Free Caught Forever Between by Adrian Phoenix Page A

insisting she wasn’t qualified. Helena had found someone who could, though — Alexander “Michelangelo” Paris — another Intuitive and an apprentice to a legitimate ink-slinger. Over the next five years, between his regular duties, Alex had guided and taught Cass.
    And when, six months ago, Alex had opened his own shop, and Cass’d left Helena to be his apprentice, she’d seen darkness brewing in her sister’s eyes and, beneath her cigarette-and-vanilla scent, Cass’d smelled something bitter.
    Like she did now.
    The cops were dicking around, and the Union pretended to make an effort, but nothing was being done to find Alex’s shooter. So Cass’d sent word that she sought justice through the streets, bars, and botanicas of the French Quarter, and even into the Projects. Sought justice and would pay for it.
    Her mother’s murder had never been solved, but that wasn’t going to happen with Alex.
    Tinkling bells, followed by the swoosh of the front door swinging shut, roused Cass. Her eyes flew open, and she jumped up from the lounger, heart thudding.
    The woman standing just inside the door appeared to be in her late fifties or early sixties. She wore a simple, flowered sundress and sandals. A red scarf hugged the gray-streaked black curls framing her face. Gold hooped through her earlobes and encircled her wrists, bright as sunshine on her cypress-brown skin. Her gaze met Cass’s. Cass’s skin prickled. Power radiated from the woman, dark and bayou-steeped.
    Mambo.
    “Be you M’selle Danger?” the woman asked.
    Cass nodded and smoothed down her skirt. “Actually, it’s Danzinger, but I work under the name Cassandra Danger . . . ma’am.”
    “I be Gabrielle LaRue.”
    “Ma’am. I wasn’t expecting an answer so . . . soon,” Cass said, more than aware of the shattered glass, ink, and blood on the floor. “I thought maybe . . . well . . . that I’d have to . . . ” What? she wondered, her fingers pleating her skirt. Undergo some midnight ritual, give a secret handshake, slaughter a chicken?
    “I don’t have time for that kind of nonsense,” the mambo snorted, as though Cass had spoken aloud. “How can I help you, m’selle ?”
    “Cass, if you please, ma’am,” she said, forcing her fingers away from her skirt. Pondering how to answer the mambo ’s question, Cass glanced into her eyes. Their hazel depths tugged at her like quicksand, and the harder she struggled, the deeper she sank. Gabrielle’s scent — dark earth, water, and incense — whirled into her, dizzied her.
    The mambo clasped Cass’s hand; cool fingers latched around her wrist. “What is it you need?”
    Cass shook her head and forced her gaze down to their linked hands. Summer dusk and pale winter noon, their hands. She felt the sudden urge to draw. She shook her head again, trying to focus.
    “My Michelangelo. . . . ” Cass said, then lapsed into silence. There were no words for what she needed to say. Still holding the mambo ’s cool hand, she turned. She looked at the dried blood pooled on the floor, the designs streaking across stone tiles and spattering one wall. “My Michelangelo,” she whispered.
    The woman beside her drew in a breath. “Ah,” she said, squeezing Cass’s hand, then releasing it. “The blood’s been spilled, child. You can’t put it back. Name the thing you want.”
    “I want Alex to open his eyes,” Cass said, her gaze still on the floor. “And justice. I want justice.” She glanced at the mambo.
    A wry smile curved Gabrielle’s lips. “So,” she murmured. “Justice.” She shook her head. The mambo stepped gingerly to the counter, glass and other broken things gritting beneath her sandals. She traced a design on the counter with a long-nailed finger.
    “I wonder if you know what that truly means or what shape it can take,” Gabrielle said. Her finger stopped moving. She turned to face Cass. “Or how cold and brutal justice can be.”
    “Colder than a bullet to the head?” Cass