NightWind 1st Book: HellWind Trilogy Read online

  Once more the flash of lightning lit the room in a strobe-like wash of incandescence and the dark shape before Louvenia Yelverton was suddenly cast in horrific detail.

  She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Her pupils dilated with terror. Her body went rigid as stone. Within her chest, her heart skipped several beats then slammed painfully against her ribcage. Her eyes flickered then rolled back in her head as she slumped to the floor. Her mind clicked on the image she had seen; clicked and took the picture with her down into the bottomless realms of insanity from which she would never emerge. As her soul struggled with what it had seen, as the picture developed in her churning mind, the corruption of that image etched its likeness on her cerebral cortex and would stay with her forever.

  Lauren’s phone rang at 7:30 the next morning and she ran to answer it, her toothbrush dripping paste into her hand. “Hello?”

  “Lauren, this is Angeline Hellstrom.”

  She swallowed the minty foam in her mouth and nearly gagged. “Yes, ma’am? Is something wrong?”

  “I’m afraid so, dear.” There was a pause. “It’s Louvenia, Lauren. I’m afraid she’s had a mental breakdown.”

  “A mental breakdown?” Lauren shivered.

  “You’ll have to open the store for me today. I’m sending the key over with Delbert, my driver. He’ll pick you up.” The elegant lady laughed. “I’m afraid it’s still sprinkling out there. Under the circumstances, would you consider accepting the position of manager at the store?”

  “Manager?”

  “I have every confidence in the world that you can run the store efficiently. I’ll come in tomorrow or the next day to talk about specifics. Louvenia sent me a list of girls who had put in applications at the store. I’ll help you choose a sales force you can work with.”

  Lauren’s head was spinning. She sat down on her bed and stared at the far wall. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say yes.” Angeline laughed. “I really need your help, dear.”

  “Of course,” Lauren said absently. “I’ll do whatever you need me to do, Mrs. Hellstrom.”

  “Angeline,” the other woman said. “I would prefer you call me by my given name.”

  Lauren dressed in a state of numbness as she readied for work. Her hands trembled as she buttoned her blouse, fumbled with the zipper on her skirt. Nothing could have prepared her for the stunning news she had received that morning. Even as the phone rang again and she unthinkingly reached out for it, bringing it to her ear, she had still not taken in the full extent of her new circumstances.

  “Yes?” she breathed into the receiver.

  “Did you hear what happened to Louvenia?” she heard her mother’s loud question come blaring over the phone.

  “Yes, Mama.” She blinked away the lethargy into that she’d settled. “Mrs. Hellstrom just phoned me. She’s making me the new—”

  “I always said that woman was high strung. It’s those kind of people what go over the deep end and wind up in nut wards.” Maxine Fowler clucked her tongue. “Got what she deserved, if you ask me!”

  “It was everything that’s been happening at the store, Mama,” Lauren tried to explain. “Mrs. Yelverton seemed very upset about Beth Janacek’s—”

  “I suppose you know how she died.” There was a snort of derision. “Got it straight from Monique DeSalle at the Coroner’s Office. That Janacek hussy choked to death on a man’s thing!” She chuckled. “I always figured she liked that kind of depraved behavior. Sluts like her will do just about anything to keep a man happy, except this time she tried to swallow more than would fit down her whoring throat! Fitting end to her, don’t you think?”

  Lauren winced. “You shouldn’t talk about the dead like that, Mama.”

  “You going in to work today?” her mother asked, ignoring the reprimand.

  Lauren sighed. “Mrs. Hellstrom has made me the new—”

  “You call me if you hear anything else about all this,” Maxine Fowler ordered before she hung up the phone.

  Lauren replaced the receiver and stood up. Her mother’s calls never failed to depress her and this one had been no exception. She looked up as a knock came at her door.

  Wiley Jackson cupped his hand on the screen door, trying to peer through the glass on the inside door, but the hazy silk of the curtain prevented him from seeing into the interior of Lauren Fowler’s living room. He heard footsteps inside and moved back from the door.

