This is the highly anticipated third part of the exciting, Infernal Adventures of Damian Hunter series. To read part 2 click here.
She's alive.
Two simple words. Twenty years of searching, of unanswered questions, of being told he was chasing ghosts, and it had all come down to those two words.
Confirmation. Hope. Finally.
He had never truly believed she was gone. Not when the death certificate was issued. Not when they buried an empty casket. Not when the whole world insisted his sister was dead and the man he'd seen carrying her through the flames was nothing more than the desperate imagination of a traumatized little boy.
She's alive.
And he found that the new hope of it all terrified him.
That terror followed him all the way to the home of one Elena Ruiz.
Yellow caution tape fluttered haphazardly in the wind, marking the boundary of what had once been a modest family home. Little remained but blackened rubble and the skeletal remains of a few stubborn walls. Here and there, thin wisps of smoke still curled upward from the wreckage, carrying with them the unmistakable stench of charred wood and melted plastic.
Damian let out a long, low whistle as he fumbled through his pockets for his vape. Finding it, he took a long drag before climbing out of the car, trailing a pale blue cloud of sickeningly sweet, blue-raspberry-scented vapor behind him.
Across the street, Elena Ruiz had been watching the stranger from the living room window of her neighbor's house. Mrs. Henderson had graciously taken her in after the fire, insisting she stay as long as necessary. Elena suspected neither of them had anticipated just how difficult those first few nights would be.
She had hardly slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the flames. Every time she managed to drift off, she heard Sofia calling for her. More than once, she had awakened convinced that her daughter was in the next room, only to remember where she was and why.
The stranger had been sitting in his car for several minutes, staring at what remained of her home. That alone wasn't unusual. People had been slowing down to look at the wreckage since the fire, some offering sympathetic glances, others taking photographs with their phones. Elena had learned to despise the latter. Her home, the place where Sofia had taken her first steps, celebrated birthdays, and spent countless evenings curled up beside her on the couch, had become a neighborhood curiosity.
Then the man whistled.
She watched him climb out of the car, trailing a cloud of pale blue vapor behind him, and begin casually inspecting the ruins.
Something inside her snapped.
By the time Damian reached the caution tape, the neighbor's front door had slammed shut behind her.
"Excuse me!"
Damian turned with a start, trailing cotton candy fumes.
A woman was marching across the street toward him, her expression suggesting that whatever she had to say wasn't going to be pleasant.
"Can I help you?" he asked.
"Can you help me?" she repeated incredulously. "You can start by showing some respect!"
Damian blinked.
"I'm sorry?"
"That's my home you're standing in front of. My daughter's home. And you're out here whistling and smoking like it's some kind of tourist attraction! What are you, some kind of pervert? Get your kicks from tragedy or something?"
Damian took a step back, hands in front trying to put some distance between himself and the mama bear he just angered.
"I’m more of a leg man, really-"
"Don't."
He closed his mouth. A wise decision.
Elena stopped a few feet away from him, breathing hard. Her eyes were red, and the exhaustion written across her face was unmistakable. She wore a faded sweatshirt bearing the name of the local hospital, its sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Angry red burns marked both forearms, some still covered with fresh dressings.
"My daughter was in that house," she said. "My little girl."
The words caught in her throat.
Damian looked past her toward the charred remains of the building. Suddenly, the similarities between this house and his own childhood home seemed almost unbearable. He remembered the strangers who had gathered outside the ruins, the reporters with their cameras, and the neighbors who whispered about the terrible tragedy. To them, it had been a story. To him, it had been the end of the world.
He slipped the vape into his pocket.
"I'm sorry," he said.
Elena folded her arms.
"Who are you?"
"Damian Hunter."
The anger drained from her face.
For a long moment, she simply stared at him.
"Damian... Hunter?"
He nodded.
"Father Alvarez said you might be coming by."
“Well, here I am, in the flesh.” He offered a pitiful shrug.
Her expression changed again, this time to something Damian recognized immediately.
Hope.
And God help him, he wasn't sure he could bear seeing it on someone else's face.
