Bo Ray had been thrilled to open the shop by himself.
Natasha was back at her own store and Father Ryan was at his church.
Danni had been so relieved when she destroyed the painting in her studio, her version of the Hubert. Then she remembered the giclée that Niles had given her.
Poor Niles was still devastated by Mason’s death. Regardless, she was going to destroy that giclée, even though it had been a gift. Even though she might hurt his feelings.
She headed out to the garage. They’d pulled the giclee inside when they took out the cars to leave for the airport.
Danni opened the garage.
She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the lower light. She saw the giclée—with its wrapping torn once again—at the rear of the garage.
As she started toward it, she came to a sudden halt. A trick of the eyes? Or had she seen something move?
Just get out, her instincts warned.
She turned to leave.
“Stop, Danni.”
She had seen something move. Someone.
“Turn around.” She did.
A man walked toward her. Holding a gun.
Quinn had taken her to the shooting range; she still didn’t know enough about guns to recognize what kind it was.
All she knew was that it was big—and it had a long barrel.
It was the man holding the gun who surprised her. He surprised her so much that for a moment, she was oddly relieved.
“Niles, it’s you! What are you doing in my garage—and...and with a gun?”
“I’m going to kill you, Danni,” Niles Villiers told her.
Any relief she felt drained out of her. And it hit her all at once.
Of course. Niles. Niles had been so thrilled to have the giclées. Niles had known that the original had been purchased—and that it was coming to New Orleans. He must’ve been the one who’d heard Hattie, the one who had a contact at the auction house, and then shared the information with Mason.
Not only that, Niles knew art.
“You woke the dead,” she said quietly. “You woke the dead—and you brought Mason in on it.” She shook her head. “Oh, and the way you cried when you saw his body! I really believed you were heartbroken. The hell with art, Niles. You should have been an actor.”
Was there a way out of this? Wolf wasn’t home to attack the man. Bo Ray was probably flirting and charming tourists in the shop. Quinn was at the station.
And it took about a second to fire a gun...and seconds for a bullet to hit her heart.
“I wasn’t acting, Danni. I never thought I’d lose Mason. But he’s dead—because of you. I needed Mason in my life.”
“He’s not dead because of me. Because of you. And the painting. Don’t you know that evil spirits can’t be trusted, Niles? They turn on you.”
He smiled. “No. The painting won’t turn on me. But...it should’ve taken you. It should’ve seen the danger in you. You’re the one who caused everything to go badly. You chased down Hattie. You were there. You got her butler killed. Bryson Arnold. He was helping Mason and me. Oh, Danni. You ruined everything. You just had to come into my gallery that day. If you hadn’t, you would never have seen the giclée, you wouldn’t have suspected that the painting could be involved. But you saw it. And then you went after the real painting. You even went to Switzerland. You and Quinn. You ruined everything for me.”
“What was the plan?”
“The plan?” Niles repeated. “Well, I’d touch up the painting with blood, I’d bring it to life when I needed it. And then Mason would’ve become a brilliant artist. He didn’t know...how I felt about him, except that we were friends. He would’ve realized that he...that he cared, too. We’d be happy together. And once he became famous, he’d...he’d realize how much I’d done for him and how much I loved him. He’d want to be with me. He was never really happy being someone who restored the work of others or just made copies. He hardly had time for his own work. But now Mason’s dead. My life is ruined. So, I’m going to ruin everything for you. I’m going to shoot you. Then I’m going to wait for Quinn—and I’m going to shoot him as he bends over your body in horror and agony. I’m going to make you both pay.”
“And then they’ll arrest you. And when they piece it all together, you’ll get the death penalty. Or you’ll sit and rot in a cell for the rest of your life. That would probably be worse for you.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore, Danni. It’s...it’s over for me. The painting...it would’ve given me everything. I could have made it work, they would’ve made it work.”
“Niles, you were fooled. Seduced. The painting, the dead people in it, wanted nothing except immortality. Don’t you understand that? I believe, when Hubert started the painting, it was just to be part of the ‘ghost’ bet that was going on within Byron’s circle. But he had no idea how evil Raoul Messine would prove to be. Between them, they dug up killers and used their blood. And when you got hold of the painting, when you stole the thing, it got away from you. The killers in that painting wanted blood in exchange for what they’d do, the murders they’d commit and the chaos they’d create. You thought you could control the painting, but it controlled you. People in this city were killed—people who had nothing to do with ownership of the painting.”
“I did control the painting—I would have controlled the painting,” Niles protested. “You brought in the police. You and Quinn... The Garcia family had to die. He had the painting—I needed it. I went there. I didn’t have a chance to take it that day—a neighbor came to the door and I couldn’t risk being seen with the package. But then I got it back from the police station. The painting, it helped me do that...”
“It thrives on blood,” Danni said, not ignoring his self-congratulatory tone. “A drop gets it started, gets them started, and suddenly the fog is all around—fog, blinding fog like the weather that settled over Geneva and the world that year. Then the evil souls captured in the painting come to life and walk within the fog—seeking death to stay awake. You helped the painting—you prowled the streets, trying to let the souls within it make kills. And in exchange you asked for power and success. For yourself and Mason. You involved other people, too. Like Mason himself. And Bryson.”
