Free Caught Forever Between by Adrian Phoenix Page B

asked, throat tight. She strode over to the wall. With a trembling hand, she tore down one of the tacked-up patterns. Whirling, she held the blood-spattered paper up for the mambo to see. “More brutal than that?” She shook the pattern. “If so, then it’s justice I want.”
    Lips compressed, Gabrielle stepped forward and gently tugged the pattern from Cass’s fingers. She looked at it for a long moment, then folded and tucked it into a pocket in her sundress. She sighed. A deep line creased the skin between her eyebrows. She held Cass’s gaze, and Cass thought she saw something submerged like a ’gator in those hazel depths.
    “It won’t change a thing. You understand?” the mambo said. “The bullet still fired . . . the blood still spilled. And your Michelangelo, his eyes still closed.”
    Cass dropped her gaze. Outside, summer thunder rumbled across the sky. She remembered Alex sprawled on the stone floor, his head pillowed on her lap; remembered her hand pressed against the wound, his blood hot against her fingers.
    Her hands curled into fists. “Maybe so. But it’ll even things out,” she said, voice strained. “Blood for blood.”
    “Nothing ever evens out spilled blood, child,” Gabrielle said, weariness edging her voice. “But . . . so be it. Come to the bayou tomorrow night, after sunset. Bring your tattoo gun and your inks. Tell mon filleul — my godson — what it is you want. If he lets you set your gun to work on his skin, then all you’ll need do is give him a name.”
    Glass crunched under the mambo ’s sandals as she walked to the front door. She opened it, tinkling the bell. Glancing over her shoulder, she said, “Then you will get your justice, child.” Neon light from the street flickered across the dark planes of her face, creating a mask of ever-shifting colors. “As cold and brutal as you could ever want.”
    “Wait,” Cass called as the mambo started out the door. “I don’t know how to find you. I need directions.”
    Gabrielle nodded toward the counter. “You already got ’em.” Then she was gone.
    Cass looked down at the counter. There, glowing on the polished wood surface, was a map — drawn by the mambo as she’d talked to Cass. She stared at it, heart pounding, sweat trickling between her breasts and along her ribs. Thunder rumbled and drumrolled. Heat lightning flashed white across the horizon.
    Going to the back room, Cass filled a bucket with hot water and cleanser. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror above the sink — long auburn hair streaked with purple to match her dark violet eyes; eyes blue-smudged from lack of sleep instead of outlined with the usual black kohl; pale face, rose-tinted lips — a ghost startled by her own unexpected reflection.
    Struggling for air, Cass looked down. Her fingers clutched the cold porcelain edge of the sink. Head bowed, face shielded by her hair, she refused to look up again. Didn’t want to see Alex fading from her eyes.
    Cass pushed away from the sink and gave the mirror her back. After tying up her sweat-dampened hair, she fetched a broom, dustpan, and a roll of trash bags. She had a night’s hard work ahead of her.
    Fixing her gaze once again on the dried blood, Cass memorized every streak and spatter, needling its design like a tattoo onto her heart. “Whoever Madame LaRue’s godson is,” she whispered, “he’ll never be cold enough or brutal enough for me.”
    An evening breeze blew in from the street, bringing the smell of distant rain and the river’s odor of fish, mud, and decay. As Cass set to sweeping, an image gleaned from Helena’s heart right after Alex’s shooting burned in her mind: a tiger rearing up on muscular hind legs, claws slashing, fangs bared in a snarl, guarding a sleeping cub behind it. A figure — just a black silhouette, really — went down beneath those claws. But Cass recognized her Michelangelo bleeding on the floor.
     
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    C ass stopped and switched off her