They both stared at their feet for what seemed like an eternity. Elena was the first to break the silence.
“Father Alvarez said you lost someone, too…” she said it in a whisper, so low the breeze threatened to snatch it away like fall foliage.
Damian shuffled anxiously. It wasn’t a topic he liked to bring up with friends. Less so to strangers. His hand rubbed the back of his neck.
“Um, yeah, I did. My sister. My whole family, really. I’ve been on my own, ever since…”
He didn’t need to finish. Elena nodded her understanding.
"They never found her, you know," Damian said.
Elena looked up.
"Your sister?"
He nodded.
"They found my parents. But not her."
Elena's expression changed.
"They haven't found Sofia, either."
"I know."
"Everyone keeps telling me that doesn't mean anything."
Damian looked toward the wreckage.
"Yeah. They told me that, too."
Damian looked down the street. A group of middle school aged children were playing street hockey. He could hear their carefree laughs.
"But you never stopped looking?"
Damian shook his head.
"Not once. Not ever.”
“Father Alvarez also said you help people…people like me.”
Damian took an uncomfortable drag from his vape.
“That’s very kind of Alvarez to say. I do what I can, that’s all. It really doesn’t feel like much…”
Elena leaned in through the haze, “But you DO help people right? Right?”
“Yes, I can” he dared not meet her gaze.
“Will you help me find my daughter? Please…she’s all I have.”
When he finally met her gaze, he immediately wished he hadn't. Damian had learned that a desperate mother and a terrorist had at least one thing in common: neither was particularly interested in negotiating.
“Yes, I will help you find your daughter. And I think I know where to go first.”
By all accounts, New Orleans should have been a town Damian Hunter, PI was built for. The architecture, incredible food, a haunted history. Supernatural detectives the world over would consider The Big Easy to practically be their Mecca.
Damian hated the place.
“How can you hate New Orleans? This city is like, spook central. You fit right in!” Elena said in mock disbelief.
"Elena, do you know how the French populated this charming little swamp?"
"No, but I have a feeling you're going to tell me."
"Prostitutes."
She blinked.
"Excuse me?"
"Prostitutes. And prisoners. France took one look at this mosquito-infested armpit of civilization, realized no sane person would voluntarily settle here, and decided to empty its prisons and brothels into the place. Two birds, meet your one, sweaty stone” he gestured grandly to nothing in particular.
“That’s not true. Is it?”
“It’s true enough”. Damian took a drag from his vape but nothing happened.
“You know why else I hate this dump?”
Elena shook her head.
“The humidity kills my vape” he let out a deep sigh that practically reached down to the core of the earth, “just shoot me now”.
Elena giggled secretly behind his back as Damian slumped down an alley, defeated.
She caught up to him, “So where are we going?”
“First stop, to get a muffuletta.”
“A muff…what?”
“It’s a sandwich and a must have whenever I’m in this wretched swamp.”
“We came here for…a sandwich? Does it tell us our fortunes or something?”
“I feel fortunate when I eat it.”
Elena stared at him.
"You know, for someone who hates New Orleans, you seem awfully enthusiastic about its food."
"Yeah, well, there has to be some reason to live here and it sure ain't jazz.."
They stopped outside Central Grocery, a modest storefront nestled along Decatur Street in the heart of the French Quarter. Founded in 1906 by a Sicilian immigrant named Salvatore Lupo, the little grocery had somehow managed to survive more than a century of hurricanes, changing tastes, economic upheavals, and the seemingly endless parade of tourists that descended upon New Orleans each year.
More importantly, it was the birthplace of the muffuletta.
Inside, the aroma of cured meats, aged cheeses, and marinated olives mingled with the comforting smell of freshly baked bread. Shelves crowded with imported Italian goods lined the walls, giving the place the appearance of an old-fashioned neighborhood grocery that had stubbornly refused to acknowledge the passage of time.
Damian inhaled deeply.
For the first time since arriving in New Orleans, he looked genuinely happy.
"Now this," he announced, "is civilization."
