Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle: Hot Blooded, Cold Blooded, Shiver, Absolute Fear, Lost Souls, Malice, & an Exclusive Extended Excerpt From Devious (202 page)

Montoya snorted, climbed into the passenger side, and shook his head. “I wouldn’t bet on it. She might not have been dead when the bastard hauled her out of here, but I’m thinking he’s killed her by now.”

“We could get lucky,” Bentz said as he started the car and rolled into traffic. They’d drive down to the club, figure out who had seen Karen last, and find out who’d been in the bar that night. Chances were that her killer had been watching and waiting, maybe followed her home.

“Luck’s for fools,” Montoya said, and reached for his nonexistent pack of cigarettes before he remembered he’d given up the habit.

“Like I said, we could get lucky.”

Jay leaned forward in his chair and said, “So what you’re telling me is that you broke the law by opening the storage unit, then compromised evidence in a potential abduction or murder case, then trespassed in the Wagner House chasing after some ‘blonde’ that you thought might be part of this vampire cult. Then, though you didn’t find the blonde, you heard voices and then looked out the window, saw someone in your apartment, and came streaking back to confront him.” Jay’s disapproval wasn’t hard to miss.

“Someone was here,” Kristi insisted. “And so what if I was breaking a law or two? I’m trying to find out what happened to those girls, damn it. And come on, Jay. You’re not entirely innocent, are you? You dug through government records, right?” Kristi was having none of this blame-game BS. She was seated in her desk chair and rubbing the tension from the back of her neck.

“I didn’t put my life in jeopardy.”

“Just your career. Okay, Jay, let’s just get down to it. Someone was in my apartment and I want to know who. And why.” She glanced at the computer where she, while explaining everything to Jay, had logged on to a couple of chat rooms. A few familiar names had come and gone. Deathmaster7 was cruising the rooms and JustO had lurked for a while but hadn’t joined any conversations.

“Who do you think would break in?” He checked the window she’d left open for the cat, but that would require roof access.

She’d told him that Hiram and Irene were the only ones who possessed keys, so she shrugged and said, “Who else could it be but Hiram and Irene?”

“We’ll start with them. Meanwhile, I’m staying here.” His long legs were stretched in front of him, Bruno lying on the rug wedged between the daybed and the chair.

“I don’t think that’s such a hot idea.”

“Gonna kick me out?” he asked, a dark eyebrow cocking, damned near daring her to try.

“Jay—”

“That’s Professor McKnight to you.” She gave him a look that caused him to smile. “Kris, I’m not budging, so let’s find some place that delivers all-night Thai or Chinese or Italian food, then call it a night. Either that, or you can come back to my aunt’s house that I’m renovating and we can share a sleeping bag.”

She stared at him incredulously. “Are you joking?”

“You think someone broke in to your apartment,” he reminded her, reaching for his cell phone. “So what is it going to be? Pad Thai? General Tsao’s chicken? Mushroom and sausage pizza?”

“I can’t do mushrooms.”

One side of his mouth lifted. “I know.”

Kristi felt a traitorous glow of warmth that he remembered her aversion to mushrooms, which ticked her off to no end. “I guess…pizza…”

“What kind?”

“I don’t know.”

He got up from the chair. “Figure it out while I go get your bike.”

“My—bike?”

“Your dad asked me to bring it up. Knew you needed it and didn’t want to show up here and be accused of invading your privacy or being overly protective or whatever. It’s none of my business what goes on between you two, but, yeah, I did bring the bike. It could get stolen in the truck. I’ll bring it inside.”

“Great.” Kristi’s tone reflected her ambivalence.

“How about a combination, sans mushrooms?” Jay was already messing around with his cell phone, searching for a restaurant. As he headed outside, she could hear him ordering. A few moments later he returned with the bike. He slammed the door behind him, and Houdini, who had been hiding beneath the bed, finally made himself known by growling low at Bruno. The dog, still coiled into a sleeping position, barely raised his head.

“Another voice heard from,” Jay remarked as he propped the bike against the wall near the bathroom door.

Houdini wasn’t finished. Hissing, showing off his teeth, his back arching, he suddenly shot across the room, a black streak hurtling himself onto the daybed. Then he sprang to the mantel and from there picked his way to the bookcase.

