[Bayou Gavotte 03.0] Heart of Constantine by Barbara Monajem Read Free Book Online Page B

glossy black wings.
    “I’m trying to protect her, damn it all.”
    The crow picked at its breast feathers.
    Once again, Constantine wondered what he had done to merit the persecution of such a persnickety creature. “He won’t risk harming her if it doesn’t affect me.”
    The bird didn’t reply. A squirrel scolded, and Constantine snapped at it, driving it away to the tip of a branch, where it chittered rudely before leaping to another branch below. The crow stared coolly for a moment or two, flapped its wings, and sailed off. Back in the day when Constantine had deliberately ignored his guide for months and ended up in that catastrophic marriage, it had first hammered at him until he had almost gone insane and then left him completely alone and bereft. Now they had a better working arrangement. Once the bird had made its point, Constantine wished it away, and it went. When it had something useful to say, it returned.
    Constantine took out his cell phone and made a call.
    “Yo,” came the sleepy voice of Detective Gideon O’Toole, followed by a jaw-cracking yawn. Gideon was a good friend and the closest thing to a liaison between the police and the Bayou Gavotte underworld.
    “Kid keeping you up nights, sport?” Constantine said.
    “I would have done fine last night,” Gideon retorted, “if you’d gone home after the concert. The curator woke me up not ten minutes ago to pick up where she left off at midnight. Said you’d been on the mound all night, which is against park regulations.”
    “That’s all? What about the rape and human sacrifice?”
    “Jesus, Constantine. Where did that come from? Even you wouldn’t encourage that sort of story.”
    “Someone else kindly did it for me.” Constantine recounted the morning’s events, omitting mention of the guy who’d taken the knife.
    “Marguerite McHugh,” Gideon mused. “If there wasn’t a connection between you and her roommate’s death before,there sure is now.” He blew out a long breath. “There was no reason to believe Pauline’s death was anything but suicide, but it didn’t feel right. Not that she went outdoors—she loved her garden—but that she wandered into the street and just happened to get run over. It seemed a little too macabre to be real. Nice to know my instincts are working.” Pause. “Not so nice to know it might have been a murder.” Another pause. “I suppose I shouldn’t be glad that this almost certainly means your ‘Enemy’ is real.”
    “Finally beginning to believe me?” Constantine rasped. He’d had to suppress all his instincts to force himself to discuss his Enemy with Gideon. He didn’t usually get along with cops, and he preferred to work alone.
    But someone had been trying to destroy him for over two years now, starting with the poisoning of his estranged wife. Sheer luck had taken Constantine out of town the same night she was killed, or he would have been the prime suspect. The media, led mostly by Nathan Bone, had refused to let go, and unsolved crimes—and even some solved ones—were attributed to Constantine in the tabloids, and the methods described were all too possible for one of Constantine’s abilities.
    Those very abilities were the big issue. Nathan didn’t know enough to understand what Constantine really could and couldn’t do. Someone else did, though, and Constantine had squeezed a confession from Nathan that he had an unidentified source. That had led to suspecting every other vigilante, every bodyguard and roadie and friend—anyone who might have figured out more—but the search had led nowhere.
    Constantine’s fury and frustration had come out in his songs and then in his concerts. He’d lost control of his telepathy, blasting violence and hatred, death and destruction, and fans had been killed. Then the long hiatus, when he couldn’t bring himself to perform. He’d meditated and prayed. He’d done sweat lodges and healing ceremonies with the bird’s help. Gradually,