Chapter Two
THE REGENT PSYCHIATRIC Institute was a large, rambling estate built at the edge of a hidden inlet deep in the mosquito-infested keys of Florida. At one time it had been home to one of the most notorious pirates in the Caribbean—Banshee McGee—nicknamed such because he kept in his employ a woman who sang the death chant when they were about to attack—and coincidentally, death followed hard in its wake.
A bastard through and through, McGee had plundered the Caribbean for nearly twenty years until he’d met a violent end at a gentlemen’s club on Grand Bahama Island. Some thought he’d fittingly been killed by the banshee in his employ, others surmised the devil had finally taken him below.
After his death, the estate had been seized by the government, and eventually the large mansion had been converted into a mental hospital. At one time a special wing had been devoted to the most dangerous of the criminally insane, but late in the nineteenth century it had been sold to a private organization and had been restored to its former grandeur. Now, only those with wads of cash could afford to hide away their crazy family members.
Like Kira Dove. Her family was loaded. This was a detail Logan remembered clearly. When he’d come for her fifteen years ago, she’d been ensconced behind the gilded gates of a mansion in Beverly Hills. Her parents were famous and known the world over. The father was a renowned avant-garde director, and the mother, a model-turned-actress, was his muse.
Logan glanced toward the imposing structure. Kira Dove must have gone buck-crazy to warrant a stay in this place. How long had she been here? That was a question he’d not bothered to ask.
He moved forward and quickly pushed the notion aside. It was none of his concern.
It was easy for Logan to slip past the guards, to blend into the shadows that crept along the edges of the estate. Tall, moss covered trees flanked both sides of the large antebellum home, and in the distance the scent of water drifted on the breeze. Insects buzzed and the occasional hoot of an owl greeted his ears. Other than that, the darkness hid nothing but absolute silence.
Logan strode toward the front entrance, shoulders squared, gait long and loose. His thick wavy hair was slicked back, damp from the humidity, while his dark t-shirt and worn faded jeans blended together to hide him among the shadows.
He paused just inside the front entrance. The lighting here was muted and the dark corners were long. A lamp several feet away in the parlor cast a small pool of light, but it was enough to afford him some illumination.
Palm trees—six feet in height—lined the foyer, their tips waving slowly as large white fans overhead turned in gentle wide arcs. The subtle aroma of a Cuban cigar hung in the air, and he knew someone had passed by recently with one of the golden treasures. His nostrils flared. Montecristo, by the smell of it.
The walls were a delicate yellow with white trim and the floor-to-ceiling windows were open, though the blinds were drawn. Long gossamer curtains rippled on either side like wisps of vanilla smoke. Classic paintings adorned the walls—landscapes and leisurely scenes of the Old South—and small groupings of white wicker furniture were scattered about. Directly ahead was a formal reception area and behind the desk, chewing gum in a loud annoying manner, sat a large woman.
Her hair was a wild mess of tight curls in a harsh shade of red, the kind only a bad perm could produce, and her skin shone like wax paper under the lights. Watery brown eyes peered at him. “Who’s there?” she asked in a thin voice.
Logan sensed her alarm as he moved forward, and when he stepped into the light her alarm turned to fear. He moved fast—faster than the human eye—and stood in front of her as she gazed up at him, mouth open, yellowed teeth wet and shiny.
He leaned forward and leveled steely blue eyes onto her. “Morgue.”
She swallowed, her eyes glazing over as she nodded, head bobbing like a bouncing ball. “West wing, all the way to the end.”
Logan glanced behind her. “Let me in.” The compulsion that colored his words was subtle but it was enough. “Speak of this to no one and turn off the cameras.”
The woman deactivated the security, and a loud click echoed into the foyer as the heavy steel door retracted into the wall. She resumed smacking her gum, a strange melody falling from her lips as her raspy voice filled the silence.
As soon as Logan cleared the entrance and walked into the facility, the smells changed. No longer was the pleasing odor of tobacco present, or the honeyed scent of flowers. They’d been replaced with fear, pain, and the wildness of chaos. His nostrils flared and he smiled. It was like candy to a creature such as him. Better than any drug imaginable.
Logan strode down the hall, long arms loose at his sides as he turned to his left. Within seconds he spied the door to the morgue. The sterile scent of disinfectant—pine cleaner, to be exact—tickled his nostrils. Bingo.
Time was running out. According to Bill, she’d been dead less than two hours. If Logan was lucky, there would be energy traces left on her body—a signature he’d be able to track with ease. On a normal run—one sanctioned by his Demon Overlord Santos—this was already provided, because the soul had been marked and claimed by the underworld.
This trip, however, was under the radar, and if he had no starting point, he’d be running blind. It would take much longer to find her based on the little bits of her soul he’d tasted all those years ago. He needed something fresh and current. Purgatory wasn’t the kind of place a hellhound wanted to linger—it wasn’t natural for him to be there—so whatever he could do to hurry along the process would be a good thing.
Besides, there was also a timing issue. Her human form had to be in good shape when he retrieved her from the gray realm. Otherwise what was the point? A brain turned to mush and a cellular breakdown wouldn’t do anyone any good.
He pushed the door open and disappeared inside, leaving it to slowly click back into place as he glanced around. His breaths blew out in long mists and his nostrils flared. It was cold in here with nothing but metal and tile and death.
Thr
ee bodies were laid out in a neat row along the far wall, their forms shrouded in shit-beige cotton. It was the one dash of color on an otherwise sterile, stainless steel canvas. He snorted and wondered if the moneyed folk knew that the death rate at the Regent seemed to be a little on the high side.
Logan crossed the room and drew back the cover on the first. It was a woman. Pale, lifeless eyes stared up at him, the faded brown already turning into the milky shade of death. Her hair was gray, knotted and thin, the skin wrinkled with age. Kira Dove was twenty-five. He covered her up and glanced at the next body.
The shape beneath the cover was large and long, suggesting someone close to three hundred pounds. He was going to guess that the little imp he remembered was not anywhere near that in stature.
Out of the blue her face flashed in his mind. Huge, dark, exotic eyes—almond in shape—with long, tangled ebony hair, and a little bow mouth that was as red as an apple.
She’d not been frightened when he’d appeared in her room. Not at first. In fact, he’d been more than a little surprised at the curiosity he’d sensed as she stared at him. She’d had no idea what the hell he was—how could she? The girl had only been ten. Yet most humans were scared shitless when he appeared—his hellhound form was intimidating, to say the least—and those with blackened souls knew exactly what he was.