a belly-length tank top. Tight, dark blue jeans, hip hugging and flared just right. Stud and hoop earrings, both gold and silver. Toe rings. Bracelets of multiple colors on one slender arm. A typical teenager — except that she was so stunning. A complete turn-on. And arrogant, just like he was.
William stopped and called out to her. 'Your cat is beautiful,' he said, and smiled wickedly.
She looked up, and he saw that she had the same piercing green eyes as the Persian. The girl ran her eyes all over him. He could actually feel her gaze against his skin. He knew that she wanted him. Men and women always did.
'Why do you hold back?' he asked, and continued to smile. 'If you want something, then you should take it. Always. That's your lesson for the day, free of charge.'
'Oh, and you're a teacher?' she called from the porch. 'You don't look like any teacher I've ever had.'
'A teacher, but also a student.'
He had desire for this girl. Not only was she a beautiful physical specimen, she had good instincts. She was sexual and knowing for her age. She used her gifts, unlike most young people, who wasted their talent and potential. She wouldn't speak again, wouldn't even smile, but she didn't look away either.
William loved her confidence, the way her bright green eyes tried to mock him but couldn't quite do it. The way she thrust her small breasts at him, her only weapons. He wanted to go up on the porch and take the beautiful girl right there. Bite her, drink her. Spill her blood all over the whitewashed wooden planks.
No. Not now,
Finally, William began to walk away. It took all his will, all his power, to leave this beautiful prize sitting so invitingly on the porch.
It was then that the girl finally spoke again. 'Why do you hold back?' she called, and laughed pitilessly.
William smiled, and then he turned around.
He walked back toward the girl.
'You're very lucky,' he said. 'You've been chosen.'
Chapter 70
Something had to break for us. At seven in the morning, I sat alone at a table outside the Cafe Du Monde across from Jackson Square. I ate sugar-dusted beignets and sipped chickory-laced coffee. I stared off in the direction of the spires of St. Louis Cathedral and listened to the bleating horns of riverboats coming down the Mississippi.
It should have been a nice time in the morning, except that I was frustrated and angry and filled with energy that I didn't know what to do with.
I had seen a lot of bad cases, but this was possibly the most difficult to comprehend. The gruesome murders had been going on for more than eleven years, but the pattern was still unclear and so was the motivation of the killers.
As soon as I reached the FBI offices, I got the disturbing news that a fifteen-year-old girl was missing and that she lived less than six blocks from the magicians. It was possible that she was a runaway, but it didn't seem likely to me. Still, she had been gone less than twenty-four hours.
There was a briefing scheduled, and I went upstairs to find out more, and also why I hadn't been alerted earlier. When I entered the session that morning, I sensed the frustration everywhere I looked. It was hard to imagine a worse result: We suspected that we had tracked down the murderers, but there was nothing we could do about it. And now, possibly, they had murdered another victim right under our noses.
I sat down beside Jamilla. Both of us had containers of hot coffee plus the morning edition of the
Kyle was as angry as I'd ever seen him. He just wasn't himself. He was storming about the front of the room, his right hand nervously combing back through his dark hair. I didn't blame him — everything about the investigation depended on cooperation between the local police and the FBI. The NOPD had broken that trust, broken it badly.
'For once, I sympathize with Mr. Craig,' Jamilla said. 'The locals were way out of line.'
'We could have been working on the girl's disappearance for hours,' I agreed. 'What a mess, and it's getting worse.'
'Maybe that's our opportunity. I wonder if we could get inside the house during the party tonight. What do you think? I'd love to give it a try,' she whispered. 'Everybody who comes to the so-called fetish ball will be in costume, right? Presumably? Somebody needs to get inside that house. We need to do something.'
Kyle stared directly at Jamilla and me. He raised his voice. 'Can we have one meeting?'
''He means can he have his meeting,' she whispered. I wondered why she had taken such a dislike to Kyle. He was acting strange, though; the pressure of the case was getting to him. Something had him on edge.
'Tell him what you think,' I said. 'He'll listen. Especially now that the girl is missing.'
'I doubt it. But what can he do — fire me?'
She swiveled around to face Kyle. 'I think we could probably get inside the house tonight during the party. And if we don't, what do we lose? The missing girl might be in there.'
Kyle hesitated, but then he said, 'Do it. Let's see what's in the house.'
Chapter 71
It could only happen like this in New Orleans. I spent part of the afternoon securing a couple of printed invitations, and then Jamilla and I prepared our costumes for that night. The ball began at midnight, but we'd heard that most of the crowd wouldn't start to arrive until closer to two.
It had already been a long night for us by the time the festivities started. We waited until just past two to approach the house. Some of the party goers were college age, a few were even younger, but at least half of the crowd looked to be thirty or older. A few arrived in limousines and other expensive cars. The dress for the night was definitely eye-catching: antique morning coats and top hats, velvet Victorian gowns, corsets, walking sticks, tiaras.
The Goth crowd sheathed their androgynous bodies mostly in black leather and velvet, with frilly white and black lace on several of the women. There were body piercings everywhere, belly rings, dog collars, black lipstick, and gobs of mascara on both the men and the women.
Bloodred eyes stared from every direction. It was difficult to look away from them. A song called 'Pistol Grip Pump' played from hidden speakers outside the house. Fangs were everywhere. And stage blood. A few of the women wore black or purple velvet bands around their necks, presumably to conceal bite marks.
It got more interesting and eerie inside the house. People were addressing one another with titled names, Sir Nicholas, Mistress Anne, The Baroness, Prince William, Master Ormson. A statuesque woman walked by and brazenly sized up Jamilla. She was bronzed with body paint and wore a bronze-colored thong. The iron scent of blood mingled with smoky leather and pungent oil from wall torches.
Jamilla looked ready; she was definitely tough. She had on a tight, sleek black dress with leather boots and black stockings. If she'd wanted to look sexy, she'd succeeded. She had purchased black lipstick and leather wristbands at a place called the Little Shop of Fantasy on Dumaine Street. She'd also helped me with my outfit: a morning coat that scraped the floor, cravat, black trousers, and black boots that came to my knees.
No one seemed to pay much attention to the two of us. We checked out the main floor, then flowed with the crowd down into the basement. There were flaming torches everywhere on the stone walls. The floors were dirt