  A look of surprise passed over Lauren’s face as she opened the door. “Sheriff Jackson,” she said. She pushed open the screen door. “What can I do for you?”

  “I need to ask you a few questions, Miss Fowler,” he said as he pushed past her into the living room. He scanned the little room. It was just as he imagined an old maid’s parlor to look like: prissy and so clean you could eat off the high gleam on the wooden floor. He looked about him for the multitude of cats he expected to find.

  “Would you like to sit down?”

  He didn’t see any damned cats, but he knew the woman had to have one. All old maids did. He turned to face her. “I suppose you know what’s happened to Louvenia Yelverton.”

  Lauren nodded. “Mrs. Hellstrom called this morning.” Her face fell. “I am sorry about Mrs. Yelverton.”

  “But not about Karla Cooper or Beth Janacek,” the Sheriff accused. As the woman’s eyes jerked up to his, he looked away from her, walked away from the front door. “It wasn’t any secret in town that there weren’t no love lost between you three.” He peered into the immaculate little dining alcove and sniffed in disapproval. “And from what Inez Montes told me this morning, the two of you didn’t get along, either.”

  “We weren’t friends, no, sir, but we weren’t exactly enemies, either,” Lauren agreed. Her puzzled frown followed the Sheriff as he craned his head into her tiny kitchen. “I don’t understand what this is all about, Sheriff Jackson.”

  He walked into the little hallway, glanced into the woman’s spotlessly clean bathroom then pushed open the door to her bedroom.

  “Are you looking for something, Sheriff?” Lauren asked, her heart thumping in her chest.

  “You seen Cree this morning?”

  “Syntian?” she asked, surprise lifting her brows.

  “Any other men hanging around your skirts, Miss Fowler?” Jackson sneered.

  Lauren’s mouth dropped open. “You thought he was here, didn’t you?”

  “He ain’t at home,” the Sheriff answered. “I figured he might have stopped by for...” His smile was nasty. “...breakfast, maybe?”

  Her chin quivered with outrage. “I assure you, Sheriff Jackson, I am not in the habit of entertaining gentleman in my home at this hour.”

  “Or at any other, huh?” He chuckled. He walked to the door and opened it. “When you hear from him, you tell him I want him to come into the office for a few questions.”

  “If I hear from him,” Lauren snapped. She was taken back when the Sheriff paused on the threshold and looked back at her with a sly smirk.

  “Oh, it’s my guess you’ll be hearing from him, Miss Fowler. I don’t know how you did it, but you done caught his attention good, didn’t you?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You tell him to call me,” demanded Jackson. He tipped his hat impudently and walked off the porch, ducking his head under the light patter of rain as he ran to his car.

  Neither he nor Lauren saw the black-clad figure hidden under the camouflaging branches of the spreading live oak tree across the street next to the Atherton’s. Nor did either of them see the bloodlust that turned the dark umber eyes to red pinpoints of pure hate.

  Wiley Jackson was a good driver. He always had been. Therefore it was quite a shock to everyone who knew him when he careened out of control on the way out to the truck stop in the east part of town and crashed into a gas tanker truck that had broken down along the side of the road. Investigators at the scene later that morning couldn’t figure out w
hy there were no skid marks on the highway.

  “Didn’t even look like he tried to stop,” one of the deputies remarked.

  Nor could they explain why Jackson’s car, according to the driver of the tanker who was setting out flares at the back of the truck, had suddenly picked up speed before slamming into the rear of the semi.

  “It was almost like he just aimed for my truck. I barely had time to run across the highway ‘fore he hit me,” the driver had said. “One minute that car was angling ‘cross the road and the next it was under the back of my trailer.” He shivered. “Then the tank ruptured and that ammonia oxide went all over the damned place.”

  Sheriff Wiley James Jackson, age fifty-nine and the father of four girls and five boys, was pronounced dead on arrival at the Santa Rosa Hospital.

