FaceOff

Infernal Night

Jack wandered the room as they spoke.

Okay, so Jules, the last surviving member of the Chastain family, was rich. If the private Gulfstream V that had flown him down here from LaGuardia and the Maybach with the liveried driver that had picked him up at the airport weren’t enough, the sprawling New Orleans mansion provided sufficient backup.

Moss-draped oaks had swayed in the breeze on either side of the house as the driver had let him out in front. “The Garden District,” he’d said. Jack had no idea what that meant, but the neighborhood spoke of genteel wealth, of a time forgotten, of slow grace, and a distant era. For all Jack knew, the manor house itself might have been a plantation once. With those massive pillars lining the front porch, it reminded him a little of Tara from Gone with the Wind.

He’d done a little research before agreeing to come south. Jules Chastain had acquired his wealth the old-fashioned way: he’d inherited it.

And the guy knew people. Famous people. Newspaper clippings and original photos of Chastain with George W., with Obama, with Streisand, with Little Richard — now that was cool — lined the walls between artifacts from all over the world. Jack had lots of artifacts around his apartment, too, but mostly from the 1930s and ’40s. These were from, like, pre-pyramid days.

I could be impressed, he thought.

He’d probably be definitely impressed if this guy was talking sense.

He stopped his wandering to face Chastain where he sat in some kind of throne-of-swords chair — only this wasn’t a movie prop. With his thin moustache, thick glasses, and ridiculous silk smoking jacket, he looked like Percy Dovetonsils on crack instead of martinis.

“Let me get this straight: you flew me all the way down here from New York to steal something you own from your family crypt.”

“Yes,” Chastain said in a quavery voice. “Exactly.”

“Okay. Now, since you’re not crippled in any way I can see, go over again why you can’t do this yourself.”

“As I explained, the artifact I seek was obtained from another collector who wants it back.”

“Because you stole it.”

“Mister, I never got your last name.”

Jack had had dozens over the years.

“Just Jack’ll do.”

“Very well, Jack, I assure you I can pay for anything I desire. Anything.”

“Not if the other guy doesn’t want to sell.”

He glanced away. “Well, occasionally one runs into bull-headed stubbornness—”

“Which obliges one to steal.”

He waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, very well. Yes. I appropriated it without the owner’s knowledge.”

“And the owner wants it back.”

“Yes, she discovered the appropriation.”

He seemed incapable of saying “theft.”

“Oh, a she. You never mentioned that.”

“Madame de Medici. You’ve heard of her?”

“I hadn’t heard of you until you called me, so why should I have heard of her?”

“Just wondering. You’re familiar with the expression ‘Hell hath no fury’?”

“It’s ‘Heav’n has no Rage, like Love to Hatred turn’d,/Nor Hell a Fury like a Woman scorn’d.’ ”

Chastain’s eyebrows rose. “Oh, a poetry fan.”

“Not necessarily. Just like to get things right. I had the misfortune of being an English major once.”

“Really? What school?”

“The name doesn’t matter once you’ve dropped out. You were saying?”

“Well, if the true quote is ‘Nor Hell a Fury like a Woman scorn’d,’ then in this case we’ve got ‘Nor Hell a Fury like a de Medici missing a piece from her collection.’ When I told her I didn’t have her absent artifact, she went out and hired a hit man to kill me on sight.”

Jack had to laugh. “What is she? A mob wife?”

“Despite the name, she appears to be a Middle Easterner. The point is, she wants me dead.”

Over the years, during the course of business, Jack had ended more than a few lives, but never on contract.

“Well, I hope you don’t think I’m going to hit her, because that’s not in my job description.”

“No no! As I said, I just need someone to retrieve the artifact from the family mausoleum.”

“And you need a guy from New York for this? Why not somebody local?”

“I was told you are — what did he call you? — an urban mercenary. Yes, an urban mercenary with a reputation for getting the job done and being a man of his word.”

“Where’d you hear all this?”

“I’m not sure the individual would like me talking about him. Let’s just say you’ve had the benefit of an enthusiastic referral and leave it at that.”

Jack wondered who it might be. He didn’t know anyone in New Orleans. He shrugged it off. With the Internet, the source could be anywhere.

“Still, there must be a local guy who can—”

“You also have a reputation for not being afraid of violence. That is, if attacked, you will counterattack rather than run.”

“Oh, don’t go there. I’ve done my share of running. What else have you heard about me?”

Chastain frowned. “Very little. I made numerous queries. You don’t seem to have an official existence. Some sources even said you don’t exist at all. That Repairman Jack is just some urban legend.” The frown morphed into a smile. “Interesting nickname, that.”

Jack had never liked it himself but things had progressed far past the point where he could do anything about it.

“Not my idea. Someone laid it on me and it stuck.”

As for the urban legend angle, that was fine with Jack. His favorite method was to play someone and leave them with no clue they’d been played. Those people never talked about Repairman Jack, just a terrible run of bad luck. But fixes didn’t always go as planned, of course, and sometimes things got dicey. Sometimes people got violent. Sometimes people died. Those people never talked about Repairman Jack, either.

