No One Lives Forever

CHAPTER 7

For the first time since Christian met her, Jasmine looked baffled, but she covered it up with a heaping dose of sarcasm.

'I never knew the devil made house calls.'

'Apparently so.' Christian glared down at the unsettling sight. He'd never been confronted by something like this.

The entire balcony had been converted into a bizarre religious rite. Flickering black candles melted into broken liquor bottles circling an altar made of old bones, sticks, and frayed hemp. A dead chicken, throat slit, bled into a sticky pool that seeped through the crevices of the tile. Blood spatter marred the pristine white balustrade, but most of it had been doused onto what looked like a human skull. Its jawbone gaped open and black eye sockets stared in accusation.

The smell of old death.

'How quaint. Perhaps we should tell housekeeping we prefer a simple mint on our pillows.'

Jasmine had an edge to her voice, but her attempt at humor didn't dispel her uneasiness.

'This doesn't look like any goodwill gesture, more like . . . foul play.' His chicken pun didn't fare any better. Christian leaned closer, careful not to disturb the scene. 'What's this? Do you recognize where this was taken?'

A newspaper clipping of Charboneau had his head cut and pinned to a doll made from straw and burlap. Blood from the chicken covered the likeness. And three small wooden skewers impaled the effigy. Although he wasn't an expert, it didn't take a genius to recognize black magic.

'No. The image is too small.' Jasmine crossed her arms as if a chill ran along her skin.

'This makes no sense.' Christian straightened up, glaring at the hideous array.

Charboneau had been cursed, but why now? Being hijacked from his hotel room should have been enough of a bad omen. What had his father been into?

If this elaborate atrocity had been intended to ward off their interference into the kidnapping, why use a photo of his father on the voodoo doll? And why risk scaring off their ransom meal ticket? It looked like two factions were involved in Charboneau's abduction—one interested in the money and another setting roadblocks in their path, every step of the way.

More questions roiled in his head like an approaching thunderstorm, but one pushed ahead of the rest. 'If the bastards didn't come through the front door, then how'd they set this up?'

Suddenly, Jasmine reached for him. 'Did you see that?'

Eyes wide, she tightened her grip on his arm. With her other hand, she went for a knife she had stashed in her bra. One of Victoria's secrets.

'What?' He turned and looked down, following her gaze.

'I think the skull moved.'

Christian watched the skull for a moment. Nothing. 'You're seeing things.'

To prove his point, he kicked the bones with the toe of his boot, only enough to nudge it. The skull rolled to one side, tipping over.

'Holy shit!' He leapt back when he saw it.

An angular head lashed out, barely missing his leg. Fangs bared. Hissing spit. A slithering snake raced across the tile, straight for him.

He backed up and fumbled for his gun, knowing he'd never make it. The damned thing moved too fast. But from nowhere, a flash of silver flew by him.

Whap! Ssssss . . . thump . . . thump . . . ssssssss.

Jasmine's knife sliced through the head of the snake, almost severing it. Blood spilled onto the floor. The slick body coiled, writhing in death, out of control. As it thrust from side to side, the body pulled itself apart from the head . . . and continued its vile dance. Smears of blood trailed under it like a macabre finger painting. Christian and Jasmine backed away, each with a look of disgust.

'Let's tear this place apart, inside and out. I don't want any more surprises.' Christian swallowed hard. 'And by the way ... thanks.'

Thanks didn't cover it. He didn't know much about snakes, poisonous or otherwise. But he had a feeling Jasmine had saved his life a second time. A regular habit for her, one he had no problem encouraging.

'Don't worry. You'll have plenty of opportunity to repay my generosity. I assure you.' She stepped closer to the French doors, pushing her back against the door frame, not taking her eyes off the thrashing snake. 'Think I'll collect my knife tomorrow. If that thing's still moving in the morning, I'll consider it a lost cause.'

'Come on. We'll search the rooms . . . together.'

Jasmine nodded, a quick shake of her head. 'I don't have a problem with that.'

Neither did he. Together worked for him too.

Hours later

Christian left a lamp on. Its pale light washed over his bedroom, casting shadows into the corners. White bed linens spread across his bare chest as he lay on his king-sized bed, several pillows propped against the headboard. Since Jasmine came back into his life, he'd been plagued by thoughts of a father he'd never met and an indefinable influence that kept him on edge. Now he had a new nightmare.

God, I hate snakes!

In this country, where not even a man like Charboneau was safe, something primitive tapped into his senses and lurked in the dark corners of his mind. A threatening malevolence. And tonight a coward almost took him out, using a cheap shot with fangs. The candles were intended to draw them in, and the snake would do its damage. If Jasmine hadn't been on her game, the bastard might have succeeded.

He felt like an interloper into Charboneau's world, an amateur to the danger. For all he knew, his father was already dead. He hated this limbo of not knowing.

And heaped on top, the fight he'd picked with Raven kept replaying in his head. The hurt in her eyes flashed over and over. He had called her, but only left a message about where he was staying with her phone voice mail, though he wanted to say so much more. She should have been home, but Raven hadn't picked up the line. He hoped she'd cooled off enough to recognize the white flag of surrender in his voice, but nothing doing. No amount of good intention would overcome the regret in his heart. He should have trusted her, been willing to share his darkest nightmare. Why hadn't he?

Raven had earned the right to know everything about him, but shame held him back. He'd never be normal. Death defined his past and had a stranglehold on his future. It carried a crippling stigma, one he couldn't shake. He had never felt entitled to happiness. And yet, having Raven in his life was the closest he'd come to touching it. Did he have the right to make his burden hers?

Damn it, forget about sleep. To hell with it.

He'd had enough. Throwing back the covers, he hoisted himself out of bed, unwilling to waste any more time. His mind wouldn't allow it. Dragging fingers through his hair, he wandered out his bedroom door dressed in his pajama bottoms.

In the stillness of the hotel suite, Christian closed his eyes for a few seconds, acquiring his night vision. He listened and quieted his heart to focus on his hearing. He knew he was alone in the room. He felt it.

No lights. Darkness gave him the gift of anonymity. Yet the lights from the city shone through the doors leading to the balcony. A bluish haze cast into the room. On instinct, he stepped toward the French doors, cell phone in hand. He wanted another look at the Macumba housewarming present outside, snake and all. He intended to take digital photos of the setup with his cell phone, then break it apart and stuff the contents into a pillowcase borrowed from the hotel.

But something cautioned him against opening the doors right away. Good thing.

As he stood steeped in shadows, he saw a red ember flare and die away on the rooftop across the street. What the hell? With his eyes locked, he waited. A cigarette. Another faint reflection captured light from the streets below, then melded into the shadows once more. Eyeglasses or binoculars? He couldn't tell from where he stood. He tilted his head and furrowed his brow, watching in the dark.