Private Demon

Page 9

The Darkyn had tunnels all over the city, which they used to move from one location to another. It permitted them free access to areas during the night where they otherwise might be stopped and questioned by police, who like the rest of New Orleans believed the water table was too high to build anything underground. It was one of many successful myths the Darkyn had used to mask their existence.
The dermatologist's tunnel access was hidden beneath heavily stacked shelves in his storage room. Cases of Botox and Retin A went flying as Cyprien tore the shelf away from the floor and entered the code into a tiny keypad disguised as an air-conditioning thermostat on the wall beside it. A panel of linoleum slid to one side, revealing a dimly lit tunnel.
Alex looked over her shoulder. '"Wait. He's a professional arsonist, so he won't stop burning until he's caught. We have to call the cops on this guy." Smoke was seeping in the narrow crack beneath the closet door, and Alex felt the heat that came with it. She then remembered what she had left behind. '"My blood samples—"
"No time." Cyprien pushed her toward the opening in the floor and climbed down in after her, waiting only long enough to close the panel behind them.
Cyprien led her through an unfamiliar section of tunnel, with other keypads and panels to open and close. There were too many for Alexandra's liking.
"What if the fire comes in here?" she demanded as they passed over the third threshold. "Or the firemen find the panel up there burned away?"
"The doors and panels are fireproof. No one will enter the tunnels." Cyprien turned a corner and Alex saw they were in the tunnel that led to La Fontaine, his mansion in the Garden District. He pulled down the steel ladder leading up into the lower level of the house and then glanced at her. "How did you know the assassin was an arsonist and carried copper bullets?"
"I saw him watching us. I heard his thoughts." She scowled. "It's my little bonus, okay? I can see inside someone's mind, but only if they're a killer."
"He was not Kyn." Michael seemed to take comfort in that.
"He could have been. I did the same thing with Thierry." Alex saw his expression shift. "What? I didn't ask for this. The evil Darkyn fairy stuck me with it."
"You could read Thierry's mind."
"Loud and clear. The whole time he was here, he was thinking about killing everyone in the house, the city, the state, etc." She sighed. "Couple of times I was ready to help him."
Michael put his hands on her shoulders. "Alexandra, Kyn talent works on humans. Only humans. That you can read the mind of a Kyn in a killing rage…" He didn't seem to know how to end that sentence.
"So we'll know when Phillipe really gets sick of your bullshit." She shrugged. "I don't see the problem."
"You will tell no one of your talent."
"Let me think." She consulted the upper dome of the tunnel. "Nope, I'm still going to do whatever I damn please. I'll let you know when that changes." Now he'd yell in French, or shake her, or say something stupid about being her master, and she'd have to clock him.
"I give you nothing but unwanted gifts." Michael leaned over and pressed his mouth to the line between her brows. "I am sorry, Alex. It cannot be a pleasant thing for you. But it would be better if you told no one."
"It saved our asses tonight. Stop being understanding only so you can get me to do what you want. I hate that." She climbed up the ladder and into the house, where Cyprien's seneschal was waiting for both of them.
Alex could have built a replica of Phillipe out of LEGOs; he had the same blocky, solid dimensions. When they'd first met, she'd hated him, and he'd probably looked forward to tossing her out of the mansion. Over time, however, keeping Cyprien alive had made them allies. Now Phillipe and Alex shared a constant, if sometimes exasperated, affection for each other.
"An assassin tried to kill us at the doctor's office," Cyprien told Phillipe. "Double the guards and summon the hunters. He was carrying copper bullets. If he can be found, I want him taken alive."
"Master, there is something you should know." Phillipe handed him a folded piece of paper, upon which something was written in French.
"What is it?" Alex asked.
"Jamys." Cyprien folded the note in half. "He has gone to Chicago to find his father."
Chapter 4
"Where you say you were going, my friend?"
Jamys Durand looked at Hal, the man driving the vehicle in which they rode. He had not said, naturally, but he again took out the folded map from his jacket and pointed to Chicago.
"Right round the corner." Hal's head bobbed up and down. "I'll drop you, then head over to Fort Wayne. Got me a honey there. Always puts me up for a night, makes me breakfast. Waitress, but she works lunch shift."
Jamys imagined a pot of honey and Hal hung from a pole before he sorted out the expressions. Most of what Hal said required thoughtful deciphering. Jamys's English was not very good, and he had only himself to blame. His uncle Gabriel had warned him that he would need to know the language someday.