Chastain rose and stepped to a window that had to be a dozen feet high.

“Well, whatever,” he said, as he stared out at the night. “The thing is, with a hit man after me, I need someone who can overcome any resistance, retrieve the artifact in question, and bring it back. Too many locals would forget about that last part.”

“With a hit man after you, you shouldn’t be standing at a window.”

Chastain stiffened, then ducked to the side.

“I am so stupid at times,” he said, drawing the curtains across the panes. “I’m not geared for this kind of situation. That’s why I need you.”

Jack still wasn’t buying.

“But the simple solution is to call this Medici lady and say it’s in the mausoleum and tell her to go get it herself.”

Chastain’s hands flew into the air. “I would if I could! I’ve tried but she’s gone off the radar! Incommunicado! And I fear the longer I wait, the shorter I’ll live. If I can just get the artifact back in my hands, I can eventually negotiate a settlement. But I’m afraid to set foot outside the door.”

Something not right here.

Customers had tried to run games on him before. Was this another?

“How do I know you’re not setting me up to steal this from her?”

Jules laughed. “It is in the Chastain mausoleum! It’s got my family name on it! I’ll show you a back way in—”

“Why do I need a back way in if it’s yours?”

“Take the front way if you wish. It’s just that I fear Madame de Medici’s hit man might suspect I’ll show up there and be lying in wait.”

Jack pulled his Glock from the small of his back — traveling armed was a sweet perk of a private jet — and aimed it at Chastain’s face. “No need to lie in wait when you had him driven in from the airport.”

Chastain’s eyes were fixed on the pistol as he backed away. “What? No!”

“Madame de Medici offered me twice your fee.” Jack shrugged. “You got played.”

“This is impossible!”

“Quite possible.” Jack returned the pistol to its nylon holster. “But not true this time.”

Chastain sagged against the desk. “Why would you do such a thing?”

“Had my reasons.”

He’d wanted to see Chastain’s reaction, and it hadn’t been what he’d expected.

“That was cruel!” he said, dropping back into his desk chair.

“Naw. Just serving up a dose of reality. So, just what is this artifact?” Jack pointed to a huge Olmec stone head in a corner. “Not something like that, is it?”

Hysteria tinged Chastain’s twittering laugh. “Oh, goodness no! It’s a ring — an ancient ring. I’ve drawn a diagram of the interior of the mausoleum so you can find the hiding place.”

Jack didn’t like this, any of it. But Chastain had called while Gia and Vicky were back in Iowa visiting her folks and he felt the need for a brief change of scenery. A fat fee, round-trip transportation to New Orleans in a private jet. It had all sounded too good to be true.

And naturally that was how it was turning out.

Hit man. Sheesh. He hadn’t bargained for that. But if he could sneak in and sneak back out of this mausoleum with no one the wiser, everything would be cool. He’d stop by the French Quarter for a fried-oyster po’ boy and then be on his way.

“All right, let’s get this over with. And money up-front — all of it.”

“Certainly.” Chastain reached for an envelope on a nearby table in the shape of an elephant. “Cash in hundreds, as agreed.” Another one of those Percy Dovetonsils smiles. “I take it Uncle Sam won’t be seeing any of that.”

Jack said nothing as he pocketed the envelope. He wouldn’t know a 1040 if it poked him in the eye.

Chastain said, “I was concerned you might not be armed, but no longer. I’ll have my man drive you over to the plantation and—”

“You’ll show me how to get there, then have your man drive me to where I can hail a cab.”

Arrive in a silver Maybach Landaulet. Yeah, that would work.

“Very well. But be prepared for deadly force.”

“Uh-huh. Got a map?”

After watching Chastain trace a path along the Mississippi to the location of the old Chastain plantation on River Road, Jack let himself out onto the front porch to wait for the car. He stood between two of the massive columns, staring out at the misty night and listening to his forebrain playing “Should I Stay or Should I Go?” by The Clash while his hindbrain blasted “Go Now.”

Something definitely rotten in New Orleans. A guy with a contract out on him didn’t stand at a window. He’d have all the curtains drawn and all the doors barricaded. So Jack had pulled his pistol to see how he’d react. In the context of having your name on a contract, “This is impossible!” was not a response that made any sense when looking down the muzzle of a gun.

But it made plenty of sense if the contract didn’t exist.

Chastain was lying — probably about many things. The smart thing to do was walk away. But Jack’s interest was piqued. What was the game here? He’d come a long way, the money was good, and he felt a need to see this through.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The air was different here. Heavier than New York’s. Manhattan was old, and he’d found ancient secrets in its hidden corners. But this place — the atmosphere was laden with the rot of dark mysteries with maybe even a touch of magic hovering on the edges. Jack had seen magic. He hated magic.

Be prepared for deadly force.

Jack was hoping to avoid that, but he’d be ready.