  Lauren listened in shocked silence as Angeline Hellstrom’s chauffeur told her about the grizzly death of Wiley Jackson. She managed to nod at him as he tipped his black cap to her before taking his leave. Turning her back to the gray, rainy day that still lingered beyond the plate glass window of the shop, Lauren leaned against the counter, her hands clutching the brass rim of the Formica.

  What evil had come to the little Panhandle town of Milton, Florida, she wondered? What primordial force of bad luck had come visiting? She shivered, the chill of foreboding going down her spine like lightning to a tall pine.

  The bell over the door chimed and she turned.

  He stood there, his face glistening with rain, his gaze steady on her: worried, cautious, betraying a depth of emotion she could easily see. He seemed to be awaiting the decision that was warring inside her. He made no move toward her, was not willing to make any kind of demand, afraid to scare her off.

  She felt his warmth, his eagerness to help her, to be with her, and her, alone. She sensed his concern for her state of mind as his worried gaze roamed her face.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice low and soft.

  She nodded, her lower lip trembling. Her eyes locked on his. “Would you hold me?” she asked in a tiny, quivering voice.

  He opened his arms to her.

  Lauren walked to him and stepped into his embrace, pressed her cheek against the cold dampness of his black windbreaker, folding her arms against his rock-hard chest. As his strong arms closed around her, she leaned into his strength.

  “It’ll be all right, Lauren,” he crooned to her, his breath fanning the wisps of hair at her temple as his hand moved lovingly up to cradle her head. “I’ll make things right for you. That’s what I’m here to do.”

  “I need you,” she whispered. “I need you so much.”

  She did not see the dark brown flash of triumph as he stared past her lowered head.

  “Was he there ?”

  Delbert Merrill nodded. “I saw him as I pulled away from Miss Lauren’s house.” He held the chair for his mistress. “He followed us to the shop.”

  “Do you think he noticed you?”

  Del shook his head. “He wasn’t looking at me, Miss Angeline.”

  Angeline Hellstrom nodded. “She seems to be the major force occupying his mind of late.” She let a harsh sigh escape her ruby-red lips. “I’m afraid this latest escapade of his has become a bit of a problem, Del. I did not give him permission to kill a male.”

  “I reckon he thinks Wiley deserved it.” The black man shook his head. “I’ve never known Cree to become so attached to one of his causes before.” Delbert waited for his mistress to finish the note she was writing.

  “Neither have I, and frankly it worries me.” She penned the flowing calligraphic script upon the expensive parchment page, stuffed it into a matching envelope and reached for her personal seal. Del handed her the black candle glowing on her desk and she applied a thick glob of wax to the flap of the envelope then pressed the intricate seal into the center of the wax. She handed the note to her servant.

  “Make it clear to him that this is not a request, Delbert,” she told the tall black man. “This is a command.”

  Delbert nodded, placed the envelope inside the pocket of his black wool uniform jacket, and turned to go. Her sultry voice made his pause and look back over his shoulder.

  “Don’t return without him, Delbert. He won’t want to come. Use force if you have to.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Angeline sat at her desk for a long time, her attention steady on the glittering flame of the black candle in its golden holder. In the glow of the warm light, her face shone as though it were lit from within.

  She looked forward to her confrontation with Syntian Cree.

  And to punishing him.

  “Aren’t you hungry?” she asked him after she’d ordered.

  He shook his head. “I had a late breakfast.”

  She put her hands on the red check tablecloth and twined her fingers. “I appreciate you staying with me at the store this morning.”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t have anything all that pressing that I needed to take care of this afternoon. I thought you might like some company.”

  Lauren nodded. “I did.”

  “Then I’m happy I could help,” he laughed. Something seemed to catch his eye and he looked past her. The smile slipped from his lips.

  “Syntian?” she asked.

  He started at the sound of his name and seemed to pull himself back from some revelry into that he’d fallen. “Aye, milady?”

  “Is something wrong?” she asked, watching his gaze slide past her again. She turned in her seat and saw Angeline Hellstrom’s driver walking past the sandwich shop’s window. She looked back at Syntian. “Have you met Mrs. Hellstrom?”

