Savage Nature - Christine Feehan [170]
“Maybe you did,” Saria conceded, “but you needed the nonscent Charisse developed, didn’t you? Buford used you for his own gain. While he was fuckin’ you, he was doin’ the same to a hundred other women.”
“Whores. They were whores throwin’ themselves at him. I killed them and left their bodies to rot with the gators.”
“Please. Please.” Armande wept. “She needs help.”
Drake would bet his last dollar that Buford had given Iris gifts and she kept them here, in her lair. The money from the opium was kept in the cases until she could filter it through businesses in town or more likely—to implicate Charisse—the perfume store.
“Mama, please,” Armande pushed to his feet and held out his hand to his mother. “You don’t know what you’re doin’ . You don’t know what you’re sayin’.”
“You shouldn’t be here,” Iris screamed at her son, her face darkening to rage. She shook Charisse, her grip powerful, the thin veneer of civilization completely gone. “Why did you come with him, Armande? You ruined everythin’ . I could have fixed this mess, just like I’ve been takin’ care of the messes the two of you have gotten into. Those disgustin’ girls, none of them suitable. What were you thinkin’, Armande. You would have disgraced the Lafont name, matin’ with one. Your child needed to be a shifter.”
Saria let out a tinkling laugh’re still quotin’ Buford Tregre. He raped dozens of women. He laughed at you. Threw you away. And yet you choose to revere him. You’re twisted, Iris. You’re the disgrace to the Lafont name, not your children.” She poured amusement into her voice, a taunting, deliberate goad designed to needle Iris. “Trottin’ after him was so pathetic, wasn’t it? Killin’ all the women he made love to? You couldn’t stand the thought of him wantin’ those others. You just weren’t good enough, were you?”
Easy baby, Drake tried to caution her. Iris was working herself up to a killing spree.
“He wanted me. He couldn’t leave me alone. They were nothin’ to him, just like the women Armande used.”
“He wanted you so much he wouldn’t be seen in public with you,” Saria persisted. “You snuck around and he used you in the swamp, in the dirt and muck, hidin’ you from the world because he was so ashamed.”
Oh, God, she was pushing the woman too hard. He could see the smoldering fury burning behind those yellow eyes. All traces of green were gone and the gaze was fixed on Saria. Iris had forgotten Charisse, and her daughter was watching Saria for a sign. Charisse understood the gravity of her position, unlike Armande, who Remy continued to restrain, even as he kept pressure on Mahieu’s wound.
Drake’s stomach dropped. Mahieu. Saria could smell his blood. From where she was standing she could see his wound—knew just how desperate the situation for him was—and she was doing more than setting Iris up for his shot. She was maneuvering her into the corner. She intended to end this as quickly as possible—and in any way she could—even if it meant attacking the woman herself.
“When the world finds out about Iris Lafont crawlin’ after Buford Tregre, killin’ his women, killin’ her son’s women and so desperate she had to stoop to seducin’ boys her daughter dated and then killin’ them, everyone will laugh every time the name Lafont is mentioned.”
Iris shrieked, spittle flying from her mouth. Her face contorted, elongated, teeth filling her mouth and fur mottling her skin.
“Drop!” Saria called, throwing herself to the side with amazing speed.
Boneless, like a supple cat, Charisse slid to the floor as Iris hurtled the knife at Saria. Simultaneously, Drake squeezed the trigger. A single hole blossomed in the middle of Iris Lafont-Mercier’s forehead. She lay on the dirt floor in a crumpled heap, looking small and somewhat macabre with her face half leopard and half woman.
Armande screamed, but he rushed to his sister, leaving his