Michael Quinn stood flat against the side of the Boudreaux vault in the family cemetery of the Chastain plantation, listening. His ears were attuned to hear the faintest rustle of movement. A sliver of moon cast meager light, but that didn’t stand against him. He had learned the art of seeing by night.

The vault was filled top to bottom with decaying coffins or the sun-cremated dead, so he couldn’t hide inside. Besides, the door was sealed. The Boudreaux family had long ago left the area and it was doubtful that the vault would ever be unsealed. But he had no interest in the Boudreaux family tonight.

Still, he hadn’t been desperate enough to forget all sense and wait inside the Chastain mausoleum. The crumbling old Boudreaux vault was adorned with gargoyles and angels, strange mix that it might be, and a good place to wait. In the darkness, if a piece of his head showed as he watched the night, he might appear to be simply part of a gargoyle.

The Chastain mausoleum had a gate and a door and a chapel inside filled with an altar and chairs. The walls themselves were lined with coffins; two sarcophagi stood to each side of the chairs that allowed seating. While the old Chastain plantation had burned to the ground during the Civil War, the family had merely moved on into the city of New Orleans — and every decade or so, a new Chastain joined his or her ancestors.

He knew the mausoleum well; he’d come out here often enough in his misspent youth with friends. Adolescents loved to sneak out to the ruins of the Chastain plantation and into the old cemetery to tell ghost stories and try to scare themselves — and dare one another to sleep in the mausoleum. They were somewhat outside the French Quarter and the old section of the city where the timeworn buildings and Spanish and French architecture ruled in the unique and beautiful aura of faded elegance that created the atmosphere of New Orleans. Far from the jazz bands and commercial pop that emanated from the clubs on Bourbon.

Yet, here, out in the bayou area, Michael felt even more a part of the essence of Orleans Parish. Here, the cicadas were rubbing their wings; he heard the rustle of the wind through skeletal trees that scattered the graveyard. And beneath the meager glow of the moon, he felt the pervasion of death and history and something lonely and sad as well.

The cemetery was not the size of St. Louis, but was built in the true style of the “cities of the dead” that were so much a part of the South Louisiana landscape. Eerie by night, the small and large tombs did seem to make up their own city and it was easy to imagine that ghostly denizens might emerge from the wrought iron gates and different archways and openings at any minute, ready to dance beneath the sliver of moonlight.

The vigil seemed long. The tomb he leaned against seemed cold despite the sultry weather of the night. His muscles began to tighten.

There. Movement.

Quinn saw someone in dark clothing — almost invisible in the night — moving like a wraith. He appeared to slip through the iron gate and the giant wooden doors of the structure. They must have been left ajar. How? By whom?

Quinn waited, damning the fact that his own heartbeat seemed loud in the night. He watched; he’d seen only one person. He’d begun his vigil almost two hours early to see who would come.

He didn’t head across the overgrown path to the front of the vault. He knew it well. Hell, he’d slept in the damned thing. The Chastain dead were apparently not vengeful; nothing had happened to him. And, oddly enough, he could be grateful now that he did know the vault so well.

He knew of a small entrance at the back, behind the altar. Apparently, one of the Chastain founding family members had liked to enter unobserved and mourn his dead.

Quinn hurried around as quickly as he could, ever watchful of the front.

Nothing.

Coming to the rear, he took his time, barely breathing as he carefully pried open the rear iron door, praying it wouldn’t screech. No one had used it in some time but the vines and weeds that should have nearly choked it had been pulled away.

Something was off here. But still, he was sure he could use this passage to get the jump on whoever was inside.

He eased the door open just wide enough to get his body through. He dropped and rolled behind the altar as quickly as he could. The rear wall offered broken stained glass windows and the weak illumination of the moon came through what remained of the colored glass in a strange purple color. The air smelled musty, but no surprise there.

A tile tilted under his left shoe. Had the intruder hidden back here? If so, where was he now? Something within Quinn wanted to investigate that tile, pry it up—

Later.

He held his breath and listened. No sound. Not even the other’s breathing. Was he holding his breath, too?

No. The mausoleum felt empty. But how could that be? Quinn had seen him go in.

Pulling his revolver, he moved out from behind the altar and crept around, searching. The place was empty. But that was imposs—

A sudden flurry of movement stunned him — someone moving with lightning speed, hurtling toward him. Quinn spun away but something cold and metallic rammed none too gently against the base of his skull.

“Another move and your brain stem comes out your nose.”

The pistol’s muzzle was positioned to do just what the intruder said, so Quinn froze, cursing himself. He’d played just about every role known to man in life, from idiot hero-addict to cop and now investigator of the unusual — and he wasn’t accustomed to being the one taken by surprise.

But, hell, he’d also learned how to talk and stall, how to retreat to fight again — and this seemed the right time for that.

“Okay, okay.”

The other man snickered as he removed Quinn’s revolver from his grasp. “Some hit man.”

The words stunned Quinn. “What — what did you say?”