  He flinched. “Ah, yes. At the party the other night.” He looked down at his watch then up at her. “I really need to get going. I just remembered I have an afternoon appointment over in Warrington to look at an office.” He scooted his chair back. “Will you be all right, now?”

  Her puzzled, hurt look drove straight through him. “Sure.”

  He reached down and laid a gentle hand on hers. “I’ll call you tonight, okay?”

  She felt wistful, dreamy, looking up into his handsome face. “Promise?”

  He removed his hand. “Promise. You’ll be careful?”

  She nodded.

  Every female in the place watched him leave.

  Angeline Hellstrom paced the luxurious confines of her boudoir. Pale golden candlelight cast the only illumination within the peach moiré walls, but did little in banishing the myriad of mysterious shadows that lurked about the room. Outside, it was raining fiercely again and the diamond-shaped windowpanes of the Tudor-style house rattled in their oaken frames. A particularly savage gust pelted the side of the house and the sky outside seemed to grow darker still, sucking what remained of the natural light from the room.

  She glanced down at her watch and frowned, her pretty mouth twisting into a grimace of annoyance. It was nearly three o’clock in the afternoon and he was not here. Damn him, she thought then a wry twitter of amusement burst from her throat. The man was already damned; had been for nearly as long as there had been counted time.

  “My lady,” one of the young servant girls called out, poking her cap of auburn curls around the door. “They’re here.”

  Angeline nodded. She walked to the mirror over her vanity and checked her appearance. Satisfied with what she saw looking back at her, she sat down on the velvet loveseat that flanked the white marble fireplace along the north wall of her boudoir and waited.

  Delbert Merrill handed his cap to the downstairs maid and rolled his eyes at the girl. The dark man with him was already stalking up the stairs, his anger and his power so visible the room had turned chill.

  “He didn’t want to come,” Delbert told the girl.

  The maid shrugged. “He never does.”

  Syntian Cree felt a vein throbbing in his forehead as he took the stairs to the upper floor two at a time. He wished himself as far away from this silk-lined prison as he could get, but the comman
d that had come for him, and in the light of day at that, was one that could not be ignored. The knowledge of that cutting obligation caused his mobile mouth to harden with towering rage. With Angeline, he was not his own man and the thought of him not being so drove him nearly insane with fury.

  She heard his angry foot falls on the stairs, smiled as that hard tread came purposefully to her own door, stopped—she knew he was trying to get his fury under tight control before he came into her room—then slammed her door back on its hinges. She watched him standing on the threshold, his fists doubled at his side, glaring at her as though he could, if it were possible, consign her to the nether regions of hell.

  “I am not amused, Angeline,” he bit out, his eyes boring into her own with hot fury.

  Angeline pulled her legs up on the loveseat and tucked them beneath her. Her lashes lowered demurely over cool speculation then lifted in wide-eyed innocence. “Did you not sign a pact with me to come when I called you, Syntian?” she asked in a sweet voice.

  He reached behind him and slammed the door shut so hard he put a crack in the lintel. Stalking to her, he stopped at her feet, put his hands on his hips and glared down at her. “What the hell do you want?”

  Her smile was a slow, sardonic command, but she did not speak. One perfectly arched brow lifted in challenge.

  His glare narrowed dangerously. “No!” he shouted at her, turning on his heel.

  “I command you, Syntian,” she called out to him.

  He had reached the door, put his hand on the French handle. Her voice stopped him cold in his tracks. His breathing was rapid, ragged, and raging as he turned back to glower at her. She saw him trembling beneath the force of his anger.

  Angeline lifted her hand and crooked her finger at him. “Come, demon!” she ordered.

  He knew he had no choice in the matter. He was blood-bound to do her bidding, but even as the reminder of that hell-wrought pact flashed across his fevered brain, his hands itched to wrap themselves around her slender neck and squeeze until there was no life, human or occult, left in her buxom body.