“You...”
“Know more than you do,” Danni said quietly. “Blood—and more blood. You would’ve been consumed. And you—did you mean to start this bloodbath? Regardless, you let it happen. And what about the fake painting? You had Mason do that painting—and you made sure Quinn found it, hoping you could deflect his attention. But don’t you see? It destroys everyone who comes in contact with it. When it was finished with you, it would’ve consumed you. It killed Mason, which means you were responsible for his death. Not anyone else! Don’t you see that yet? They’ll arrest you, Niles.”
Niles nodded. “Yes, they will now. I don’t care anymore. I just want you and Quinn dead. Because that’s the way it has to be now. You were supposed to die, but not by my hand. I would’ve had an alibi. Ah, Danni, I’d love to have seen it—the fog rising and the hungriest one, the cruelest one, coming after you. It would’ve been so...so right. But you didn’t appreciate art, Danni.” He seemed to puff up with indignation. “You put a painting outside. You leaned it against the garage wall!”
A chill settled over Danni. She’d just figured out where the real Hubert had landed.
At her home!
The painting had been masquerading as a giclee all this time—it had been at her house since the day it was delivered.
And with its torn wrapping...
The evil had been able to seep out into the streets, create the fog from two centuries before and hide within it to seek fresh blood.
Miraculously, it had scared Bo Ray before ever becoming active; miraculously, they’d all survived it. Because they’d never completely unwrapped it. Billie had even refastened the original wrapping. And they’d locked it up—and gotten it out of the house.
Wolf had known, she though
t.
“So that’s the real Hubert,” she said.
Niles nodded. “Useless now. And all I have is...revenge.”
He smiled. Danni heard something click. The trigger of the gun that was aimed straight at her?
“You brought it all on yourself, Danni.”
She wasn’t even sure what she felt. Fear? Or regret? If only she could live...
If she survived this, she’d let Quinn know that he meant everything to her. She’d hug Natasha and tell her what an important friend she was. She’d ask Father Ryan more about his life. She’d tell Billie he was the best man ever, that she wouldn’t have done so many things in life, nor would her father, if it hadn’t been for Billie.
She was going to die.
“No, you idiot! You brought it all on yourself!” she heard.
Niles Villiers twisted, startled by the sound of Quinn’s voice booming in the garage.
Niles fired.
His shot went wild.
Quinn’s didn’t.
Niles Villiers spun around and then slammed onto the floor.
Danni discovered that her knees had no strength. She sank to the floor of the garage, too.
But she didn’t fall. Quinn caught her.
Shuddering, she held him. She held him so tightly that he smoothed back her hair and said, “I think you’re breaking one of my ribs, Danni. But, hey, it’s just a rib,” he joked. “I have more.”
Despite herself and the horror of what had happened, she gulped out a laugh. She eased her hold and met his eyes.
“Oh, Quinn, it was Niles. Niles. He brought Mason in, he—”
“I heard a lot of it, trying to get an angle on him from outside the door.”
“We’ve had the real Hubert all along!” she said.
“And we can burn it now, and it finally will be over.”
Trembling, she turned to look at Niles. He lay facedown, blood streaming from beneath him.
She heard sirens and shouts from the street. Someone had called 9-1-1 after hearing the gunshot.
They had only seconds before the world would burst in on them.
Quinn lifted her chin, bringing her face back to his.
“This isn’t the time or the place, here in the garage with...with a dead man, but...I love you, Quinn. I really love you.”
He smiled. “I love you, too, Danni. Really love you.”
She swallowed and nodded. “And...”
“Yes?”
“When the police are gone, I have to see Billie. And Natasha and Father Ryan and...”
“And?”
“Dog treats. We need to buy more dog treats.”
Quinn gazed down at her with quizzical affection. “Whatever you want, Danni. Whatever you want. Just realize it’s over. We’re safe.”
For now, at least. But, of course, they never knew when a new object would need collecting.
Or when someone else might find a way to wake the dead.
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from LET THE DEAD SLEEP by Heather Graham.
If you loved Waking the Dead, be sure to also catch Let the Dead Sleep, in the spellbinding Cafferty and Quinn series, by New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham, available now wherever ebooks are sold!
Looking for more Heather Graham? Don’t miss the popular dark and page-turning Krewe of Hunters series.
The Night Is Forever
The Night Is Alive
The Night Is Watching
The Uninvited
The Unspoken
The Unholy
The Unseen
The Evil Inside
Sacred Evil
Heart of Evil
Phantom Evil
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1
It was spring in New Orleans, a beautiful April day, and Angus Cafferty had been dead for three months the afternoon Michael Quinn followed the widow Gladys Simon to The Cheshire Cat, an antiques and curio store on Royal Street.