“You heard me.”

“You called me a hit man.”

“On your knees. Gotta little hog-tying to do.”

“Wait just a goddamn minute. Who do you think I am?”

“That lady de Medici’s boy. Now on your knees or I put your own slugs through them.”

Madame de Medici? Quinn thought. He thinks I work for her?

“I’ve had no contact with the madame. Ever. I don’t know where you got your information, but I was hired by the owner, Jules Chastain.”

He could feel the other man stiffen behind him.

“Bullshit.”

“No, true shit.” He spoke quickly. “Reach into my jacket pocket for my ID. My name is Michael Quinn. I’m a private investigator in New Orleans.”

The muzzle pressed harder against his skull as the man reached around, found the folder, and removed it.

“It’s too dark to read in here anyway.”

“You mean you came without a flashlight?”

“No.” His tone was annoyed. “It’s just that my hands are full at the moment.”

He shoved Quinn toward the chairs. “Have a seat while I figure this out.”

Quinn did as he was told. The guy seemed dangerous but Quinn felt no fear of him. Odd. It was occurring to him that they’d both been taken — he hoped it was occurring to the other guy, too.

A flashlight glowed and Quinn caught a glimpse of some nondescript features, then the beam shone straight into his face.

“This could be fake.”

Quinn held up a hand to shield his eyes. “Yeah, it could be, but it’s not.”

The ID folder sailed through the light and landed in his lap.

“I don’t know why I believe you, but I do. Why did Chastain hire you?”

“To protect this place from a thief he was tipped was coming. That would be you, I guess.”

Quinn winced inwardly. It had seemed like a nothing job; he hadn’t even told Danni about it. Chastain was rich; he and Danni often needed hefty sums in their line of work: pulling in a nice, up-front paycheck for a few hours of work while she was busy with a celebration ceremony had seemed like a damned good idea.

He should have known there’d be a catch — like nearly getting his fool self killed.

The other man barked a bitter laugh. “No, I’m no thief. Chastain hired me to retrieve a ring he’d hidden here.”

“What?”

“Yeah. What the fuck?”

The silence lengthened between them until Quinn finally said, “Can I have my pistol back?”

“It’s a revolver, and a revolver is not strictly a pistol.”

Quinn had to laugh. “You mean I let a gun nerd get the drop on me?”

“Facts is facts, and no, you can’t have it back. At least not yet.”

“Not yet is okay. But how the hell did you get the drop on me?”

“Chastain told me about the rear door. I didn’t trust him, so I went in the front and out the back, then watched the place. I saw you go in the back so I followed.”

Quinn had to admit that was pretty clever, even as he kicked himself for falling for it. He’d seen how the vines at the rear had been disturbed but he’d come in anyway.

“You do realize we’ve been set up, right?”

Another short, sharp laugh. “Ya think? I knew this smelled bad.”

“You don’t sound like a local.”

“Got that right. Chastain told me to be prepared for ‘deadly force.’ He’d made it sound defensive. Now I’m thinking he wanted me to use it. What’s he got against you?”

“Nothing that I know of. Barely know the man. But I do know him better than you. I’m local. You know my name. What’s yours?”

“Jack.”

“ ‘Jack’ what?”

“Just Jack’ll do. Seems like I was supposed to kill you.”

Quinn’s muscles tightened, ready to leap. He’d actually been declared ‘dead’ once already. He didn’t fear death.

But he sure as hell didn’t want to die.

“And?” he asked flatly.

A shrug. “Don’t see any reason to.” Jack pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it to Quinn. “This is supposedly where Chastain hid the ring I was supposed to bring him. Suppose it’s bogus, too.”

Quinn looked over the diagram and the instructions.

“Don’t you want a light?” Jack said.

“Don’t need it.” Quinn studied the diagram. “There should be a jagged little crack in the bottom of the first vault — the oldest — according to this.”

He ignored the fact that the other man had a gun while he still didn’t, and chanced turning his back on him to head to the rear of the vault and hunker down. He looked at the diagram again and stuck his hand into the jagged crack on the lowest shelf — that of Antioch Chastain, founder of the clan. As the diagram suggested, his hand hit a box; a wooden box. He withdrew it — along with a mass of spiderwebs and bone dust. He looked at Jack, and then opened the box.

“Empty,” they announced together.

“Figures,” Jack said. “The whole thing was a setup.”

“But why? He wanted us both here for a reason.”

“Why here? And by the way, haven’t you folks heard of graves?”

Quinn laughed. “The water table’s too high. And, actually, the cemeteries were conceived during the Spanish rule, and their design is according to the custom of the time. Good custom here — bury someone and you could find their coffin floating along in the next heavy rain.”

“So you pigeonhole them in these little buildings? Doesn’t it get ripe after a while? And what happens when you run out of shelves?”

“Here in Louisiana, the rule is ‘a year and a day.’ The heat is so great that bodies mostly cremate in that time. These tombs are like ovens. Families shovel the bits and bones of the remains of one loved one to a mutual ‘holding’ section at the foot of the shelf so that another family member can find his or her resting place for a year and a day — or until the shelf is needed again.”

