must be boring you. I forget that not everyone is a bibliophile. I'm hoping to take the store over for him one day.”

“Actually, that's not boring at all. I love books. And I'd love to hear more about what your dad does. I'm familiar with his store, actually. But that will have to wait for another time. Can we sit?”

There were two large leather chairs facing a cognac-colored sofa in the center of the room. Theo nodded, took a seat on the sofa. He hardly seemed like an eighteen-year-old whose best friend had just died. His presence was comforting her.

Marcus went to the bookcase, trailing his fingers along the spines, and Taylor arranged herself in one of the chairs with her notebook.

“So, Theo. Xander was your best friend. How many of the victims do you know personally?”

“From what I've heard about who was killed, all of them.”

“Who have you heard about?”

“Jerry King, Ashley Norton, Mandy and Xander. Chelsea Mott and Rachel Welch were together too, and Brandon. I also heard a rumor that another girl was taken to the hospital.”

“News travels fast. It's not a rumor. Do you know Brittany Carson?”

“Is that her name? No, I don't. Never heard of her.”

“She attends St. Cecilia's. I was hoping she had some ties to your friends at Hillsboro.”

“Well, you know how it is. The kids who live on either side of us go to private school, Montgomery Bell and Ensworth, but we don't hang out. It's the neighborhood dynamic, I guess.”

“So how did you hear about the murders?”

He held up his cell. “Everyone's been talking. I've gotten nearly two hundred texts this afternoon. I'm way over my limit—my parents are going to kill me.” He winced as soon as the words were out.

“Would you be willing to let me see your texts?” she asked.

He paused for the barest of moments. “They'll look like gibberish to you. I know my father absolutely hates it when I abbreviate, the language we use. He thinks it represents the decline of modern society. But the smart keyboard makes it so much easier to talk quickly.”

“I can't say I disagree with your father there. My computer expert is pretty handy with all things technical. He should be able to translate for us. Tell me how you heard about Xander.”

Theo squirmed in his seat. He'd paled when she mentioned Lincoln's expertise, and she knew he was hiding something.

“Theo?”

His eyes filled with tears. “I think I talked to him right before he died.”

“You do? Why is that?”

Theo went from a prepossessed young man to a child in an instant, face screwed up in an attempt not to start weeping. She gave him a few breaths to get back under control.

“It's okay, Theo. We're just talking. You're not in trouble, not unless you had something to do with the murders.”

“God, no. Of course I didn't. You can't actually think that.”

“Then relax. I just want to know what happened this afternoon.”

“Are you going to tell my parents what I say?”

“Are you eighteen?” He nodded. “Then so long as you haven't broken any laws, I see no need to divulge the information. Just tell me the truth, okay? We'll get along much better if you tell me the truth.”

Theo looked miserable for a moment. “Ah, jeez. Okay, I'll tell you. But you have to swear not to tell anyone I did. Promise?”

“I'll do my best,” she said.

“Okay. Xander…he and Mandy were partying this afternoon. So were Jerry and the girls. Of course, Chelsea and Rachel weren't exactly known for their restraint,” he spit out.

“Partying?” Marcus asked.

“Drugs. Getting geared up for tonight, for the party.”

“What kind of drugs?”

Theo stood and went to his father's desk. He flicked back the leather blotter and drew out another key. Taylor watched him, tense. She didn't like people going into locked drawers in her presence. But Marcus sidled behind Theo, and she relaxed a fraction.

Theo slid open the top drawer, pulled out a Ziploc baggie. It was full of pastel-blue and yellow pills the size of aspirin. There had to be a hundred, maybe a hundred fifty pills in the bag. He handed it to her gingerly.

“Holy mother…what is all this?” She saw the stamps, hearts, on some of the outward facing pills. Just like the ones they'd seen in Amanda Vanderwood's room. “Ecstasy?”

“Yeah.” Theo sat on the sofa again, his head in his hands.

“Were you dealing it? Is that why you have so much?”

“No. God, no. I'm no dealer. That's everyone's.”

“What do you mean, everyone's?”

Taylor sank back into the chair opposite Theo. He looked at her, gave her a half smile.

“Jeez, I'm gonna get creamed for this.”

“Start talking, Mr. Howell.”

Now that he'd made up his mind to cooperate, the words flowed easily. “It's all from Vi-Fri. Vicodin Fridays. Every Friday the kids who party get their drugs, usually on the bus on the way home or in our lockers after sixth period. We never know what it's going to be, it's kinda like a lottery. The first time it was Vicodin—that's where the name came from. But it can be anything—mushrooms, X, oxy, Valium, meth, coke, even. Whatever he's got to sell. You can't tell our parents. They'll never understand.”

Taylor couldn't believe she was hearing this. Not that there was a bunch of high school idiots doing drugs—cocaine had been the drug of choice when she was in high school. With affluent parents and heavy allowances, it was always readily available. But the fact that a group was taking whatever they could get their hands on, that's what surprised her.

“Who is the dealer?”

“This punk-ass underclassman. I don't know his real name. He calls himself something stupid, like out of a comic book. Starts with a T. Thor, I think. He started at Hillsboro this year—word got out he was dealing his second week. He's got good shit, clean and cheap. Everyone buys from him.”

“Who might know his real name?”

“Honestly? I have no idea. Some of the younger kids might. But they're not here. We were just supposed to be juniors and seniors tonight, maybe the odd sophomore. This kid is a freshman, and I've tried to keep myself away from it. I'm not a big fan of Vi-Fri.”

Taylor shook the plastic bag. “Would you be able to identify him if we showed you pictures? Or would he be in the yearbook?”

“He wouldn't be in it yet. I'm on the yearbook staff, and we haven't gotten the class pictures yet. I won't have any way to know if his was in it or not until next semester when the company that does the portraits sends us the proofs. Besides, half the people don't show for their pictures. Yearbook is considered passé.”

“What's he look like?”

“Short. Blond hair. He hangs with the Goth kids.”

“So let me get this straight. Did you take this bag off the dealer?”

“No. See, I was talking to Xander. He said he and Mandy were going to do a couple of hits early, fool around before the party. They'd be over after so we could all get ready. We got off the phone and I started getting things set up. Then my sister, Daisy, got a text from Letha King. Jerry's sister.”

“We met her at the Kings' house this afternoon.”

“Well, Letha said she'd come home and Jerry was passed out in his room, was blue. He had some sort of wound in his stomach. She didn't know what to do. So we went over there—”

Marcus leaned forward in his chair, jumped in. “You were at the Kings' house this afternoon?”

“Just for a few minutes.”

“Oh, Lord,” Taylor groaned. “Who else was there? And what did you touch?”

“Nothing. It was just me and Daisy and Letha, I swear. Letha was totally freaking out. I looked at Jerry, I didn't touch him. He had that crazy star carved in his stomach, he looked totally dead. It looked like he'd OD'd. I told her to call 911 and we hightailed it out of there. I started calling around to everyone, told them not to take their X.”

“What time was this?” Taylor asked.

“Probably around three. Let me look, I can tell you exactly when she sent the text.” He fiddled with his phone. “Two-fifty. I called Xander, but he didn't answer. Letha let Daisy know the cops had shown up, and everyone started
filing in over here. They brought their stash, and I put it all together.”

“You showed quite a clear head, Theo.”

“Yeah, well. I don't know what the fuck—pardon, ma'am—what the hell happened. That carving in Jerry's stomach freaked me out.”