Chapter Two
Michael knew he was somewhere near the river. He could smell the water and hear the odd boat horn blaring. The two men who’d come to see him at the bar had thrown a hood over his head as soon as they got backstage. He’d stayed calm, knowing something like that would probably happen. He knew these people, knew their methods. They’d tossed him in a vehicle and drove him around for what seemed like hours. It was probably to try and confuse him, so he wouldn’t be able to tell anyone where he’d been.
Now, with the hood off, he couldn’t make out much more than what looked like an old, abandoned warehouse. There were plenty of them near the river, flooded by Katrina and never used again. It was still dark and the two men who’d kidnapped him stood in the shadows. He could hear them whispering to each other, but couldn’t spot them. It sounded like more than two and he thought vaguely, The whole gang’s here.
“Hello, Michael,” a voice said, seeing that he had found his bearings.
He knew the voice, but hesitated to say the man’s name. Finally, he gritted his teeth and mumbled, “Percy.”
A well-dressed man, about the same age and height as Michael, stepped out of the shadows with a laugh. Their heights may have been similar, but Percy was much larger and had a haughty air about him.
“Still angry, are we?” he commented.
“Hey, you’re the one who kidnapped me,” he countered. When Percy only grinned again, Michael added, “I see they’re feeding you well.” The smile faded, giving him a satisfied feeling. “What do you want, Percy?”
“You’ve been talking,” he answered.
Michael shook his head. “I’ve never told anyone what you did.”
Percy moved closer and leaned in to his ear. “I know about the song. Did you think we were that stupid or that we wouldn’t figure it out?”
Michael gulped and then felt a strong slap to the back of his head. He tried to move away, but he was tied to the chair. Percy slowly walked around to the other side of it and nodded into the shadows. A moment later, other men moved into the light and rolled up their sleeves. Michael looked from one to another, heart beating fast. The first fist sent his chair toppling and a groan escaped from his lips.
***
Deacon woke from a strange dream to the sound of pounding on his door. At first, his semi-conscious mind ignored it, but then the pounding became more desperate and he sat up with a start.
“Yeah, yeah,” he called out as he scooted out of the bed and then tripped over the computer that had fallen off again. “Dammit!” he hissed and rubbed his quickly bruising toe. When the pounding started again, he called out, “You’re gonna wake my neighbor and he’ll call the cops! That’s the last thing I need,” he mumbled to himself. “What the hell is so important at three o’clock in the morning?” he grumbled as he threw open the door. What was waiting for him made him gasp. “What the…”
Michael Deveraux was hunched on the other side of his door, holding his stomach with one hand and reaching up to knock with the other. His face was bloody and swollen, and he looked like he might fall down at any moment.
“Jesus,” Deacon breathed and pulled the man inside. He led him, stumbling, toward the bed and eased him down with a wince. He put a hand to his aching hip. “What happened to you?” he asked and sat down next to him.
Michael struggled to talk, but managed to mutter, “Those men.”
Deacon nodded and closed his eyes with a sigh. A part of him had known something was fishy about last night. He chided himself for not getting more involved. Then he got up and filled a bowl with hot water. He brought it, along with some rags, back to the bed. Michael was looking around his apartment and it made him blush. Embarrassment was something else Deacon Jameson never did.
“Sorry about the mess,” he mumbled. “I don’t have much…well, I never have company.”
Michael nodded and took the warm, wet rag. “Thanks.” He tried to clean up his face, but wasn’t accomplishing much.
“Here, sit still and tell me what happened.” When Michael simply looked away, he frowned, curious as to what was going on. “You looked like you knew them…at the club, I mean.”
He nodded again and looked back. The look of concern on Deacon’s face made his features soften. He took a deep breath as the man dabbed at a cut over his eye. “It was a long time ago,” he started. “I met them when I was in college.”
“Music?”
Michael snorted. “I was studying business. I had dreams of becoming a big man with a lot of power and a lot of money.”