“That’s gross. What country is this?”

“The United States of Louisiana. We have our own way of doing things.”

“I guess you do.” Jack looked around. “Great setting for a horror film, though. Hey, you think that’s why he got us here — to film us fighting? Some sick YouTube snuff vid?”

“You think he’s hidden a camera?”

“He didn’t fly me down from New York so we could have this nice little chat. Gotta be some reason he put us both here.”

Quinn didn’t see a camera anywhere, but memory of the loose tile flashed through his head. “It’s probably nothing, but—”

He ducked behind the altar and pried up the tile. Only dirt beneath it. But soft dirt.

He dug and struck metal within the first inch. He worked his fingers around it and came up with a bracelet made of strange metal and carved with even stranger designs. A green stone the size of a dime was embedded in its center. It looked familiar.

“I know this piece: the Cidsev Nelesso.”

“Sounds like a gelato flavor,” Jack said.

“It was found sealed in a sunken temple dedicated to an as yet unidentified deity in the drowned city of Heracleion.”

“So what’s it doing here?”

“Good question. It and part of a papyrus scroll found with it were smuggled out and sold on the black market. The buyer was purportedly Chastain.”

“And you know all this how?”

Quinn hesitated. “I’m a private investigator. And I’ve been a cop for the City of New Orleans. But, these days—”

He held off. He was always careful, especially with strangers — and more especially, New Yorkers. But, to his great humiliation, this guy could have killed him.

And he hadn’t.

“Part of what I do these days is work with a woman,” he said softly. “Danni Cafferty. Her father owned a shop and I worked with him until his death. And now Danni and I… collect things. Unusual things. Angus Cafferty was a real scholar and, in his business, he needed to know about history and — things.”

“Things?”

“Curiosities of evil,” Quinn said. “Believe me or not. Objects that are cursed or that create evil in those who know how to use them or seek power through them. And I have a feeling now that we’re not dealing with any film project — we’re dealing with a thing that can cause evil.”

Quinn waited for the other man—Jack—to tell him he was crazy.

Jack didn’t say any such thing. Instead, “What about this Madame de Medici he mentioned?”

“She’s another notorious collector, but the way this is going, I doubt she knows anything — just a red herring in the story Chastain concocted for you.”

Jack took the bracelet and held it up, turning it this way and that in the wan moonlight filtering through the stained glass.

“Valuable?”

“ ‘Priceless’ might be a better word. It’s one of a kind. Supposedly one of the Seven Infernals.”

He saw Jack stiffen. “An Infernal?” He shoved it back into Quinn’s hands. “Here.”

“You know of the Infernals?”

“Unfortunately, yeah. Met one.”

Something in his expression said it had been a harrowing encounter. Jack hadn’t doubted Quinn — and Quinn didn’t doubt Jack for a minute.

“But hardly anybody’s even heard of the Infernals. Even Danni—”

“Danni — your partner who collects things?”

“Her shop is called The Cheshire Cat. It’s on Royal Street. She sells art, jewelry, and innocent collectibles. And she has a separate collection of things in the basement which will never be sold.” He hesitated. “We also destroy things when they need destroying. And when there are things out there that might cause… violence or havoc, people sometimes come to her — or The Cheshire Cat.” He shrugged. “We work together most of the time; she had to be at a ceremony with a friend of ours, a voodoo priestess.”

“So you’re moonlighting on your own?”

Quinn cast Jack a sharp glance. “That’s kind of what you’re doing, isn’t it?”

“This is how I make my living — just not so far from home.”

Quinn continued with, “The upper half of the scroll Chastain bought with the bracelet was copied before it was stolen. That copy and the original of the bottom half of the scroll were left to Danni on consignment.”

“Who left it?”

“Some weird old guy. Wouldn’t leave his name. Said he’d be back after she sold it. There didn’t seem to be anything — well, not right about it.” He hesitated and then said, “We usually have a nose for things that aren’t — right.”

“He trusted her?”

Quinn shrugged, hiding a burst of pride. “She has a flawless reputation.”

“Any buyer?”

Quinn felt a mild jolt of unease as he remembered Danni mentioning that she had sold the fragment.

And to whom she had sold it.

“Yes. Madame de Medici.”

“I thought you didn’t know the woman,” Jack said sharply.

“I don’t know her; I know of her. She doesn’t come into the shop herself; she sends a minion.”

Jack laughed. “Minion? She’s got a minion?”

“A number of them. Anyway, she’s purchased from Danni before and nothing bad has ever come of it.”

“So she does figure in this.”

“What the hell — maybe. But I still think Chastain is taking the two of us on some kind of a ride.”

“We’ll worry about Madame de Medici later,” Jack said, pointing to the bracelet. “What’s the deal on this thing?”

