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.
Eleven
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