“Not a bad goal,” Deacon said with a shrug.
“You’d be surprised.” He thought for a moment and glanced away from the other man’s startled look. “Anyway, I fell in with some people I thought could help me. They had influence and important relatives. It turned out they were a bad crowd and not what I’d thought. I didn’t have the right strength and spirit for them. I didn’t want to be like them, so I left everything behind. I left school and started working on my music. That was ten years ago. I hadn’t seen any of them since.”
“So, what happened? Why are they coming after you now? Why are they coming after you at all?” When Michael simply frowned at him, he shook his head. “I’m sorry. I’m a detective, it’s what I do.”
“That’s okay,” Michael assured him. “Nice to know somebody cares. Look, can I stay here for the night? I’m really tired and…don’t want to go home.”
“Uh, yeah, okay” Deacon stammered and got up to straighten out the bed a little. A sharp pain in his hip caused him to limp and he hissed.
“What’s wrong with your leg?” Michael asked, drowsily, as he stripped off his shirt and lay down a moment later.
“I got shot,” Deacon answered, matter-of-factly.
“Chasing a suspect or something?”
“Nope,” he answered, roaming the room, trying to figure out where he was going to sleep. “Client. He didn’t appreciate my work.”
Michael laughed and then groaned at his own pain. “Sounds like you’ve had an interesting life.”
Deacon snorted and then plopped into an old armchair with a ratty throw. “Go to sleep. If you’re lucky, I’ll let you make me breakfast.”
Michael shook his head and chuckled again. Before he could come up with a witty reply, though, he fell fast asleep.
Deacon wasn’t so lucky. He wasn’t used to someone invading his space, especially someone he barely knew who was apparently in danger. He listened to the rise and fall of Michael’s breath and his thoughts kept creeping back to the sight of his bare chest. He was young, with lean, sculpted muscles that Deacon had very much wanted to touch, despite the bruises. He groaned in frustration and punched the chair.
Deacon finally went back to sleep as dawn crept over the horizon. When his eyes fluttered open a couple of hours later, he tried sitting up, but only managed to slide out of the chair. “Dammit,” he hissed again and tried rubbing out the crick in his neck. Then he ran a hand through his unruly hair and looked up at the bed. The covers were thrown back and no one was there. Deacon got to his knees and looked around, but he was alone in the apartment. He scratched at the black stubble beginning to become a problem on his chin, and then got to his feet. His hip hadn’t appreciated his sleeping position either, but he ignored it.
On the kitchen counter was a note, and a plate of toast and bacon. Deacon raised his eyebrows appreciatively. Then he opened the note and read:
Sorry there aren’t any eggs. I thought they might get cold before you got up. I didn’t want to wake you. Thanks for taking care of me last night. I didn’t want to get you involved any further, so I thought it best I left. Remember, strength and spirit - Michael
Deacon nibbled at a piece of toast and reread the letter a couple of times. The last line was very odd and sounded, somehow, familiar. He thought back to the conversation they’d had the night before and realized that Michael had said something similar then. He shoved the bacon into his mouth and then took the plate and note back to the bed. Once there, he dug around underneath it for his laptop, hoping it still worked.
He turned it on and said, “Come on, baby,” and then glanced, furtively, to the spot where Michael had slept. He was embarrassed to think that he didn’t remember the last time he’d changed his sheets. As he picked up a piece of toast, the laptop came on, and he managed to spill crumbs all over the bed in his celebration. Then came time to hope the Wi-Fi was working since he couldn’t even remember where the router was.
He leaned back against the headboard, munching on another piece of bacon, as he settled in for a morning of research. As he suspected, searching the internet for the words strength and spirit brought up all sorts of results. He knew it had to be connected to the people who’d attacked Michael though. He thought it might be some kind of fraternity thing since the piano player had mentioned meeting these men in college, but he couldn’t find anything that connected to the phrase. On top of that, he had no idea what school Michael had gone to.