“The top half of the scroll claims the Cidsev Nelesso confers the ‘gift’ of knowing the thoughts of others. ‘No one can hide their thoughts from the wearer.’”

“I can see where that could come in handy during a negotiation.”

“For a collector like Chastain, who’s always haggling, it’s invaluable.”

“What’s the downside?”

Quinn was surprised by the question. “Why do you think there’s a downside?” He felt uneasy. They should have sensed something bad was going to go down.

“Always a downside with an Infernal.”

“How can you know that?”

“Supposedly there are seven Infernals. One of them damn near took the two people who mean more to me than anything else in this world.”

“How?”

“Too long a story for here and now.”

“Okay. Where is it now?”

“Gone. And don’t ask where because I don’t know. But it didn’t go alone. It took somebody with it.”

From Jack’s expression, Quinn knew better than to ask who.

Jack cleared his throat and said, “Enough about me. What’s the bottom half of the scroll say?”

“It says the bracelet isn’t of Greek or Egyptian origin — calls it ‘one of the Seven Infernals from the First Age.’ I obviously don’t have to explain that to you. But its ‘gift’ is considered a curse, so maybe that’s your downside.”

Jack shook his head. “If you know someone’s thoughts, they can’t hide anything from you. The truth can be ugly, and it can hurt, but knowing what’s really going down is better than getting the shaft.”

Quinn couldn’t disagree. The advantage in any relationship, business or personal, was obvious.

“But either way,” Jack said. “Why the hell are we here?”

“According to the scroll, the Cidsev Nelesso, like all Seven Infernals, must be triggered to work.”

Jack’s expression was bleak. “Yeah, I know.”

Quinn wondered just what the hell had happened to him.

He held up the bracelet. “Well, this one requires violence to activate it.”

“So, there you have it. That’s why we’re here. Was I actually supposed to kill you?”

“The scroll says death isn’t necessary. Just violence.”

Jack began wandering in a tight circle, muttering. “Curse. No one can hide their thoughts from the wearer. Violence.”

Suddenly Jack whirled and punched him in the gut. Quinn doubled over, as much in surprise as in pain.

“Are you out of your—?”

A right cross to the jaw snapped his head back.

That did it. If this son of a bitch wanted a donnybrook, he was going to get one. Quinn charged, head down, catching Jack in the midsection and slamming him back against the shelves.

“You son of a bitch!” Jack gasped in a breathless voice.

And then he grabbed Quinn’s arm and flipped him on his ass.

Ah, hell! Quinn thought, rolling and leaping to his feet.

But he was smiling as he charged at Jack.

“Is it going as you hoped?” said a soft, feminine voice behind him.

Jules Chastain whirled, then relaxed. Even in the meager light he recognized Madame de Medici. He had found a vantage point fifty yards from his family mausoleum and had settled in to see if the seeds he had planted bore violent fruit. How had she found him?

“Not quite. And why are you here?”

“As an involved party, I have a right, yes?”

He had been trying to place her accent in the years since she’d appeared in New Orleans, but it remained elusive.

“You recommended the New York mercenary, nothing more.”

She said she’d heard of a so-called Repairman Jack who hired himself out to “fix” situations. She had assured Jules he was real and reliable, though known to have a violent streak. She’d even passed along his number. Jules had liked the violent-streak aspect, and had hired Michael Quinn as cannon fodder — everyone in New Orleans knew not to mess with Quinn. The two made for a combustible combination.

She focused her amber gaze on him. “But I have an interest in the Cidsev Nelesso as well. After all, I used to own it.”

Those eyes. One could almost fall into them. Could almost believe she really had lived for millennia.

But Jules chose to humor her rather than challenge her. The Cidsev Nelesso had been found in Heracleion, which had sunk in the third century BC. The idea of Madame de Medici once having owned that bracelet was beyond delusional. More like psychotic.

So, never challenge a psycho.

“I hope you’re not thinking of trying anything sneaky here.”

“Dear Jules, the idea never crossed my mind. I will be quite happy to see it on your wrist. I lost it in a civil upheaval. Where it lands after that is up to fate.”

Whatever happened to the Cidsev Nelesso, dear lady, it landed with me.

He had made up that story for Jack about stealing it from her. Quite clever, he thought. But he had bought it fair and square on the black market. It was his.

God, she was beautiful. She’d emigrated from Cairo during the so-called Arab Spring and wound up in New Orleans with a trove of antiquities. She tended to dress in gauzy fabrics that covered everything and hid nothing. He’d asked her to dinner a hundred times but she’d refused. I’m not looking for a relationship, was her eternal excuse.

Neither am I, dear lady. I wish only one night with you.

He jumped at the sound of gunfire echoing from the mausoleum.

“Ah,” he said. “Now I am happy.”

“It should be activated now,” she said, turning and sauntering away. “Don’t forget: put it on right away or it will lose power.”

He bit back a laugh. So convincing.

He made himself comfortable and waited until the police and the ambulance arrived. He watched the EMTs carry “Just Jack” out on a stretcher with Michael Quinn walking behind. Both alive? Quel dommage. He hoped death wasn’t required to trigger the bracelet.