The house itself, now a shop, was one of the few buildings that had survived the Great New Orleans Fire of 1788 that had destroyed 856 buildings—followed by the fire of 1794 that destroyed another 212. It was one of the only structures from the mid-1700s that remained on Royal Street. It had a two-storied facade, with an inner courtyard and balconies surrounding the building streetside. He knew the layout of the old building; the original parlor, study and dining rooms were set up as the shop’s display area, while the old pantry was Danielle Cafferty’s studio. The basement was not really a basement at all. This was New Orleans, and even on high ground, the basement was just the lowest level of the house. Six steps led up from the street, and courtyard entries led to the porches and the house. The shop’s basement was filled with treasures Angus had collected and kept away from the view of others. Upstairs, above the store, were the office and a small apartment used by the Cafferty family. Billie McDougall slept in the attic, ever watchful, while a second street entry, which had once been a carriage house, was now a two-car garage.
Following Gladys Simon was easy; Quinn was directly behind her and she was oblivious. He felt like a stalker, having to trail her like this, but when he’d discovered that morning that she had the bust, he’d tried to see her. According to her housekeeper, she refused to see anyone. No amount of cajoling had gotten him in.
He’d waited outside her house, but she’d run to her car, turning away when he’d begun to speak to her. All he could do was follow—and pray that she was going to the curio shop.
She approached the shop and so did Quinn, practically on her heels. As they entered, he saw Billie reading a book behind the counter and Jane Pearl, the clerk and bookkeeper, walking up the stairs, presumably going to her office. She paused, however, when she heard the door open.
Gladys Simon was unaware of her surroundings. She headed straight to the old mahogany bar that had been refashioned into a sales counter. Quinn stepped in right after her and feigned great interest in a grandfather clock that was situated just inside the front door.
Billie might have been perfectly cast as Riff Raff in a Rocky Horror remake or as an aging Ichabod Crane. He was as skinny as his mentor and employer had been robust. Billie had steel-gray eyes and a shock of neck-length white hair and was dressed in jeans and a Grateful Dead T-shirt. He must have been a startling and imposing figure to a Versace-clad and perfectly manicured matron like Gladys Simon.
But Gladys didn’t seem to notice anything about Billie at all. She rushed over to him.
“You buy antiquities, unusual items, don’t you? You have to buy the bust from me—you must buy it from me. No, no, you don’t need to buy it. You can have it. Please, come to my house and take the bust away. It belongs in a place like this!”
Billie glanced briefly at Quinn, a frown furrowing his wrinkled brow. “I’d love to help you, ma’am. I’m not the owner, but—”
“Oh, dear! That’s right!” she said with a gasp. “But...the owner died, didn’t he? Oh, please tell me the new owner is available...please! I must... I can’t live with that thing anymore....”
“Now, try to calm down, Mrs....?”
“Simon. Gladys Simon. It was my husband’s. He’s dead now. He’s dead because of that...thing!”
“Please calm down, Mrs. Simon,” he said again. “The object is a bust?”
“Yes, very old—and exquisite, really.”
“You want to give me an old and exquisite piece?” Billie’s voice was incredulous.
“Are you deaf, sir?” she shrieked. “Yes—I must be rid of it!”
By then, the woman’s frantic tone had drawn the new owner from her studio in the back of the store.
Quinn had watched her on the
day of Angus Cafferty’s funeral. He had chosen not to approach her then; he had kept his distance when Cafferty was laid to rest in the Scottish vault at the old cemetery—the “City of the Dead,” where he had long stated he would go when the time came. There’d been a piper at the grave site, but Cafferty was accompanied by the traditional New Orleans jazz band and a crowd of friends to his final resting place. He’d been loved by many in the city. Of course, a tourist or two—or ten or twenty—fascinated by the ritual, had joined in, as well. The vaults in the cemetery didn’t allow for the immediate grouping around the grave that was customary at in-ground burials, so he’d been able to hover on the edges of the crowd, paying his own respects from afar.
There was no doubt that the man’s daughter had been devastated. And there was no doubt that she was old Angus’s daughter—she had his startling dark blue eyes and sculpted features, finer and slimmer, but still a face that spoke of her parentage. Her hair was a rich auburn, brushing her shoulders, a color that might well have been Angus’s once—when he’d had pigment in his hair. Despite her grief, she hadn’t seemed fragile or broken, which gave him hope. Though she was slim, she was a good five-nine and might just possess some of the old man’s inner strength.
As she walked to the front of the shop, she was frowning slightly, obviously perplexed by the commotion. She wore jeans and a short-sleeved tailored shirt and somehow appeared casual and yet naturally elegant. She moved with an innate grace.
Gladys heard her coming and turned to her. “You—you’re the owner?”
“Yes, I’m Danni Cafferty. May I help you?”
“Oh, yes, you certainly may. I know your father was intrigued by historic objects. I never met him but I read that his shop acquired the most unusual and...historic objects,” she repeated. “You must come and take the bust.”
“Mrs. Simon, we don’t just take anything.”
“It’s priceless! You must take it.”
“Mrs. Simon, I didn’t say we wouldn’t buy it. It’s that we don’t take things.” Danni looked at the woman, assessing her with a smile. “I can’t believe this is such an emergency that—”