Leopard's Prey(2)

Saria had no problem going into the swamp at night for her photography. Granted, she made a lot of money on her photos and her reputation as a wildlife photographer was growing, but the things she did were dangerous and she had to stop. That was all there was to it.

“Whoa, bro,” Gage said. “I see the storm clouds gatherin’. Gettin’ into it with Saria is useless. You’d be talkin’ to the wind. She’d go all silent, nod her head as if she understood completely and then she’d just do whatever the hell she wanted to do.” Gage shrugged. “Although, if she listens to anyone, it’s you.”

“I wasn’t plannin’ on confrontin’ Saria,” Remy stated. He had long ago given up confronting her directly unless the circumstances were dire. She always seemed to know if he was willing to back up his threat with action or not. Locking her up was the only—and extremely dangerous—solution. Saria tended to retaliate as any self-respecting leopard would.

He didn’t want any more details on the crime scene. He liked to make his own first impressions, so he didn’t want to talk about what Saria found in the swamp. The serial killer from four years earlier had hit New Orleans hard, leaving behind four dead bodies over a period of two months, and then he was gone. If this was the same killer, Remy feared this wouldn’t be the only body found, and no one would be safe until he was caught. The swamps and bayous were lonely and took in a lot of territory. The killer would have a big playing field.

Remy was Cajun, born and raised, but he was also leopard—a shifter. A small clan of leopards had made their homes along the bayous. He didn’t just take the form of a big cat—he was leopard with all the traits of a beast. The wildness in him was always close to the surface. Passion ran just as hot as tempers. Jealousy and fury were every bit as strong as love and loyalty. There was no way to fully submerge their animal natures. They lived by a different set of rules and answered to their lair leader—Drake Donovan. Theirs was a ruthless, brutal set of laws, but necessary to keep their people under control. Some married leopards, others married outsiders who usually had no idea and never would. It was necessary to keep their ability to shift absolutely secret—even from family who were unable to shift.

“Drake and Saria have a guest stayin’ at their bed-and-breakfast,” Gage ventured. “A friend of Saria’s. They went to school together.”

That cool, matter-of-fact tone didn’t fool Remy for a moment. There was a hint of excitement, a definite I’ve-got-a-secret-that-will-blow-your-mind underlying all that cool.

Remy remained silent. The easiest way to get someone to tell something they were eager to spill was to not be interested. He kept his eyes on the black water ahead.

Gage growled, a rumble of annoyance. “You’ll never change, Remy. Bijou Breaux, the daughter of the most famous rock star in history. She’s finally come back. Her daddy’s been dead for four years. You’d have thought she’d come back a long time ago.”

Remy remembered enormous, wild cornflower blue eyes, so haunted that there’d been times he’d wanted to sweep that child up in his arms and take her somewhere safe. She had inherited her father’s ability to sing the angels right out of heaven. He ought to know—he’d followed her career.

“It couldn’t have been easy bein’ the only daughter of a man that famous. He died of an overdose, Gage. The drugs and women goin’ through that house must have been horrific for a child. Every time we turned around, the cops were at that estate and somethin’ bad was goin’ on.”

“Poor little rich girl?” Gage asked, a teasing note in his voice.

Remy turned cool eyes on him, and the grin faded from Gage’s face. “I wouldn’t put it like that, although the kids in school certainly taunted her day and night. I believe the proper line was, ‘born with a silver spoon.’”

“She inherited millions. And the money’s still pouring in,” Gage pointed out. “Just sayin’, bro. Money can make up for a lot.”

“Trauma and neglect? I don’ think so,” Remy said. “Her daddy was crazy. Everyone in the bayou and in New Orleans knew it, but he got away with it. He had everyone in his pocket. The cops, the teachers, everyone said she was a problem child with no talent, and moody as hell.”

“Maybe she was a problem child,” Gage argued.

Remy sent him a steely glance, the sliver of moon lighting his face for one brief second so that the lines etched deep seemed carved into stone. “Or maybe her father paid them off, like he did the cops and judges and everyone else he came into contact with. Maybe you’re just a little too young to remember what Bodrie Breaux was really like.”