When all the intruders were gone, Jules made his way to the mausoleum and slipped through the still-open front gates. He headed to the rear of the altar and pried up the tile. A little digging and there it was: the Cidsev Nelesso.

He noted with glee that its stone had turned from green to red, confirmation that the bracelet’s power had been ignited.

He sighed. “You are such a genius, Jules.”

He slipped it over his left hand and was taken aback when it tightened itself around his wrist. But not too tight. Okay, not a problem. Custom fit wasn’t a bad thing. And he had no intention of taking it off anyway. If this trinket lived up to only a fraction of its advance publicity, the world would be his oyster.

As he stepped out into the night he heard a voice.

Two bucks, two bucks, need a dollar more to get a bottle, small bottle but better’n nothin’.

He looked around and saw a wino stumbling past the Boudreaux vault. His first thought was to drive out the trespasser, but then he realized the bum wasn’t talking. Jules was hearing him in his head. Hearing his thoughts!

Dear God, it worked. It worked!

Other thoughts streamed in.

Another drink and she’ll be ready.

Oh, I hope I don’t hurl, I’ll totally die if I hurl.

A young couple out for the night? He wondered where they were. But further speculation was cut off by more voices in his head.

Shout it was over Jim greatly alarmed me from the deepest reproach as it were soon all the other company I never thought he would my convict Do you mean that? but that it was in tomorrow but this style I had best endeavors let to see him next day when living had a but he had had no time after and apparently out old chap found the file still in—

He pressed his hands to his ears but couldn’t stop the voices, the thoughts from other heads streaming in from all over the city. The state. The county. The world. Mixing and interweaving into a mad torrent that ran straight into his consciousness.

“Stop!” he screamed.

But it didn’t stop. It thickened and quickened and ran more furiously into his brain.

Turns of yours this question mais ce style que j’ai eu mieux s’efforce de laisser burns that dread serious subcutaneous sickness of musze lub powiedzieĆ Że wiemy, Że nie ma chwili us and arms make coil must grunt Wir wurde mit einem guten Namen sicher glücklich cutaneous forthy takes the good wasn’t myself might have a life and the muscle to heartache if a—

He clawed at the bracelet but it wouldn’t fit over his hand. He pushed at it, digging its edge into his skin, drawing blood, but it was too tight to remove, too tight! He had to get it off!

Jules Chastain ran screaming through the night in search of help.

The ambulance pulled up in front of the emergency entrance at Tulane Medical Center.

Jack sat up and looked at the EMT at his side. “Thanks for the lift.”

“Hey, no worries,” the young man told him. “Quinn called, that’s enough for me.”

Good guy to know, this Michael Quinn.

As Jack exited the vehicle, a car pulled up behind it. Quinn sat behind the wheel. Jack nodded as he slipped into the passenger’s seat.

Quinn rubbed his jaw before driving out into traffic. “That’s one mean right hook you have.”

Jack said, “You’re no slouch yourself. My ribs are bruised to shit.”

Quinn laughed. “I’m glad I saw that green stone turn red when it did. It’s going to be hard enough explaining. Well, hell, I think we’re both beat up enough.”

“Seemed the right thing to do — letting Chastain get in there and take the bracelet after we ‘activated’ it,” Jack said. “If there really is a curse, then, the man deserved to have it.”

Quinn offered him a grim smile. “I hope you’re right about this — right about the way the curse will work.”

Jack’s own experience with an Infernal had come to a tragic end, but it could have been so much worse. They weren’t called Infernals for nothing.

“I’m just guessing,” he said. “No one can hide their thoughts from the wearer could also read Everyone’s thoughts are revealed to the wearer. And hearing literally everyone’s thoughts would definitely be a curse.”

“Nice touch,” Quinn told him. “I mean, firing your Glock into the floor after our fight. And reburying that bracelet so that Chastain could find it once we were out.”

“Not a bad deal that you’re friends with half the cops and emergency techs in the city, too.”

Quinn shrugged. “Well, like I told you, I was a cop once. Still work with them — with one great cop, an old partner, Larue. He doesn’t want me to explain things like curses and Infernals — he just wants me to take care of them.”

“I tend to avoid cops — nothing personal. It’s just the less they know about me, the better.”

“You have warrants out on you?”

Jack shrugged. “Need a name on a warrant, don’t you?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Well, then, I guess not. As for the here and now, we should know how things pan out by tomorrow. You know a place I can bunk for the night?”

Quinn smiled, not at all grimly then. “Yeah, I know a great place. Right on Royal. And when Danni wants to know why I’m beat to hell, I can say, ‘You should see the other guy’—and then show her that other guy.”

Jack laughed. He could get to like this Quinn.

It didn’t take long to reach the center of the French Quarter. Jack was impressed with the historic building with the sign that read THE CHESHIRE CAT.

