here.”
She leaned back her head. “I am Khepri.”
“Just Khepri?”
“Amun’s wife.”
“No last name?” he asked, keeping his voice low.
“It is my first and only name. Should I have more? I was
born to farmers, not kings.” Her head tilted and her gaze narrowed, as though
listening to something far away. “You have more names. Three?”
Juste wasn’t sure why, but he smiled. Yeah, she was a
strange one. “Well, Khepri, I’m Justin Henry Boucher. I do have three names.”
“You must be very important.”
“Only if you think so.”
She smiled, and Juste’s chest tightened. He decided then and
there, whatever had happened here, whoever had touched her would pay dearly.
Khepri, Amun’s wife, was now his problem.
Chapter Seven
Juste watched the woman from the corner of his eye as he
navigated the late afternoon traffic. Her gaze was fixated on the
stop-and-start movement of the vehicles, almost as though she’d never seen such
a sight. Worse for his concentration, she didn’t notice she’d stopped clutching
together the lapels of his coat.
Not that he was too worried about what anyone outside the
car might see. The city was Nawlins , where anything went and clothing
was generally optional. Viewing someone’s private parts was nearly a daily
occurrence, but this woman’s messed with his head. The northern one.
She seemed too innocent to be that unconcerned about
clothing.
The situation and her attitude just didn’t smell right.
He didn’t miss the irony that he wasn’t placing the blame
squarely on her. He almost never assumed innocence. Everyone was suspect. But
there was something about the woman. Something weird and kind of magical. Maybe
he had inherited more of his grand-mère ’s witchy blood than he’d ever
thought. When he looked at Khepri, he felt he wasn’t seeing her at all, but
another woman, kind of fuzzy around the edges and dressed in a pale flowing
gown.
Was his mind fucking with him, making his imagination see
her as some kind of angel? Merde , he didn’t need this now. Still, he
didn’t dump her at the station for other officers to figure her out. The
thought of the guys getting an eyeful of her beautiful body and then expecting
a thorough, intimidating interrogation didn’t sit well in his gut. He knew he’d
fucked up the moment he’d steered her away from the others, especially his
partner, and bundled her into his car. He’d even allowed her to gather the
evidence—the wrappings and the objects that had fallen from the wrappings,
including the knife—and bundle them together to bring along.
She’d called the objects amulets. Fussed over finding every
one. And he supposed she had reason because they contained the same picture
writing as he’d seen in the museum. If they were “artifacts,” they’d be worth
something.
Just not to him. He could give a shit less about Dr. Dorman
and his missing ancient junk. Not when Khepri was breathing the air inside his
sedan. She was a mystery he wanted to unravel, and not just for the obvious
reasons she failed to cover up.
She wasn’t from around here. That much was sure. Not if the
sight of strippers dressed in spandex and stilettos, pretending to dance from
“air” poles for the men rubbernecking past, made her mouth gape.
Curiosity burning, he acted casual, watching her from the
corner of his eye as he asked, “You know where you are?”
Her lips pursed, and a frown bisected her brow. “I am in New
Orleans. The Crescent City. Gateway to the Mississippi.”
She said it as though she quoted it from guide book. “You
know who wrapped you like a Christmas package?”
Her eyebrows drew together. “His name did not matter. He was
Pharoah’s vizier.”
Yeah, she was special all right. Or maybe from some
underground cult. Had her parents kept her in a compound where the children
never saw a TV or a car? “Vizier. That like some kinda wizard?”
Her lips twitched. “As a high priest, I suppose you
She leaned back her head. “I am Khepri.”
“Just Khepri?”
“Amun’s wife.”
“No last name?” he asked, keeping his voice low.
“It is my first and only name. Should I have more? I was
born to farmers, not kings.” Her head tilted and her gaze narrowed, as though
listening to something far away. “You have more names. Three?”
Juste wasn’t sure why, but he smiled. Yeah, she was a
strange one. “Well, Khepri, I’m Justin Henry Boucher. I do have three names.”
“You must be very important.”
“Only if you think so.”
She smiled, and Juste’s chest tightened. He decided then and
there, whatever had happened here, whoever had touched her would pay dearly.
Khepri, Amun’s wife, was now his problem.
Chapter Seven
Juste watched the woman from the corner of his eye as he
navigated the late afternoon traffic. Her gaze was fixated on the
stop-and-start movement of the vehicles, almost as though she’d never seen such
a sight. Worse for his concentration, she didn’t notice she’d stopped clutching
together the lapels of his coat.
Not that he was too worried about what anyone outside the
car might see. The city was Nawlins , where anything went and clothing
was generally optional. Viewing someone’s private parts was nearly a daily
occurrence, but this woman’s messed with his head. The northern one.
She seemed too innocent to be that unconcerned about
clothing.
The situation and her attitude just didn’t smell right.
He didn’t miss the irony that he wasn’t placing the blame
squarely on her. He almost never assumed innocence. Everyone was suspect. But
there was something about the woman. Something weird and kind of magical. Maybe
he had inherited more of his grand-mère ’s witchy blood than he’d ever
thought. When he looked at Khepri, he felt he wasn’t seeing her at all, but
another woman, kind of fuzzy around the edges and dressed in a pale flowing
gown.
Was his mind fucking with him, making his imagination see
her as some kind of angel? Merde , he didn’t need this now. Still, he
didn’t dump her at the station for other officers to figure her out. The
thought of the guys getting an eyeful of her beautiful body and then expecting
a thorough, intimidating interrogation didn’t sit well in his gut. He knew he’d
fucked up the moment he’d steered her away from the others, especially his
partner, and bundled her into his car. He’d even allowed her to gather the
evidence—the wrappings and the objects that had fallen from the wrappings,
including the knife—and bundle them together to bring along.
She’d called the objects amulets. Fussed over finding every
one. And he supposed she had reason because they contained the same picture
writing as he’d seen in the museum. If they were “artifacts,” they’d be worth
something.
Just not to him. He could give a shit less about Dr. Dorman
and his missing ancient junk. Not when Khepri was breathing the air inside his
sedan. She was a mystery he wanted to unravel, and not just for the obvious
reasons she failed to cover up.
She wasn’t from around here. That much was sure. Not if the
sight of strippers dressed in spandex and stilettos, pretending to dance from
“air” poles for the men rubbernecking past, made her mouth gape.
Curiosity burning, he acted casual, watching her from the
corner of his eye as he asked, “You know where you are?”
Her lips pursed, and a frown bisected her brow. “I am in New
Orleans. The Crescent City. Gateway to the Mississippi.”
She said it as though she quoted it from guide book. “You
know who wrapped you like a Christmas package?”
Her eyebrows drew together. “His name did not matter. He was
Pharoah’s vizier.”
Yeah, she was special all right. Or maybe from some
underground cult. Had her parents kept her in a compound where the children
never saw a TV or a car? “Vizier. That like some kinda wizard?”
Her lips twitched. “As a high priest, I suppose you
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