By lunch time, he had a few leads, but they were weak at best. He still hadn’t narrowed down whether the words strength and spirit were a catchphrase, a motto, or even a title for something. He’d long since finished the breakfast Michael had cooked for him, but he’d never bothered to get up and get dressed. He figured it was time though. He had to admit, he needed help, and that meant leaving the apartment. It was a chore, but it had to be done.
He crawled off the bed, his hip having stiffened up from so long in one position, and he limped to his makeshift closet. He pulled on his cleanest dirty jeans, a fresh button up, and his prized leather jacket. Then he headed out into the quickly cooling New Orleans autumn air.
Every good detective had their sources—those people who knew things they didn’t or knew how to figure out things they couldn’t. Many people used law enforcement, computer hackers and the like, but Deacon had his own secret weapon—his local librarian. It was a short bus ride from Deacon’s neighborhood to the public library—a large, multi-story building with a multitude of collections. He rarely perused the place himself, but had become friends with the lady who ran it.
As he walked up to the checkout desk, a plump, graying woman in glasses, glanced up and took him in. A cheeky smile crossed her face and she put her hands on her hips.
“Why Deacon Jameson, I can hardly believe my eyes. Honey, you look like hell,” she teased.
“I just got back,” he charmed.
The librarian chuckled and shook her head. “You must be in deep if you need my help.”
Deacon shook his head. “I don’t know yet, Susie. Something weird is going on, but I’ve only hit the tip of the iceberg. It might be nothing, but I don’t have anything else to do right now, so…”
“You’d like me to impart some of my infinite wisdom?”
“Exactly,” he answered with a smile.
“So, what’s got you stumped?” she asked.
“Two words, well, three I guess, technically. Strength and spirit. I don’t know if it’s a motto or what.”
“Hmm, where’d you get it?”
Deacon tried, unsuccessfully, not to blush. “Um, a new friend. He seems to know what it means, but he’s vanished on me and I think he might be in trouble.”
Susie thought for a moment and then pulled something up on her computer. “It sounds familiar. Oh yes.” She paused and squinted at Deacon. “This new friend wouldn’t happen to be the musician, Michael Deveraux, would it?”
Deacon’s eyes bulged and his mouth fell open. “Yeah, how did you know?”
Susie waved him around the counter and pointed to her computer screen. “Strength and Spirit. I always keep up with all the hot new local talent.”
The detective stared at her screen in shock. She’d pulled up a lyric sheet by Michael Deveraux for a song called Strength and Spirit. As he quickly skimmed the lyrics, he realized that he’d heard this song before—the first night he’d seen Michael play. It had been staring him in the face the whole time.
“Get me a print out of that, will ya?” he asked.
“Sure. You think this song has something to do with his trouble?” Susie asked as she waited for the paper to spit out of her printer.
“I think it has everything to do with it.” He snatched up the paper when she handed it to him and made his way to the computer room. He was too curious to bother going home. He sat down at one of the desks and began pouring over the lyrics. At first, they seemed nothing more than a sad song about a man who’d left everything behind, but after hearing Michael’s story, he knew it was autobiographical. He delved in deeper, wondering if the poetic lines were metaphors for something else. After an hour, he’d scarcely touched the computer and rubbed his throbbing head.
“This has got to mean something,” he mumbled to himself. “Why leave it as a clue if it doesn’t mean something?” It had to have something to do with the group Michael had fallen into. If he could just figure out what the lyrics meant…He glanced at the lines again.
I had to break the oath I took, It was the only way I could be free
Maybe he’d been right from the start. Maybe this was some kind of fraternity thing. He had his doubts though. This seemed bigger, with more dangerous connotations. The lyrics also contained allusions to secrets and lies, which sounded about right considering what Michael had mentioned. A couple of lines disturbed him though.