“Is that cat always in a bad mood?” Jay asked.

“Yes.”

Bruno couldn’t have cared less. He let out a sigh and let his chin fall into his outstretched front legs.

Houdini suddenly scurried across the shelf, sending a picture of Kristi tumbling to the floor, where the frame shattered and the glass broke. Frightened out of his mind, he sprang from the shelf, flew across the floor, hopped effortlessly onto the counter, slipped through the partially open window, and was gone.

“Friendly,” Jay observed dryly.

“He’s getting better.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He is.” She picked up the broken pieces and tried to prop them up on the shelf, which was several feet above her head.

“Let me help you.”

“I can get it.”

“If you had a ladder.” He was already walking up behind her, plucking the picture from her fingers, placing it on the shelf.

Kristi was determined to ignore the length of his body, pressing up against her back, the smell of him—a little cologne, a little musk—mingling in the air. He was just too damned close.

Jay hesitated a bit too long for comfort and she thought he was feeling it, too, that hint of electricity in the air between them, the awareness of the opposite sex in such close proximity. She wondered if he, like she, was thinking how she’d broken up with him, thought him too young, too familiar, too hometown while now…Oh, Lord, she was
not
going to remember how he’d once made her feel, how she’d looked forward to kissing him, to touching him, to feeling his weight atop her….

He pressed closer and she noticed the wall of his chest against her back, the stretch of his arm over her head.

“What’s this?” he asked and broke the spell.

“What?”

He was fingering the shelf of the bookcase, which was higher than his head. “I don’t know…wait…hell…here, take this.” Standing on his toes, he placed the picture into her hand again and, as if he had been totally unaware of the charged air between them, said, “Move to the side.” As she got out of his way, he reached upward as high as he could.

“What is it?”

“I think there’s something up here, like a little niche in the back of the bookcase where it meets the shelf. I think there’s something in it….” He was straining. “Now, if I can just get my finger in there…. What the hell?” He pulled his hand back and rocked back on his feet. From his fingers dangled an intricate gold chain. Hanging from the chain was a small glass vial filled with dark reddish liquid. It glittered and swung in the soft light.

“Oh, God,” Kristi said, her stomach turning. She knew without a doubt that she was staring at an ampoule of Tara Atwater’s blood.

Vlad slipped through the long hallway, the tunnel that connected the abandoned basement lab to another building, another forgotten chamber deep in the heart of the campus, a room few knew of. This secret place was carved out of the ground by Ludwig Wagner centuries before as a place for his own private trysts. Marble lined the walls of the subterranean spa, where warm water was piped from an underground spring to the massive tub in the center of the room. Candles had been lit. There was no electricity down here.

She lay in the middle of the tub, the water lapping over her perfect body, the sound of drips from ancient pipes the only noise over a soft gentle rush of air within an old ventilation shaft.

Elizabeth.

Flawless white skin was visible in the ripples, round, rose-colored nipples sometimes breached the ever-moving water, only to pucker with the cold. A dark thatch of curls was stark against the alabaster white of her slim, long thighs. No tan lines were visible, no age spots dared darken her perfect complexion. Her hair, black as night, was caught with a bloodred clip and held atop her head.

Though her eyes were closed, he knew that she was aware of him. It was always so. Always had been. Theirs was a bond that started early in life only to grow and strengthen with time.

She’d known of his fascination with her even as a child. She had molded him into what he’d become. The process had been long, taken years, and yet, he suspected that Elizabeth had seen his weakness the first time she’d laid eyes upon him and had understood his needs. Though she’d been a child of seven, and he only five, she’d set about weaving her web upon him and he’d wanted her so desperately—still wanted her—he’d done everything she’d suggested.

Willingly.

Eagerly.

His IQ brushed genius.

Hers was higher.

A fact he never forgot.

Nor would she let him.

She allowed him his infidelities, encouraged him, even sometimes watched him, but she knew, they both knew, that he was hers. Forever bound to do her bidding. He hid little from her, but tonight he would have to tread lightly. He would not let it be known that Mathias, the weakling priest, was balking. He would not mention that Lucretia, the slut, was having second thoughts and confiding in Kristi Bentz, the cop’s daughter, who now claimed she could see danger before it was apparent, that she witnessed it in the color of their skin, as if the blood had drained from their bodies.