Hal talked a great deal, but seemed to require no response from him. Which was agreeable to Jamys, who could manage only a grunt at best.
Hal's voice became part of the drone of the engine as Jamys stared out into the night. They would be in Chicago soon, and he would have to do more than point at maps and grunt if he was to find Thierry.
I'm coming. Father.
Hal was the seventh human Jamys had met since leaving New Orleans. The first day of his journey, Jamys had concerned himself only with getting some distance from Cyprien and the jardin. In America, crossing a distance he could manage; remaining undiscovered, hunting and feeding, and finding shelter for the coming day proved quite a challenge.
Jamys knew he had to be careful in this country, so unlike France, his homeland. He'd also had his doubts about walking among humanity so openly again. He didn't trust humans. He didn't trust anyone anymore.
Did Thierry feel like this? Was that why he had run away?
His father had to know he was being hunted. Thierry knew Michael Cyprien; knew he would discover the missing file on Luisa Lopez. Without question, he would know that Cyprien would trace Thierry's movements from New Orleans north. Why Cyprien was hunting him, Thierry might not understand. There were other reasons Jamys had decided to go to Chicago. Jamys had to reach his father before Cyprien did, or many more Darkyn would die. He was also not sure what Cyprien intended to do to his father if he captured him.
Surely an archer did not pry a shaft from a wounded lion only to draw a bow against him anew.
His father and Michael Cyprien had been friends since they were boys. Thierry often told tales about how they had trained and fought and taken their vows together. They had gone to Castle Pilgrim to hold the last of the Holy Land against the heretics. They had even died and risen to walk as Darkyn within days of each other.
Cvprien cannot kill him if he cannot find him. Jamys didn't need the Darkyn to get Thierry out of the country. With his talent, he could use humans.
"You follow baseball, son?" Hal asked him, and this time gave him an anxious look that indicated a need for an answer.
Jamys shook his head. He found modern athletic competitions pale, pathetic imitations of true sport.
"I'm a Cubbies man, myself," Hal told him, and went on to explain why for the next thirty minutes.
Jamys knew his father was likely mad, as everyone said, and that made him dangerous. Still, his father's body was healed, and he was free; perhaps that would help him come back to his senses. Then Cyprien would not have to put him back into the cell in the floor, or keep him in copper chains, or "decide what to do with him."
Fear for Thierry traveled with Jamys, a cloak that was sometimes light, sometimes smothering.
His father's madness was as much Jamys's fault as it was Angelica's. Part of him could still not stomach the fact that his mother had turned against his father and their kind. Even when he had heard her promising to hunt another Darkyn for the Brethren, Jamys had been paralyzed with disbelief, sure that it was some horrible jest. But to preserve her own miserable skin, his mother had sent him, his father, and the rest of the Durands to die slowly in the secret dungeons of the Brethren.
How many other Kyn had his mother handed over to be tortured by the Brethren? Why, when Jamys had learned she intended to hurt more of their kind, had he not warned his father?
"My cousin follows the Red Sox, the poor sumbitch," Hal was saying. "One year he got so agitated, he carried the TV out in the yard and put a sledge to it."
Jamys was glad his mother was dead. Seeing her decapitated by Cyprien's sygkenis, Alexandra Keller, had made part of this wretched situation right again. The human doctor had done so much for them. Now it was his turn. He would save his father, and redeem Thierry and himself in the eyes of the Kyn.
Hal's car was a wide, comfortable luxury sedan. After that first, long night of walking, Jamys had used cargo trucks that occupied the roads every hour of the day as his central means of transportation. He climbed onto the top of the first at an all-night diner just outside Baton Rouge.
When the trucker pulled off the road to sleep for several hours, Jamys had climbed down and used l'attrait to discover the driver's route. Later, just before the truck turned west, he got off and walked until he found another truck, another driver who had stopped on the side of the road to sleep.
Hal, whose job was to assess damages to property his employer insured, had pulled off into the parking lot of an all-night restaurant to grab a quick meal before continuing on the next leg of his 'route." Jamys had intercepted him on the way back to his car and used his talent to convince him to give him a ride.
He could convince any human of anything simply by touching them and thinking what he wanted them to believe. Jamys was only sorry that his talent didn't work on the Kyn.
During the trip north, Jamys had learned that Hal was one of the rare humans who were completely content with his situation. He enjoyed his life without guilt, shame, or a need for more than he had. His desires were limited to drinking a great deal of ale, obtaining the signature of a famous pitcher, and having sex with two identical twin human females at once.