Elena surveyed the crowded little shop.
"I thought you said you hated this city."
"I do. Fortunately, the Italians arrived and made it slightly more tolerable."
"You're impossible."
"And yet, here you are."
He approached the counter with the confidence of a man who knew exactly what he wanted.
"Two muffulettas, please and thank you."
Elena glanced at the enormous round sandwich displayed behind the glass.
"Wait. Two of those?"
Damian looked at her.
"You hungry?"
"Not particularly."
"Good. Let's keep it that way."
Unsure of what he meant by that, Elena followed Damian out of the store and into the NoLa sun. They found a bench nearby where Damian began to gaze longingly at his quarter of the sandwich.
“Just look at it. It's beautiful, isn't it?”
Damian held up his quarter of the sandwich as though presenting a priceless artifact. The great round loaf had been cut into thick wedges, its golden crust generously dusted with sesame seeds. Beneath the bread lay folds of rosy ham, delicate ribbons of salami, and thin slices of mortadella, their little pockets of fat and pistachio gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. Creamy provolone nestled between the meats, but the crowning glory was the olive salad. A glorious, unruly mixture of chopped green and black olives, pickled vegetables, garlic, and Italian herbs, all glistening beneath a generous coating of olive oil that had already begun soaking into the soft interior of the bread.
Damian admired the thing with an expression Elena suspected he ordinarily reserved for religious experiences.
"The Sistine Chapel of sandwiches," he announced.
"You're being ridiculous."
"Michelangelo worked in marble and fresco. Salvatore Lupo worked in cured meats. Who am I to judge which medium is superior?"
Before Elena could respond, Damian took an enormous bite. The crust yielded with the satisfying submission of an acolyte, followed by the soft resistance of the bread and the salty richness of the meats. The sharp, briny olive salad cut through the fat of the cheese and oil, while the vinegar and garlic provided just enough bite to demand another mouthful.
Damian closed his eyes.
For several glorious seconds, there were no missing children, no mysterious fires, no demons, and certainly no godforsaken Louisiana humidity. There was only the muffuletta. For a glorious few moment the future for Damian was bright, shiny, and nothing hurt.
Elena watched him chew with something approaching disbelief. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, looking around making sure no one was offended by the sight.
"Are you having a moment?"
Damian raised one finger, demanding silence while he finished chewing.
"Don't ruin this for me."
She shook her head and examined her own portion. It was considerably larger than anything she would ordinarily consider a sandwich, and the olive salad had already begun making an oily mess of its wrapping. She took a cautious bite.
The bread was magnificent. The crust gave way to a surprisingly tender center, soaked with the rich, garlicky oil from the olive salad. The meats were salty and savory, the cheese smooth and mild, and the sharpness of the pickled vegetables brought everything together in a way she hadn't expected.
She took another bite.
Then a third.
Damian watched with the smug satisfaction of a man whose judgment had finally been vindicated.
"Well?"
Elena swallowed.
"Okay. That's really good."
"Really good?" Damian looked wounded. "Elena, people have been excommunicated for less."
She laughed, nearly choking on her sandwich.
It surprised her. The laughter, that was. She couldn't remember the last time she'd laughed, and for a moment she felt almost guilty about it. Somewhere out there, Sofia was missing, definitely frightened, more than likely hurt, and here she was enjoying lunch in New Orleans. Very much not frightened and very much whole and well.
Her appetite began to fade.
Damian noticed the change in her expression. He didn't ask what was wrong. He knew well enough.
"You really should eat," he said gently.
"I'm not really hungry anymore."
"Try."
"Damian—"
"Please."
There was something different in his voice now. The usual sarcasm had disappeared, replaced by a seriousness that made her look up.
She studied him.
"This isn't really about lunch, is it?"
Damian sighed and set his sandwich down on its wrapper.
"No. Not entirely."
"Then what's going on?"
He leaned back against the bench, surveying the pedestrians passing along the street.
"There's someone we're going to see. A woman by the name of Zha Zha LaRue."
Elena raised an eyebrow.