But they didn’t enter by the front. Quinn hit a button on his dash, a garage door opened, and they moved through a beautiful garden courtyard to enter by a side door.

A woman was waiting there, tall and lithe, with a giant dog by her side.

“That’s just Wolf,” Quinn told him, greeting the dog, who accepted Jack right away because his master suggested he do so.

Quinn seemed a little awkward as he greeted the woman.

“Danni, you’re back early.”

“So I am,” she said, staring from Quinn to Jack and then back at Quinn again. “I guess you two should come in and get cleaned up — and patched up. And I guess you’re going to tell me that I should see the other guys?”

Jack looked at Quinn. They both smiled.

Jack said, “We are the other guys.”

“Interesting,” Danni said. “I’ll put on some tea and get out the whiskey. I’m looking forward to hearing all about it.”

Normally Jack would be looking for a beer, but after tonight, whiskey was definitely in order.

In the morning, Quinn tracked down Larue by phone and learned he was at the hospital. He rounded up Jack and drove him there. The front desk gave them the room number and they headed up.

No surprise to find his old friend standing next to the bed where Chastain lay heavily sedated. His left arm was thickly bandaged — and Quinn noticed with a start it was much shorter than it should be.

“Quinn,” Larue said, shaking his head. “I guess I expected to see you here at some point. Damnedest thing. Chastain — he of untold riches — suddenly went mad and cut off his own hand. You know anything about that? And who’s your friend?”

“Jack. Jack, this is Detective Larue.”

“Jack?”

“Just Jack.”

Larue studied him a moment, then shrugged. “Anything I need to worry about?” he asked Quinn.

Quinn stared at the pale, unconscious man. “He’s going to make it?”

“Minus his hand and wrist.”

“How did he wind up here?”

“He’s lucky he’s alive. Beat cop found him wandering the streets, mumbling incoherently. I was afraid we had a psycho out there somewhere, chopping on people. But according to the EMT who worked with him first, Chastain said he cut his own hand off because it had ‘betrayed’ him. Not sure what the hell that means — bastard wasn’t even drunk or on anything. Tox reports came back clean.”

“Anybody find the hand?”

Larue shook his head. “Gone. Dog might have run off with it. Or a big rat.”

“How about some jewelry?” Jack said. “Like, oh, say, a bracelet?”

Larue stared at them both. “What bracelet?”

Hell. That meant the Cidsev Nelesso was still out there.

Quinn shrugged and said, “Well, I was just thinking. If you cut your hand off at the wrist, it might have been because you had something on the wrist that you couldn’t get off. You know — something that had ‘betrayed’ you.”

“I’ve got cops looking in Dumpsters — no hand,” Larue said. “Strange as hell, huh? Should I be looking for a bracelet?”

“If you find the hand, you’ll find something with it, I would think,” Quinn said.

Larue shook his head and glanced at both men. “You make sure I know if there’s something I should be worrying about, Quinn. Mr. — Mr. Jack, enjoy the city.”

Larue walked by them.

Quinn watched as Jack paused at Chastain’s bedside. “What goes around,” he murmured.

Quinn nodded. “No one dead. That works for me.”

And he now realized why he’d sensed nothing wrong about the bracelet: there hadn’t been anything wrong until it was activated.

Jack said, “Where the hell do you think the hand and bracelet could be?”

Quinn had an idea but kept it to himself.

“Need a ride to the airport?”

Jack shook his head. “The TSA and I aren’t on cordial terms.”

Now that was interesting.

“Well, I’m afraid I don’t have a private jet on hand like Chastain.”

“Didn’t figure you did. Guess I’ll rent a car.”

Quinn figured that meant whatever ID Jack was carrying was bogus.

“So, your ID’s good enough for Hertz but not TSA?”

Jack gave him a long look before shrugging. “It’s passed TSA before but I’m not one for tempting fate.”

“Long drive.”

Jack sighed. “Can’t say I’m looking forward to it, but I guess it’s a way to see some country.”

“I take it you don’t leave New York much?”

Jack shrugged. “What for?”

Quinn had to laugh. He felt the same about New Orleans.

Traffic was light. Thirty minutes later Quinn dropped Jack at the airport Hertz office.

“If you’re ever in New Orleans again,” Quinn said.

Jack shook his hand. “Don’t hold your breath.”

Madame de Medici stood without moving, admiring the Cidsev Nelesso. It remained clamped around Jules Chastain’s flesh where his hand, wrist, and distal forearm lay on a metal tray in her private museum.

She had told Jules last night that she’d be quite happy to see it on his wrist, and that had been true. In fact, she would always see it there. Chastain’s extremity had to be properly preserved, of course — she knew the ancient ways of curing flesh. After that, she would place the ensemble in the glass display case she had prepared for it.

She was not tempted to wear it — not in the least. She was no fool. But she was delighted to have it back in her collection.

She smoothed back a length of elegant dark hair, quite satisfied for the moment.

Chastain had wanted the Cidsev Nelesso so badly.

Now he would wear it.

Forever.