Don't Say a Word. Rita Herron
hair that fanned across the hospital pillow. His breath caught in his throat as he waited for her to turn and scream, then jerk away from his touch. Yet she nestled farther into the bedding and turned to press her cheek against his scaly hand.
Tears of joy dampened his eyes. She trusted him. Needed him. And had accepted that he was grotesque from the disease that chewed away at his flesh. And not with his birth as a dark soul. One that had allowed him to push aside his conscience. One that had allowed the seeds of wrong to fester inside him. His diseased body now bore witness.
And so he lived in a world between heaven and hell, fighting the demons that wanted to take his soul.
Crystal was his salvation. If he could hang on long enough to save her, he just might escape the wrath of Satan….
Yet, even as regrets for the evil he had done burned his throat, the thrill of the blood hunt still seized his soul.
CHAPTER TWO
ANTWAUN DUBOIS HATED THE way his brother was looking at him. As if he didn’t trust him enough to confide the truth.
Dammit, trust had nothing to do with his silence.
If anything, Antwaun had to keep his secrets to himself to protect his brother. Every aspect of undercover police work involved putting up fronts. Pretending to be something you weren’t. Lying.
Sometimes he told so many lies he didn’t know the truth himself.
As the Chameleon, he could change his appearance to blend in anywhere. No job was too dangerous or too edgy for him to tackle. The risks be damned.
Unfortunately, the fact that he melded with the dregs and crooks of society meant it would be easy for him to cross the line, and almost as easy for him to hide his indiscretions. His poker face kept him alive. It could keep him from revealing his motives if needed.
He silently cursed as sweat trickled down the side of his face. He’d been warned how enticing the other side of the law could be, and he had been tempted more than once….
Hell.
How could he blame his big brother for scrutinizing him when Antwaun had a reputation as a troublemaker?
Anger churned in his belly as he and Damon walked up the clamshell-lined entry to his parents’ house. How the fuck could he ever live up to his older brothers?
“Bon à rien, toi, ’tit souris,” Jean-Paul had said to him when he was younger, meaning “good for nothing, you, little mouse.”
It had been true. But he’d tried to change that reputation since he’d been on the force.
Jean-Paul and Damon had always been good. As a detective, Jean-Paul had been decorated for bravery and saving lives during Katrina. Damon, the special agent in the mix, had received commendations from the military and goddamn president for bravery and heroism.
Antwaun…he was the screwup.
A rookie on the police force, and now that position might be in jeopardy.
The door swung open, and his mother squealed as if she hadn’t seen them in years. God, he loved his boisterous family. Just wished he fit in better and didn’t disappoint them so much.
Damon, quiet, methodical and intense as always, bent to hug their mother, Daniella, a short, roundish woman who ran the show at home and at the new restaurant they’d opened in New Orleans. She and their father made the best Cajun cuisine in the state.
All the boys were over six feet, and towered over Daniella, but she boasted that she would turn them over her knee if she needed to, and Antwaun believed her.
Damon finally released her from the bear hug, and his mother yanked Antwaun close, enveloping him in the heavenly scents of her spicy jambalaya, fresh bread and sinful chocolate cake. He leaned into her, allowing her to rub his back and pat his cheek, but his stomach clenched when she looked into his eyes with a fine sheen of tears.
“It’s so nice to have all my wonderful boys here together.”
Wonderful? If she only knew…
But neither he nor Damon would discuss the mutilated corpse of the woman they’d discovered earlier, or the implications of his involvement. The unspoken rule—they left their weapons and gritty police talk at the door and didn’t bring either to the dinner table.
Yep, act like a chameleon. Put on a pretty coat. Smile as if the world wasn’t all gray. Pretend not to have seen the monsters encountered in the bayou and on the streets.
Damon cleared his throat, looking almost as uncomfortable as Antwaun felt. For the past year, he’d been even more solemn. Brooding at times. Almost distant.
Daniella beamed with pride and ushered them into the homey kitchen. Already Jean-Paul and his new wife, Britta, his baby sister, Catherine, her daughter, Chrissy, and his other sister, Stephanie, had gathered. His father wore a chef’s hat and stirred the bubbling stew while Jean-Paul popped the cork on a bottle of cabernet sauvignon and poured them all a glass.
Antwaun would have preferred a beer, but Jean-Paul wanted to make a toast.
“Let’s all sit down.” Daniella Dubois waved her hands, shooing them to their places as she hoisted bowls full of the Cajun foods and carried them to the table. Catherine deposited baskets of steaming bread; Stephanie grabbed his and Damon’s arms, and dragged them to sit on either side of her; and Chrissy plopped down, her ponytail bobbing as she sipped freshly squeezed lemonade.
“So, what is all this urgency, Jean-Paul?” dark-haired Stephanie asked, eyes twinkling.
Jean-Paul clutched his bride’s hand and grinned like a cat that had just swallowed a canary. “Britta and I have an announcement.” He turned to his wife. “Britta?”
Britta laughed. “Go ahead, you tell them, sweetheart.”
Antwaun shifted uncomfortably. Not that he wasn’t happy for Jean-Paul, but seeing his tough brother act so mushy was just plain weird.
His father, Pierre, tapped his wineglass. “Don’t keep us in suspense, son. Spill it.”
Jean-Paul grinned, then pressed his wife’s hand to his chest. “Britta and I are expecting a baby.”
Shouts erupted around the table. His mother dabbed tears from her eyes and jumped up to hug Britta and Jean-Paul. Catherine, little Chrissy and Stephanie joined the milieu of chattering excited voices.
Antwaun stood and pounded Jean-Paul on the back in congratulations. Damon’s hand tightened around the wineglass in a white-knuckled grip. Then the glass shattered and red wine splattered all over the tablecloth, mingling with drops of blood spewing from Damon’s palm.
DAMON BIT BACK A CURSE, and tried to mop up the spilled wine with his napkin.
“Damon, oh, my good gracious!” Chaos erupted, and Damon noticed the blood. His mother rushed to retrieve a towel, and Stephanie grabbed his hand and wrapped her napkin around the jagged cut.
“Are you all right, Damon?” she asked in a low voice.
Stephanie had always been the perceptive one. Sometimes he thought she sensed things, maybe possessed a touch of ESP. Feeling panic tease at his nerves, he masked his thoughts. He couldn’t let anyone see inside his bleak, ugly mind.
Besides, this was his brother’s moment. “I’m sorry, Jean-Paul. How clumsy of me. I didn’t mean to spoil your announcement.”
His oldest brother’s eyes registered concern, but he shook off the apology and curved his arm around Britta’s shoulders. “No problem, bro. Are you all right?”
Damon and Antwaun exchanged a glance, silently agreeing not to broach the latest challenge facing Antwaun. Hopefully the DNA would prove that the severed hand hadn’t belonged to Kendra Yates and clear Antwaun of any suspicion.
But if the