"Zha Zha?"
"Call it a family name."
"Is that her real name?"
"You’d have to ask her that."
"And who is she?"
Damian considered the question.
"An acquaintance. An old one. She's got connections with certain... circles."
"What kind of circles?"
"The kind that knows about the situations people like us currently find ourselves in."
Elena waited for him to elaborate.
He didn't.
"Is she some kind of psychic?"
"More like a witch, if you ask me. Although I wouldn't swear to it in court. I’m not altogether sure to be honest. I think she’s human."
Elena looked down at the sandwich in her hands.
"And what does any of this have to do with lunch?"
Damian rubbed his face.
"Look, I've dealt with this woman before. There's something about her. Something I can't quite put my finger on. Whenever you're around her, you start…wanting things."
"Wanting things?"
"Things you didn't particularly care about five minutes earlier. A drink. Another drink. Something to eat. Someone to take home. Doesn't seem to matter what it is, only that you want it."
Elena studied him with renewed interest.
"And how exactly did you discover this?"
"Professional experience."
"What kind of professional experience?"
"The kind I'm not particularly interested in discussing."
A smile tugged at the corner of Elena's mouth.
"Oh, I bet."
Damian pointed an accusing finger at her.
"Don't."
She laughed again.
He looked away, thoroughly irritated with himself.
"The point is, I don't trust her. And I especially don't trust whatever it is she does to people. So we're going to eat until we're satisfied, and even then a little more so, then we're going to visit her, ask a few questions, and get the hell out of dodge and back to a real city."
Elena considered this.
"And you think a sandwich is going to protect us from a witch?"
"No. But I'd rather walk into that house with one less thing for her to work with."
Elena slowly looked down at the remaining sandwich.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then she asked the question Damian had been hoping to avoid.
"And what does she make you want?"
His expression darkened.
He reached instinctively for his vape, remembered that it wasn't working, swore silently, and returned his hand to his lap.
"Things I shouldn't."
Elena waited, but he offered nothing further.
After a while, she took another bite of her sandwich.
Damian watched the people passing along Decatur Street, trying not to think about the woman they were going to visit.
Or the last time he'd seen her.
Or the fact that some small, thoroughly unwelcome part of him was aching to see her again.
Their destination lay several blocks deeper into the French Quarter, away from the more crowded stretches of Bourbon Street. Damian led Elena through narrow streets lined with aging brick buildings, wrought-iron balconies, and overflowing window boxes. Music spilled from open doorways, mingling with laughter and the occasional drunken argument. Overhead, strings of decorative lights hung between the buildings, waiting for evening to give them some purpose.
Damian said very little as they walked. The closer they came to their destination, the more frequently he checked his surroundings, occasionally glancing over his shoulder as though expecting someone to be following them. Elena noticed that he'd stopped complaining about the humidity, which struck her as considerably more alarming than anything he'd said about witches.
Eventually, they turned down a narrow side street and stopped before an old three-story townhouse. Its faded brick facade was partially obscured by climbing jasmine, and wrought-iron balconies projected from the upper floors like elaborate cages. Heavy velvet burgundy curtains hung behind the tall windows, concealing whatever lay beyond them.
There was no sign identifying the establishment. No business hours. Nothing to suggest that anyone inside wished to receive visitors.
Only a brass door knocker fashioned into the likeness of a rose.
Elena examined the building.
"This is it?"
"Unfortunately."
"Doesn't look particularly sinister."
"Neither does a hot dog until you find out what's in it."
"What's wrong with hot dogs?"
"Nothing. Forget I said anything."
He surveyed the facade of the building. Elena got the impression he didn’t want to go inside.
Elena watched him.
"Damian?"
"What?"
"Are you nervous?"
"No."
“Are you sure?”
“Quite.”
“Ok because it’s just that we have been out here for five minutes and I’m starting to think something is wrong.”
“I’m just…considering our options.”
“Options? You made it seem like we had to see this, fru fru la rue woman.”
“Zha Zha. And she’s probably a woman. Also, we should probably go home.” He turned to go back the way they just came from.