Prophetic?

He wondered…if she looked in a mirror, would she see her own pale image staring back at her?

But for now, he would forget.

For now, he would concentrate on Elizabeth.

Her eyelids raised just a fraction, enough that he saw reflections of the candles in the exposed slits but not enough that he could read any emotion that might betray her feelings. The room was cold, only a piece or two of furniture pushed into the corners, a small bed, a kerosene lamp upon a table, a few books, always the latest books about her namesake, stacked neatly on the table, mirrors abounding. He saw his own reflection in the looking glasses, refracted images that caught his every move.

“I thought you’d come tonight,” she said.

Was there any doubt?

Without a word, he walked to the raised tub and sat upon the marble ledge. The scents of lilac and magnolia rose with the steam from the warm, clear water. She let him touch her, allowed his fingers to slide up the length of one thigh, but when he tried to explore further, to enter her most private of spaces, she snapped her legs shut and brushed his hand away. “Ah-ah-ah,” she said in that throaty voice he found so wickedly intriguing. “Not yet.” But he knew that she was as ready as he was, that her blood ran hot and wild within her.

“Not yet,” she insisted, as if to convince herself that it was not yet time, a time she dictated. “You brought more, didn’t you? From your hunt?”

He stared at her. Surprised at her nearly ESP like qualities.

“You think I don’t know about the stripper?” Sighing, she clucked her tongue.

“You set the rules,” he reminded her, surprised that she had read his mind, had known whom he’d taken.

Her face drew into a little pout. “But a stripper? Really?” She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t think so. No.” She touched her pointed chin with one wet hand. “I know we are getting low, that we need a refill, but a stripper? Remember, this is an intellectual, as well as a physical experience.”

That, he doubted. She could rationalize all she wanted, come up with lofty excuses, even reasons, but he’d faced the truth: they both enjoyed the search, the hunt, the kill. It was simple. She was into torture more than he; he was into pure, primal, sexual pleasure. Hurting and wounding wasn’t necessary for him. Her sadism wasn’t infectious; he had no real use for it unless it heightened his sexual experience. He got his thrills in the lovemaking and the death.

He wanted to argue that “Blood is blood,” but knew better, so he held his tongue as she deliberated, obviously tempted.

“Use what’s left of the others,” she finally said.

“Then we’ll be out. You’ll have to wait for your next fix.”

“You think this is a drug, that I’m an addict?” A smile curved her perfect lips and it was all he could do to restrain himself from taking her now, before they went through their ritual. But he would wait.

“Do I think you’re an addict?” he asked. “Absolutely.”

She didn’t disagree, just cocked her head, exposing the long length of her neck, the curve of her throat. “Maybe so, but I don’t want my addiction to be tainted, now, do I? Bad blood? I think not. I’ll wait.” She was toying with him now, amused that he was challenging her. “What is it they say? ‘Patience is a virtue’?”

“I think it’s ‘All good things come to he who waits.’”

She corrected, “Or she who waits.”

“Or she.”

“For now, though, there is no waiting. The moon has risen, the timing’s right.”

“Agreed.” He knew what he had to do and what was to come. His heart beat a little faster as he reached for the knob on the top of the tub, the one attached to an iced cooler that he so diligently kept filled. After priming the pump, he twisted the tap. It squeaked a bit as he opened the valve slowly and saw her expectation in the pulse at her neck and her white, glistening teeth sinking into her lower lip.

Slowly, in an uncoiling ribbon, the blood began to flow. Ice cold and thick, it spread its dark stain into the clear water, a plume of thinning red that dissipated and curled.

When the first drip of the dark liquid caressed her skin, she sucked in her breath, her abdomen shrinking, her eyes closing with the ecstasy, for she believed, like the woman whose name she had taken, that cleansing with the blood of other younger, more vital women would elongate her life, keep her skin clear and flawless, and renew her vitality.

A bloody fountain of youth.

Was she mad?

Or a visionary?

He didn’t care which. Either way, she gave him a purpose to hunt, to kill, and he could convince himself that the thrill he felt while taking a life was for the ultimate good. For her. And as for madness, had he not questioned his own sanity at times? Did he not struggle with reality and fantasy? But then, he knew, the line between madness and genius was thin and frail.