Amanda Stevens - The Dollmaker

“What’s that you’re singing?”

“It’s an old song. Something my mother used to sing to me at bedtime.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Do you like it?”

“Yeah, it’s nice.” He hurried to catch up with her. “My mama didn’t believe in music. Or dancing.”

“How sad for you.” She paused to adjust the strap on her sandal, and when she lost her balance, she grabbed Travis’s arm to right herself.

He stared down at her in the darkness. She laughed softly, and the next thing Travis knew, he had her backed up against the brick wall.

She laughed again, a breathy sound that spiked his heartbeat. But when he tried to kiss her, she turned her head so that his lips only grazed her pale cheek. He moved to her ear, then nuzzled her neck as he put a hand on her narrow waist, letting his thumb slide up beneath her breast. She was small there, too, but he didn’t mind. “What’s your name?”

After a slight hesitation, she said in a husky whisper, “Madeline.”

“That’s a nice name.” Travis figured she’d made it up on the spur of the moment, but he didn’t care if she had. After tonight, they’d never see each other again, anyway. “You smell good, Madeline.”

He again tried to kiss her, but she gave him a playful shove. “Take it easy, okay? We’ve got all night. Don’t you want that drink first?”

He rubbed up against her, grinding his hips against hers. “You know what I want.”

“Sure I do, baby.” Her hand slid between them and she ran it up and down his fly. “But it’ll cost you.”

“How much?”

“A hundred and fifty.” Her hand squeezed him. “You got that much?”

He fished in his pocket for the money and handed it to her in the dark. “For that kind of dough, you better be something special.”

“Oh, I am.” She slipped the folded bills into her bra. “I’m very special. You’ve never been with anyone like me before, honey.”

Reversing their positions, she pushed him up against the wall, then wet a finger in her mouth and traced his lips. “You want it fast or slow?”

“Right now, I want you on your knees,” he said, and unzipped his pants.

“Patience, baby. Good things come to those who wait.” Her fingers closed around him as she slid her other hand over his shoulder.

Travis let his head fall back against the brick wall, his breath quickening as he swelled in her hand. An instant later, he felt a sharp sting in the side of his neck, and pushed her away. “What the hell was that?”

She smiled in the dark. “You’re going to need something for the pain.”

“Pain?” His voice rose in fury as he lifted a hand to his neck. “What did you do to me, you fucking bitch?” Light from an apartment overhead filtered into the alley, and he could see her eyes staring back at him. He hadn’t noticed before how blue they were. And then in a flash, it came to him where he’d seen that face before.

Fear and revulsion rose in his throat a split second before his muscles collapsed. He tried to stay on his feet, tried to grab her around the throat, but he had no control over his limbs. He fell to his knees, his gaze locked on hers. His mouth gaped open, but no sound came out.

“You took something of mine and now I’m going to have to do some very bad things to get her back.”

With a foot on his chest, she shoved him backward. Paralyzed, he fell to the dirty pavement, his gaze fixed on those blue eyes.

She removed a scalpel from her bag and knelt beside him. “This is going to be a little crude and messy, I’m afraid, but I can’t have the police tracing you or the doll back to me.”

A fresh wave of terror washed over Travis. He wanted to get up and run. He wanted to scream for help. He wanted to fight for his life.

But he could only lie there helplessly as she lowered the blade and began to cut off his fingers.

Twilight always fell anxiously over the Big Easy, especially when it rained. That’s when the ghosts came out. A wisp of steam rising from the wet pavement. The murmur of voices from a hidden courtyard. Something dark and stealthy moving in the shadows, and suddenly you were reminded of a past that wouldn’t stay buried.

New Orleans was like that. A city of memories, Dave Creasy always called it. A city of secrets and whispers and the kind of regret that could eat a man up inside. Like the wrong woman, she’d get in a man’s blood, destroy his soul, make him feel alive and dead at the same time. And on a hot, rainy night—when the ghosts came out—it could be the loneliest place on earth.

Welcome back, a voice whispered in Dave’s head as he lifted his face, eyes closed, and listened to the rustle of rain through the white oleanders that drooped over a crumbling brick wall along St. Peters.

It was strange how the city could still seduce him. He’d been born and raised in New Orleans, and like everyone else he knew, there’d been a time when he couldn’t wait to get out. Now he couldn’t seem to stay away. The ghosts wouldn’t let him.

A car slowed on the street in front of him, and a child stared out at him from a rain-streaked window. She looked a little like Ruby, and Dave watched her until the car was out of sight, the pain in his chest as familiar now as his heartbeat. Then he started walking.

Around the next corner, a neon half-moon sputtered in the gathering darkness. He wanted to think of the light as a beacon, but he knew better. The Crescent City Bar could never in a million years be considered a haven. Not for him, at least.

As he entered the room, an infinitesimal chill slid over him. Welcome back, that taunting voice whispered again.

The bar was nearly empty. A handful of zombielike patrons sat with heads bowed over drinks, the only acknowledgment of their coexistence a mingling of cigarette smoke that drifted up from the tables. The old wood blades of the ceiling fans rotated overhead, barely stirring warm air that reeked of sweat, booze and despair.

Welcome back, welcome back, welcome back.

Dave took a seat at the end of the bar, where he could watch the door. He hadn’t been a cop for nearly seven years, but old habits died hard.

From the other end, the hulk of a bartender watched him with open suspicion. He was tall and tough, with skin the texture of leather. Jubal Roach had to be at least sixty, but the forearms underneath his rolled-up shirtsleeves bulged with muscle, and his sullen expression reflected, as Dave knew only too well, a still-murderous disposition.

Dave’s old partner had once warned him about Jubal’s temper. They’d stopped in for a beer after their watch one night and the surly bartender had copped an attitude from the get-go. Back in the day, Dave hadn’t been one to turn the other cheek.

“Man, let it go,” Titus had said in a nervous whisper. “You don’t want to tangle with that S.O.B. Once he start in whaling on you, he like a big ’ol loggerhead. He ain’t gonna let you go till it thunders. Or till you dead.”

It was good advice. Too bad Dave hadn’t had the sense to heed it.

He and Jubal played the staring game for several more seconds, then, with a hardening of his features, the older man ambled down to Dave’s end of the bar.

“Jubal.” Dave greeted him warily, mindful of the nightstick and brass knuckles the bartender kept under the counter. “How’s it going?”

“Dave Creasy. Been a while since I saw your ugly mug in here. Kinda thought you might be dead.”

Kinda hoped was the inference. “I bought a place in St. Mary Parish awhile back.”

“Same difference, you ask me.” Jubal got down a glass and a bottle of whiskey. “The usual?”

“Nah, I’m on the wagon these days.”