She called out, “Damian!” He stopped, “Look at me.”
He turned around, begrudgingly.
Her arms were folded. Mama bear came out to play.
"Fine. Fine! But don't say I didn't warn you."
He climbed up the steps and knocked, annoyed.
A moment later, the door opened.
An elderly gentleman stood before them, dressed in an immaculate black suit and white gloves. His silver hair was carefully combed, and his expression bore the practiced indifference of someone who had spent a lifetime admitting people he considered beneath his station.
"May I help you?"
"Damian Hunter. Here to see Miss LaRue."
The gentleman regarded him for a moment.
"One moment, sir."
He disappeared into the house, leaving the door partially open.
Elena leaned toward Damian.
"Fancy."
"Don't encourage them."
"Miss LaRue will receive you."
Both visitors jumped. The butler had reappeared so silently that neither had noticed his approach.
With a grand sweep of his gloved hand, he gestured toward the sweeping staircase.
And there, emerging slowly from around the corner of the upper landing, appeared a single, impossibly long, slender leg.
Damian closed his eyes as if not seeing reality unfold would somehow cease it to be.Elena, meanwhile, found herself utterly transfixed. She couldn't have looked away if she'd wanted to, and the peculiar thing was that she didn't particularly want to. For a moment, she almost pitied Damian for refusing to watch.
A woman's laughter floated down from above, sweet and innocent with an unmistakable icy current for one cognizant enough to realize it.
"Now, now, Damian. Is that any way to greet an old friend?"
Damian sighed and slowly opened one eye. When he saw her, he couldn’t help but open both.
At the top of the staircase, a tanned, slender figure leaned against the outer corner of the upstairs corridor, her back resting comfortably against the wall. One impressively long leg was drawn upward, the sole of her shoe pressed against the plaster, while the other extended gracefully toward the floor. The folds of her flowing burgundy dress gathered loosely around her raised knee, revealing a generous length of shapely leg.
She appeared perfectly content to remain there, surveying her visitors from above with the languid curiosity of a cat perched somewhere it had no intention of leaving. Her chest rising and falling with each gentle respiration.
And judging by the mischievous smile playing across her ruby lips, she knew precisely what effect she was having.
“Hello, Damian darling” she purred, “It’s been so long.”
She spied him the way a cat might pounce upon a mouse.
“Not long enough…” He muttered under his breath.
“I’m sorry darling did you say something?”
“No no, nothing nothing at all. I was hoping we could ta-”
“We?” Zha Zha pantomimed someone just noticing another guest for the first time.
Damian was not amused.
“We?” she repeated, “Why Dami, you’ve brought a playmate!”
Zha Zha lowered her raised leg and pushed herself away from the wall. With a fluidity that seemed almost unnatural, she descended the staircase, one slender hand trailing lazily along the banister.
As she moved, the sleeves of her burgundy gown shifted, revealing an elaborate network of inky-black rose vines winding along both arms. The delicate branches curled around her wrists and climbed toward her shoulders, each adorned with impossibly fine thorns. They might have been tattoos, though something about their darkness seemed almost otherworldly, as though the ink existed somewhere beneath the surface of her skin.
Her attention never left Elena.
Damian watched her approach with growing apprehension.
“I’ve asked you not to call me that,” he said sheepishly. She just waved her hand, ignoring the comment.
Zha Zha pressed up against Elena, searching her features. Apparently satisfied, a slender hand reached up and cupped Elena’s face.
“You’re pretty” she cooed, “but the prettiness is scarred by loss…” she gave Damian a side eye. “I see why you brought her. What is it you want of me?”
Damian cleared his throat, suddenly wishing his vape worked, “Information”.
Zha Zha sighed, disappointed in the answer, “Tsk tsk, all work and no play makes Dami a very dull boy…follow me”. She took both their hands and led them to an adjoining room. Damian was unnerved to find the butler already there, inside, holding the door open for them.
