stock . . . down here.”
“She tell you that in person?”
“She called in. What’re you getting at?”
“She was here, at least her body was, in that box while she was walking around in my mate!”
Jacques stared at him as if he’d gone insane. But there was no madness in the hard, green eyes, just fury. “What the hell’s going on?”
“Later. Where would she go? Where does she live? I need an address. Now!”
A search of Fran’s by-the-week room provided no answers. Two changes of freshly laundered basics she wore to work, a bed not slept in, bathroom empty of products beyond soap and off-brand shampoo, neither used. No toiletries or makeup that might contain traces of the owner’s identity. A room not lived in.
So, where did she keep her belongings? Where had she gone to have her wound tended? Where was she hiding from the questions they needed answered?
– – –
Michael Furness moved through the quiet nave immersed in the everyday motions of the role he falsely maintained. A man of God. The spiritual leader of his flock. Hypocrisy weighed upon his shoulders like the burden the true Martyr had carried on the way to a symbolic sacrifice.
“We need to talk.”
Low words whispered from deep shadow came as no surprise.
“Yes,” he agreed, “we do.”
Max Savoie followed him through the silent annex, his inevitable presence bringing relief rather than alarm. He’d no intention of resisting the long overdue reckoning. The wages of sin. At the soft click of the door behind them, Max got right to business.
“It’s time.” Those two words embraced their future in grim finality. “Where is she?”
The priest sighed, sinking into his worn chair, so ready for all this to end yet dreading the obvious conclusion. “I don’t know. She doesn’t trust me with her safety.” A low chuckle. “A wise decision, considering.”
“Then bring her here so we can end this. No more innocents die on my behalf. Before our streets and docks run red, we need to come to an accord.”
Studying the proud, unbent figure before his desk, Furness proceeded carefully. “You know what she plans to do. Those who won’t bow will be crushed.”
“They already have been.” Emotion flickered, a dull flame behind unblinking eyes. “We’re a conquered people. She’s broken the back of our resistance. I’m here to discuss terms.”
“Terms?” Once Furness conquered his shock, he choked on a bitter laugh of experience. “She’ll give no terms.”
“Bondage is better than extermination. A lesson I learned very young. The Terriots are suppressed. Guedry fled the city to negotiate for the safety of his own clan. My only concern is for the survival of our next generation. You saved them from the horrors of your kind, sheltering them, hiding them, preparing them. Charlotte, Mary Kate, Nica. I need your promise that you’ll continue to advocate for them within those robes, within these walls. If you make that promise, I’ll surrender myself to my aunt in exchange for their protection.”
“And you believe she’d honor any deal she makes?”
A heavy truth weighted those broad shoulders. “I’ve no choice. I can’t let them die as the city burns.”
Furness studied him, seeing only what Max would allow, which was damned little. Decades of weariness etched the stoic expression, bending his posture into necessary submission rather than defeat.
“Are you sure, Max? She could destroy them all just to spite you. There is nothing kind or noble in her.”
“I know what she is. Call her.”
Furness hesitated. Max wasn’t above humbling himself for the sake of others, but could this unexpected and risky capitulation have another purpose? One that could harm the tyrant he’d once loved, destroying the rigid hierarchy he’d thought to hide himself within in to save himself? For what? Certainly not the benefit of others.
After a moment of troubled reflection, the pseudo-priest nodded. “Where do you want to meet?”
“Not here. Others could be harmed. Tell her where I can say good-bye to my past. She’ll know.”
“When?”
“When the sun sets. I need time to say my good-byes.”
“Max, she’s going to kill you . . . or worse.”
A sketch of a smile. “Watch over them, Michael. Be their good shepherd.” Max put out his hand.
Emotions taking a bittersweet twist, Michael Furness clasped it firmly. “I’ll do what I can.”
– – –
Ophelia Brady entered the Garden District house that had never been a home, there to attend one last familial obligation. Her father’s body would be released that afternoon, leaving her the official duty of arranging for a funeral. Something small, private, no notice,