I could not draw my power from blood, Those lines you took from ancient Rome
Deacon scratched his head and wondered what they could mean. If the first line was more literal than he thought, he didn’t want to think what it might be referring to. It conjured up grizzly images and he sighed, thinking this would all be a lot easier if Michael had stuck around to tell him. He decided to set that aside for a while and focus on the ancient Rome reference. He couldn’t imagine that this was a group that had been around that long. He knew there were secret societies floating around, especially in a place with as much mystery and intrigue as New Orleans, but groups that were thousands of years old? He very much doubted that.
“Lines,” he whispered. “The lyric mentions lines taken from ancient Rome.” He thought for a moment again, staring at the piece of paper.
“Latin,” he heard a voice say and he looked up to see a teenage girl at the computer across from him.
“Were you talking to me?” he asked.
“Uh-huh. Lines taken from ancient Rome would be in Latin,” she said and then turned back to typing a mile a minute.
“Latin,” Deacon repeated, slowly. He tapped at the paper for a moment and then sucked in a breath. He turned back to the computer and then belatedly said, “Uh, thanks.” He didn’t notice the girl’s nod, but was, instead, pulling up a translation program. When it came up, he put in Latin to translate to and wrote the words, Strength and Spirit. He watched the translation and then whispered, “Vires et Spiritu.” He wrote the words down on a little notebook he took with him everywhere and then typed them into the search bar. Unlike his original search, the words only brought up a few results and only two that looked promising. One was a news report from forty years ago, that mentioned two college students and a prank gone wrong. Deacon had heard both their names before. One was a New Orleans businessman and the other, a politician in Alabama.
The other promising entry was little more than a front page for a website. The page was black, with strange background symbols in red. You had to have a password to access the rest of the site. He tried a few of Michael’s lyrics, but it did no good. After a while, he gave up, thinking that he, at least, had a good start. He had Susie print out the article he’d found and then took everything home.
He had the notion, in the back of his mind, that Michael might be waiting for him when he got back. He knew it was ridiculous and turned out not to be the case. He unlocked the door with a sigh, piled his findings on the bed with everything else, and then checked the fridge for something to eat. There was little beyond the eggs, bacon, and bread, so he settled on a bacon sandwich and some coffee. Then he plopped down on the bed and looked over his findings. The news article suggested that the future businessman and senator from Alabama had been partying a little too hard and one of them had been injured. The photos suggested differently though. One of the young men’s arms had been photographed and Deacon almost spit out his coffee when he saw it. The cuts on his arm looked a hell of a lot like one of the symbols he’d seen on the website.
He put down his cup, his sandwich forgotten, and quickly poured through the rest of the article. Vires et Spiritu had been mentioned by an unnamed witness, but there were no details and the witness’ account was thoroughly discredited. It was almost as if no one wanted to hear what the person had to say. There’d been no follow-ups to the story and it had all been dismissed without any charges filed.
He put the paper down, scratching his ever increasingly painful head. He liked mysteries. Why else be a detective? This case, as he’d come to think of it, was something else though. It looked more and more like he was dealing with some kind of powerful secret society and the very idea had caused his head to ache. He tried to stay away from that kind of thing. He liked his little life in the shadows, where clients only shot him now and then, and he was rarely threatened by criminals. Not to mention, he had enough problems with easily annoyed detectives without getting them involved with dangerous, powerful people who could possibly end their careers.
Deacon sighed and leaned back against the headboard. “I knew I should have given up drinking,” he mumbled. “Then I wouldn’t need to go to pubs and get involved with piano players.”
The next morning, he woke up in much the same position he’d been in—leaning against the headboard with his computer and papers strewn about. He’d tried looking Michael up, but couldn’t find a current address for him. He’d ended the day staring at the lyrics again, trying to glean more clues from them. As he opened his eyes and yawned, he realized that sleep had brought an epiphany. He stopped, mid-stretch, and then grabbed up the song again. One of the lines stuck out:
Running along with John James always clears my mind
Deacon smacked his head. “Audubon Park,” he growled. “I’m such an idiot.” He climbed out of bed, hopping along as he tried to pull his jeans back on. Audubon Park was a popular place for runners, something he probably would have thought of earlier, if fitness had been something Deacon was interested in. It wasn’t, though, and he cursed himself for taking too long to figure out the reference.