Zha Zha made a beeline for an elegant burgundy velvet fainting couch, its gilded frame curling into elaborate floral patterns. She practically poured herself onto it, reclining with the effortless grace of a cat settling into its favorite patch of sunlight. One long leg draped over the other as she propped her head against a slender hand, surveying her guests with an expression of delighted anticipation.
"Now then, my darlings. Make yourselves comfortable. We have so very much to discuss."
Elena eagerly (perhaps a little too eagerly for Dami's liking) took the seat closest to Zha Zha. Damian continued to stand, arms crossed. He looked smug in his mock protest.
"Oh Dami," she cooed, "must you always be so difficult?"
"Yes."
"Well, at least you're consistent. I can say that much for you. Fine, have your little protest." She stretched languidly on the couch. She reached toward a small silver bell resting upon the table beside her and gave it a delicate ring.
Almost immediately, the elderly butler appeared in the doorway.
Elena blinked.
She could have sworn the man hadn't been standing anywhere nearby.
"Refreshments, Miss LaRue?" he asked.
"Yes, thank you, Sebastian. Something lovely for our guests. Perhaps a little champagne?"
"No, thank you," Damian interrupted.
"Bourbon, then?"
"No."
"A nice glass of wine?"
"No."
"Oh, I know, how about a vape that actually works?" She wore a self-satisfied grin.
"I would like some champagne," Elena said in an almost reverent whisper.
"I mean, if you already have one…" Damian said, angry at his addiction betraying him. Again.
Once again, the butler appeared seemingly out of thin air, carrying a stunningly polished silver platter upon which rested a glass of champagne and a brand-new vape. Damian jumped aside, startled.
"Does he always have to do that?"
The butler grinned in response. Apparently, frightening the guests was one of the more enjoyable perks of the job.
"Um, thanks…" Damian mumbled, as he and Elena both took their offerings from the platter. The butler offered a curt bow then went back to wherever butlers go when not summoned.
Damian studied the new vape, turning it over in his hand. Satisfied that it didn't appear to contain anything particularly lethal, he brought it to his lips and took a grateful drag. The familiar, sickeningly sweet taste of blue raspberry filled his mouth, and he felt the tension slowly leave his shoulders.
Zha Zha watched him with the satisfied expression of a woman who had just won a particularly easy wager.
"There now. Doesn't that feel better?"
Damian exhaled a pale blue cloud. "Marginally."
"Oh, Dami. You could at least pretend to be grateful."
"I said thank you."
"You mumbled something vaguely resembling it."
"Then consider yourself vaguely thanked."
She laughed, throwing her head back against the velvet cushions. "There's my boy."
Elena watched the exchange over the rim of her champagne glass. She had to admit that Zha Zha was entertaining, and there was something almost endearing about the way she seemed capable of reducing Damian to an irritated schoolboy. It was difficult to reconcile this nervous, defensive man with the investigator who had so confidently promised to help find her daughter. Whatever history these two shared, Elena suspected it was considerably more complicated than Damian had let on.
As the laughter faded, however, Elena became conscious of the glass in her hand. She hadn't particularly wanted champagne when she'd arrived. In fact, she couldn't remember the last time she'd even considered having a drink in the middle of the afternoon. Yet here she sat, sipping expensive champagne in the company of a woman she'd never met, while her daughter remained missing.
Somewhere, Sofia was waiting for her. Crying for her.
The thought struck with such sudden force that Elena nearly dropped the glass. A familiar wave of guilt washed over her, and the pleasant warmth of the room suddenly seemed suffocating. She set the champagne down, watching the tiny bubbles rise through the pale golden liquid. She hadn't traveled halfway across the country to enjoy herself, and she certainly hadn't come to watch Damian exchange flirtatious insults with a woman who might or might not be a witch.
"I'm sorry," Elena interrupted.
Both turned toward her.
"I don't mean to be rude, but..." Her voice faltered, and she clasped her hands together in her lap. "My daughter. Her name is Sofia. She's nine years old, and she's been missing for three days."
Zha Zha regarded her silently, the playful smile slowly disappearing from her face. Elena swallowed hard and forced herself to continue.
