DISGUISED BY HIS homeless man’s attire, he hid amongst the shadows of the party-seekers and noise along Bourbon Street, so close to Britta Berger’s apartment he could see the light as she switched it off.
It had taken him a long time to find his Adrianna. In fact, for a while he had given up. Had assumed she was dead. As dead as he had felt inside.
But he’d searched for her in every woman he’d met since that day. Hoping, yearning, dying to discover that she was still out there. That he could still have her.
And make her pay for the pain she had caused him.
Then one day he’d picked up a copy of Naked Desires and had seen the small photograph of her in the editorial section. She was so beautiful she looked like a hand-painted porcelain doll.
One look into those witchlike eyes, though, and he’d recognized her instantly. His Adrianna.
She had been so close all along. So near Black Bayou where they had met, where they had almost been joined together.
Running had only brought Adrianna back full circle. There was no escape for the sins that lived within her. But passing the trial by ordeal, the fact that she’d walked across the gator-infested waters and survived, did not mean she was innocent. Only that she had performed some black magic spell to keep the snapping gators at bay. That she was no ’tite ange.
That she had been spawned by the devil.
The reason he had to destroy her. She was here now spreading her wickedness, enticing depraved men with her looks, casting a spell over the weak ones with her bewitching eyes—just as she had him, years ago. Through her column, she’d found the perfect venue to reach the masses.
He wanted to complete the ritual sacrifice. But he was a man and just as the crocodiles did during mating season, he had to mate with numerous partners.
Tonight he’d choose another.
He fell into the shadows and changed his clothing. Another disguise, this time one that would entice a woman. A white shirt and tie. A pair of dress slacks. An air of authority.
A wad of money.
And a mask over his face.
Another redhead, although her wavy hair was dyed an unnatural shade, tapped her foot at the corner of the House of Love, wearing a black micro-mini skirt, thigh-high boots and a flashy green top that looked like a bra. Her cleavage spilled over and through the mesh netting, her dark nipples stood turgid.
She twisted her head one way, then the other. Her nose jutted in the air as she took a drag from a menthol cigarette and flicked ashes on the grimy pavement. Finally aware he was watching her, she dropped the cigarette to the concrete, crushed it with her boot, then curled a finger toward him, beckoning him to join her. She looked impatient, primed, ready.
In need of some cash. Probably for drugs.
He had those in his pocket, as well. One that would give her the high of a lifetime.
He smiled, then smoothed his jet-black hair into place and strode toward her. Tonight, the whore would pleasure him. He might even draw out the fun a day or two if she was good, play with her, test her resistance.
Make her beg.
Then he’d force her to confess her sins before he killed her and added her to his kingdom.
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