It took a little longer to get to Magazine Street than it had to get to the library, but it was still early enough to find plenty of morning joggers around. Hopefully, he’d be able to catch Michael. It was a big park and he walked along the jogging trail, thoroughly annoying everyone who was actually running and had to go around him. Trees loomed everywhere, making it tough to see anyone not in his immediate vicinity. After half an hour, he was about ready to give up when he heard someone call his name. He looked around, but didn’t see anyone at first.
“Deacon,” Michael repeated and stepped out of the shade of a large tree covered in Spanish moss.
Deacon glanced around out of habit, checking to see if anyone had followed or was watching. They seemed to be alone for the moment and he beckoned for the piano player to come over. Michael was covered up in a white jogging suit, the hood pulled up over his head and face.
“How can you stand wearing that?” Deacon asked, the day having warmed up already. When Michael only shrugged, he took a better look at him. He’d cut his shock of red hair off short and golden whiskers covered his chin and cheeks. His bruises had fully bloomed as well, covering one whole side of his face. “Are you all right?” he added, softly.
The younger man nodded. “I’m OK. I’ve just been laying low. I was hoping you’d figure out my clue,” he added with a goofy grin.
“About that…what the hell’s going on?”
“Come on,” Michael said and gestured toward the footpath. They walked for a few minutes as he collected his thoughts. Finally, he sighed and pulled out his phone. He pulled up some pages he’d bookmarked.
Deacon leaned in to see what looked like news reports. As he scrolled through, skimming the articles, he noticed they all seemed to be of strange occurrences in and around the city. Eventually he shook his head and looked back up at Michael. “I don’t get it. What does this have to do with what happened to you?”
“Everything,” he answered. “These are the same people. They belong to a group called Vires et Spiritu.”
“Yeah, I got that.”
One corner of Michael’s mouth turned up in a half-hearted smile. “I didn’t expect you to get that far.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Deacon sassed. “But what does that have to do with ghost sightings and chicken mutilations?”
“You didn’t see their website, did you?”
“No, you have to have a password.”
Michael nodded. “They aren’t just a bunch of frat boys having drunken parties. They believe in…occult practices and they’ve been around for generations.”
“You really think they can…affect the weather?” Deacon asked, glancing at another of the stories on the phone.
Michael pushed back the hood and ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, but I do know that they believe it…and that they’re willing to kill me to protect themselves.”
They walked the length of the park and then caught a streetcar on St. Charles Avenue. Michael simply paid with his phone, but Deacon held up the line looking for exact change. Then they sat next to each other on a mahogany bench near the back, away from the other riders.
“Where did you spend the night?” Deacon asked.
Michael shrugged. “There’s an old hostel not far from here.”
“Good lord,” Deacon snorted. “Might as well have slept in the park. Look, I know a place closer to the Quarter. They’ll cut me a deal. You can hole up there until we figure this out.” He didn’t add the fact that he’d like to have the man closer to keep an eye on and, he realized, for other reasons.
“Thanks,” Michael said with another smile, but Deacon could see a hint of sadness in those steel blue eyes.
“We’ll work it out,” he assured him.
Once they’d reached the end of the line, they walked the rest of the way to the edge of the French Quarter. There, Deacon had an old friend who owed him a favor. The man ran a small, boutique hotel and he agreed to rent them a room under a false name, for cash up front. No information passed about Michael, who he was, or what he was doing there, and the owner wouldn’t ask. Deacon left him there and then went back to the hostel to round up the few clothes and other items left behind.
When Deacon got back to the hotel, his old friend had some homemade gumbo and po’boys waiting. “Thanks, Charlie,” he said and started for the stairs.