"Father Alvarez told me Damian might be able to help. And Damian brought me here because he said you might know something." She looked directly into Zha Zha's midnight eyes. "Please. If you know anything about where my little girl is, I need you to tell me."
For the first time since their arrival, Zha Zha appeared genuinely interested in something other than amusing herself. She slowly lowered her legs from the couch and sat upright, studying Elena with an expression that was difficult to read. Something resembling sympathy softened her features, though Damian couldn't quite convince himself that it was genuine.
"Oh, cher," she murmured. "You poor, poor thing."
Elena felt tears gathering in her eyes. There was something about the woman's voice, something warm and reassuring, that made her desperately want to believe everything would be all right. Zha Zha extended a slender hand toward her, the inky rose vines winding around her wrist seeming almost alive in the shifting candlelight. Elena could swear the bud inked in the middle of Zha Zha's chest was fully closed just a moment ago…
"Come here, sweetheart. Sit beside me."
Damian immediately straightened in his chair. "Zha Zha—"
"Oh, hush, Dami." She dismissed him with a casual wave, her attention never leaving Elena. "The poor woman is beside herself. A little… comfort won't hurt her."
Elena hesitated. Something in the back of her mind told her to remain where she was, to remember Damian's warnings and the strange way her desires seemed to shift whenever Zha Zha spoke. But another part of her, a tired and frightened part that had spent three sleepless nights longing for someone to hold her and promise that everything would be all right, wanted nothing more than to accept the invitation.
And for the moment, that desire was winning. Her mind told her no, but her legs seemed to have developed opinions of their own. Before she quite understood what was happening, she found herself seated beside Zha Zha. Close. Very close. Somehow, her hands had found their way into the other woman's, their fingers resting together with an intimacy Elena might ordinarily have reserved for someone she'd known all her life.
The strangest part was how natural it felt.
And how little she wanted to pull away.
"Tell me," she said softly, "how was your daughter taken? What did this person look like?"
Elena shuddered. The question seemed to carry her straight back to that terrible evening, to the flames and smoke and the sound of her daughter screaming. Her breathing quickened, and she instinctively tightened her grip on Zha Zha's hands.
"I... I don't know if I can."
"Oh, cher," Zha Zha whispered, leaning closer, "I know it hurts. But I need you to tell me about the man who took your daughter. Every little detail you can remember."
Damian's eyes narrowed.
The man?
He lowered his vape.
"Funny," he said.
Zha Zha glanced toward him, her expression perfectly innocent.
"What's funny, Dami?"
Damian studied her for a moment.
"I don't remember telling you it was a man."
For the briefest instant, something passed across Zha Zha's face. Not fear, exactly. Perhaps irritation at having been careless.
Then she smiled.
"Oh, darling. Must we really play twenty questions? You're here because you believe I know things other people don't."
"Yeah. But knowing things and knowing that particular thing are two different… well, things."
Zha Zha regarded him with the languid amusement of a cat watching a particularly determined mouse.
"Are they?"
"Just tell us what you know."
Zha Zha looked disappointed, like a child learning her favorite game had been canceled. But she reclined against the velvet cushions, her posture suggesting a languid surrender to Damian's demands.
"Oh, fine, Dami. You know I can't say no to you," she mused.
Zha Zha's gaze drifted toward Elena, who was still sitting beside her, their hands intertwined. For a moment, she studied the grieving mother with an expression that seemed almost thoughtful. Then she sighed, a long, theatrical sound that suggested the whole affair had become terribly inconvenient.
"Your little girl," she began, "has attracted the attention of someone who has no business taking an interest in children."
Damian straightened.
"And who would that be?"
Zha Zha's smile returned, though there was considerably less warmth in it now.
"Someone very, very… temperamental."
Elena leaned forward, tightening her grip on Zha Zha's hands. "But why Sofia? Why my little girl? What does he want with her?"
"I'm afraid I can only speculate, cher. But it is unusual that he took her. Very unusual…" Zha Zha's voice trailed off as she considered something she seemed unwilling to put into words. Her fingers had stopped moving against Elena's, and for the first time since their arrival, her expression betrayed something approaching genuine concern.
