Bracing himself, Cyrus eased the top drawer of the nightstand open and saw something that would have jarred anyone, religious or not. It was metal with a round section connected to a curved tube of sorts only a couple inches long with a little padlock holding it together. Gingerly, Cyrus removed it from inside the drawer and found it surprisingly heavy. He turned it this way and that, examining it in the lamp light. If he’d been forced to guess, he’d say it was possibly some sort of metal codpiece, but who the hell wore codpieces in this century? And even if someone did wear a codpiece, it probably wouldn’t have little metal spikes on the inside.

Metal spikes. Cyrus shuddered looking at the thing. Surely there was more to this thing than he understood. He looked around, saw an empty waste basket with a fresh plastic bag inside. He took the bag out, and carefully wrapped the metal object in it.

When he returned to the sitting room, he found Sister Margaret on the sofa, her head bowed in prayer.

“Well?” she asked when she finally looked up at him.

“I don’t know what it is, either. I don’t think I want to guess.”

“Whatever it is, I think it’s…well, it’s not good.”

“I’d guess you’re right. I’ll take this and ask someone who might know what it is.”

“Who?”

He looked at the sister in her habit, her veil, with her rosary beads clutched in her small pale hand.

“Trust me,” he said. “Nobody you know.”

Chapter Nine

Nora took Gmork back to Kingsley’s, where she put him in his outdoor doghouse with food and water. She petted his head and told him she’d see him tomorrow. He started to whine as she walked away. “Sorry, buddy,” she whispered. “Mamma needs get to laid.”

Before Nora left the house, she ran upstairs to her bedroom, threw open the closet door, and pulled down a rosewood box on the top shelf. From it, she took out her white leather collar, wrapped in velvet, and slipped it in her bag.

She drove to the French Quarter and parked on a side street near the Hotel Richelieu. Of course Søren would get them a room at a hotel named for the most infamous cardinal in all of Catholic history.

Søren had left her a key at the front desk. As she made her way to the room, her excitement built to a fever pitch. Once, she’d seen a cat on a windowsill vibrating with excitement over the sight of a fluttering moth on the other side of the glass. That was her.

Her hand shook so hard she could barely get the key into the lock. But then it was in, and the knob was turning and she was inside the darkened room.

She locked the door behind her, dropped the key on the floor. She’d find it later when keys mattered again. Maybe tomorrow morning. Maybe never.

Her eyes adjusted quickly. The room wasn’t completely pitch black—this was the French Quarter. The lights outside never went out. She slipped out of her red heels and stepped deeper into the room. No sign of Søren.