“Sure thing, Deac. If you need anything else…”
“I know who to call,” Deacon said through a mouthful of po’boy. Luckily, the room was on the first floor and not far from the office. An armful of Michael’s pack and food were about to slip to the floor, but Deacon managed to unlock the door just in time. He set everything down on the small, hotel room table and then glanced over to see Michael fast asleep on the bed.
It was tempting to leave him, but they had work to do, so he leaned over the bed. He reached out, but then hesitated. A shock of attraction went down his spine and he had to take a deep breath. Then he quickly shook the sleeping form.
“Hey,” he yelled. “I’ve got grub.”
Michael groaned and rubbed his eyes. Then he looked up at Deacon, cheekily shaking a sandwich in his face. “Oh God, po’boys,” he moaned, and the sound was so indecent that Deacon felt his cock stir.
He quickly handed over the one that wasn’t already half eaten and went about dishing up some gumbo. “So, uh, did you have a good rest?”
“Yeah,” Michael answered with a stretch. “I feel a lot better. Thanks for this.” He walked over to the table and the two of them sat down to eat.
After they’d had a few bites, Deacon frowned and said, “Who are these people, Michael? You never finished telling me.”
Michael took a deep breath and leaned back. “It’s a secret group, strictly invitation only. They were started a while back by a couple of sons of powerful men.”
“Yeah, I saw the article from the seventies.”
Michael nodded. “I think they were second generation by that time. They have a hierarchy that you have to work your way up through before they tell you everything.”
“Like the Masons?” Deacon suggested.
He snorted and shook his head. “Something like that, but less structured and not nearly as old. Mostly, it’s a bunch of college-aged guys. I don’t think the older ones really keep up with it, unless someone needs their help, of course.”
“So, what’s it all about?”
“At first, I thought it was nothing more than a bunch of guys helping each other get into positions of influence and stuff like that. I thought they’d be able to help me get a good job, bypass some of the hoops, you know?” When Deacon nodded, he added, “But I found out that they have a lot of weird traditions and beliefs.”
“The occult stuff.”
“Yeah. They wanted me to believe it too and participate. I tried a few things,” he mumbled with a blush and looked away. He was grateful when the detective didn’t push him further. “As I worked my way up, I found out about the bigger stuff. Animal sacrifices, blood magic…”
“It sounds like voodoo or something,” Deacon commented.
Michael nodded. “Voodoo, Hoodoo, even some Native American practices. They dabbled in anything they thought would work for them. Even murder,” he added, his voice barely above a whisper.
Deacon looked up from his gumbo and let his spoon slide back into the bowl. “Murder?”
Michael rubbed at his hands like he was trying to wipe away the blood only he could see. “They called it a ritual sacrifice. I wasn’t high enough in the group to attend and, at first, I thought it was another chicken or some other animal.”
Deacon let out a shaky breath in relief. “So…you weren’t there?”
“No, but one night some of the guys got drunk and I heard them talking about it—boasting. It definitely wasn’t a chicken.”
Michael’s eyes filled with tears and Deacon reached across the table. “Hey, it’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I should have told someone what I heard.”
“You were afraid for your own life. You were lucky to get out. Besides, you’re telling someone now. There’s no statute of limitations on murder. We’ll get them.”
Michael wiped his eyes and chuckled. “They’re powerful people, Deacon.”
“That’s why they won’t see it coming,” he answered with a grin. When Michael seemed to perk up a bit, he waved back toward the bed. “Come on, you need to get some rest.”
The younger man agreed and slowly shuffled back to the bed. As he climbed in, Deacon came over and awkwardly tried tucking him in. As he did so, Michael reached out and took his arm. “Thanks again,” he said, so many emotions smoldering behind his steel blue eyes.
Deacon froze for a moment, staring into them. His own big green eyes must have held panic as Michael pulled him closer because he suddenly let go and frowned. Deacon opened his mouth, but had no idea what to say. Instead, he quickly turned and fled to the bathroom.