Damian interrupted her thoughts. "Who is he, Zha Zha? Have you met him before?"
"Yes, I have." She turned toward him, her expression unusually grave. "Damian, darling, he is unlike anything you have ever encountered before. He is not human, and he is very powerful. He is one of…" She hesitated, then offered a thin smile. "Well, let's just say he comes with baggage."
Damian walked closer, shocked at how much she was revealing. Usually everything with Zha Zha was a struggle but now she was practically giving up the farm. Damian found that sudden shift of transparency terrifying.
"Zha Zha… what are you telling us?"
For once, she didn't immediately answer. Her eyes drifted toward Elena, whose hands remained clasped in her own. The woman's desperate expression seemed to trouble her, though whether out of sympathy or something else, Damian couldn't tell.
"I'm telling you, Damian," she said at last, her voice quieter than before, "that there are things in this world even you ought to leave alone. This isn't one of your run-of-the-mill spooks or some poltergeist born of teenage angst. This power is ancient. It's terrible. And it wants nothing less than to burn the world to ashes."
Damian swallowed.
She'd used his real name.
That alone frightened him more than he cared to admit.
Zha Zha studied him for a long moment. Something flickered behind those midnight eyes, an expression he had never seen on her before.
Pity.
And Damian Hunter had never liked being pitied.
"I just want my little girl back…" Elena began to sob into her hands. Damian rushed over and put his arm around her shoulders.
"We will find Sofia. I promise you."
Damian hated making promises. So much of this world was out of our control that how could anyone truly promise anything to anyone? You just did what you could and hoped for the best but expected the worst. But now, seeing the severity of the situation they were in, well, sometimes a man had to say to hell with the odds.
Zha Zha regarded him with that same expression of pity, though now something else had crept into her gaze. Admiration, perhaps. Damian couldn't be sure. What he did notice, however, was the delicate black rose tattooed upon her chest. The bud, which he could have sworn was tightly closed when they'd arrived, was now in full bloom, its dark petals unfurled against her skin.
I really must ask her how she does that one day, he thought.
She caught him looking at the fully opened rose upon her chest and instinctively moved to conceal it, a faint expression of embarrassment crossing her face. Damian blinked. In all the years he'd known Zha Zha, he couldn't recall ever seeing her embarrassed about anything. But whatever vulnerability had briefly surfaced disappeared almost as quickly as it had come.
"Where can we find him?" Damian asked.
"Oh, I expect he'll find you." Zha Zha settled back against the cushions, though her expression remained unusually serious. "But Dami, be careful. This isn't his usual modus operandi. Something has changed. He's behaving in ways I wouldn't have expected, and that makes him considerably more dangerous."
Apparently deciding the conversation was over, Zha Zha rose gracefully from the velvet couch. Elena and Damian exchanged a confused glance before following suit. She approached Elena first, wrapping her slender arms around the grieving mother in a warm embrace. Elena hesitated only a moment before returning it, surprised by how reluctant she was to let go. Zha Zha whispered something into her ear, too softly for Damian to hear, before finally releasing her.
Then she turned toward Damian.
Before he could so much as open his mouth, Zha Zha caught his face between her hands and pulled him into a deep, lingering kiss. For one bewildering moment, Damian forgot entirely what he'd intended to say. When she finally released him, he stumbled backward, blinking like a man who'd just been struck by a particularly affectionate freight train.
Zha Zha smiled sweetly.
"Do take care of yourself, Dami."
Damian opened his mouth, closed it, and then thought better of whatever he'd been about to say.
"I do have one last question," Elena said, almost against her better judgment.
"Yes, mon chère?"
"Are you a… a witch?"
Zha Zha laughed, a rich, throaty laugh that Damian found himself enjoying considerably more than he should have.
"A witch? Oh, no, sweetheart. Let's just say I'm… baggage."
Stay tuned for part 4, the exciting and epic conclusion of Damian Hunter!
