Cajun Gothic (Blood Haven) (12 page)

An attendant with pert boobs and a winning smile got
me settled, drink in hand. I had room to stretch my long legs, an empty seat
next to me, and a wallet full of cash. On the down side, I had no clear plan
for how to proceed, but hopefully O’Hearn would dig up enough dirt for me to
get a start.

There was no denying I had a certain amount of
squeamishness about heading back to New Orleans. The one and only time I’d been
there was when I’d lost Trina, sixteen years before. In fact, in a month or so,
the ticker would slide over to seventeen. Me, my memories, and my secret
cravings would be another year older and no closer to resolution.

On one level I’d given up on her, allowing myself
the excuse that I could handle the lifestyle all on my own. So I’d popped in
and out of it, and with every fix convincing myself that I was in control. That
night at Haven, the Goth girl and the vamp, that had all revealed the big lie
I’d wrapped around myself, so tight it fit like a second skin.

Maxwell had recognized it for what it was, and for
what
I
was… an assassin for hire with a price too high for anyone to
pay.

I can give you that which you
seek, Micah.

Can you, Damien Maxwell, can you
really?

Bumping along the tarmac, the plane spun in a lazy
circle, preparing for takeoff. Looking out the window I idly watched the
terminals skim past, organizing my thoughts.

Naturally the airline and a cold front had other
plans for my day’s entertainment.

****

We touched down at Louis Armstrong New Orleans
International Airport, located in Jefferson Parish, about ten miles from
downtown. Like the airport in Amsterdam, to which I’d flown several times, both
in a military and a civilian capacity, this one floated barely above sea level.

I knew these things because, to occupy my mind, I
listened as the car rental agent explained in excruciating detail to the young
professional male ahead of me factoids of absolutely no interest. I was tired,
cranky, hungry, and pissed at all the long delays, endless circling and
nausea-inducing turbulence.

When I finally made my way to the counter, I added
surly to my logbook of charms. The clock on the wall read nine-thirty-two. No
one, including me, had given any thought to a hotel reservation. And the
prospect of driving around a strange city, at night, even with GPS, was not
appealing.

The lady at the counter, with true Southern
hospitality, made a few calls and lined me up with accommodations at the
Comfort Suites off Interstate 10. She handed me a map, keys and a ‘have a good
evenin’ y’all’ and sent me on my way.

I’d have preferred a crotch rocket for getting
around, but given the weather, the heat and my propensity for speeding tickets,
the mid-size sedan was as good an option as any.

After chirping the Ford open I threw my carry-on
into the back seat, saddled up the steed and wound my way through the maze to
the interstate. A few minutes later, I parked, unloaded and trudged—that was
the only word that could have described how I was moving at that point—into the
reception area.

The bar was off to the right, cool, dark and fairly quiet
on a Tuesday night.

“Are they still serving food, do you know?”

The reservation gal said something about sandwiches,
which sounded fine this late at night. Mostly I just wanted a cold beer, and
then another.

Tucking the room card in my wallet, I headed into
the blessed womb of clinking glasses and soft buzzing conversation. Sliding
onto a bench seat, I settled the luggage under the table and folded my hands,
deep in thought.

There were flat screens spaced around the cozy bar,
some with tennis matches, and others with pre-season football. The Saints were
playing at home come Thursday night.

On one level my brain processed all the sensory
input, registering the position of everyone and everything in the bar. Who was
doing what—the bartender swiping at the counter, a waitress moving off just at
the edge of my peripheral vision. She’d acknowledged me with a slight nod.

My belly growled, and the hairs on the back of my
neck stood up.

For some reason, I’d expected it to be Madeline. I
don’t know why, but it seemed logical, especially after the taunting and blunt
force promise of sexual favors if I actually delivered the goods.

What eased onto the seat opposite me was my best and
my worst nightmare.

“Micah,” she husked, her voice as deep as I
remembered, poking me to wonder about her sexual orientation. Was the she a
he
under the tight leather and piercings?

The next time I will know you…
all of you. Look at me.

Soft blonde curls rested on my
chest… arms, legs loosening, slipping down and away leaving a moist trail of
lust. She puddled at my feet, a toy broken and discarded.

I didn’t give her a second’s
thought as the lust flamed, reignited under the vamp’s unrelenting stare.

Wake up, wake up, wake up.

It is not yet your time. Leave.
Now.

Please.

Don’t wake up…

My mouth swallowed down the how, what and whys,
leaving me with a near panic attack. Damien Maxwell promised me he could give
me what I sought. What he might not realize was that it wasn’t the
only
thing I lusted after.

The waitress appeared and the tall vamp said, “He’ll
have a Po’ boy,
shugah
, and cold beer, whatever’s on tap.” She smiled
just enough to reveal the tips.

Of all the questions racing around my head, the one
I needed an answer to came out low and fast, “Did you do it?”

She gripped my wrist, turning my hand palm up and
traced the prominent vein engorged with pulsing hot liquid with a sharp, wicked
talon. A prick and a dribble of dark fluid coated her finger. I clenched and
unclenched my fist, forcing her to watch, the only measure of control I had.

She licked the blood and sighed, “As good as I
remembered, maybe better. I like how you taste when you’re afraid.”

Terrified, bitch, terrified.

“And to answer your question… no, I was there only
for you.”

“Who are you and who are you working for?”

“Let’s just say I’m a friend of a friend.”

“And does that friend have a name?”

“All in good time.”

She released my hand and turned toward the waitress
bringing my sandwich and a tall glass of beer. Whatever appetite I’d had
vanished, replaced by a knot of fear and desire.

The woman slid out of the seat and towered over me.
I hadn’t been mistaken, she was at least six feet tall in bare feet. The
shitkickers gave her two or three inches over that. She handed me a card and a
paper bag. I peered inside, curious. It was a Glock 17 with a spare magazine.

I nodded my thanks, but I wasn’t adding her to my
Christmas card list, not until I had answers to questions I hadn’t even thought
of yet.

I blinked and she was gone, just like that, and
despite the physicality of the gun telling me otherwise, I wondered if I’d
imagined the whole encounter.

Throwing some bills on the table, I made my way to
the room, found my toothbrush and toothpaste, then said the hell with it,
kicked off my boots and fell face down on the king-sized bed, fully dressed.

I recognized the Glock for what it was—another
retainer. I had one official client, as well as three more, all qualifying as
‘interested parties’, and a nagging suspicion that they all did it. Whatever
‘it’ was.

I fell asleep dreaming I was Hercule Poirot on the
Orient Express, except he got to live at the end. My fate was less clear.

I was well and truly trapped in a web of my own
making. If there ever was a theme for my sorry excuse for a life it might be…
Be
careful what you wish for.

The last thing I ever expected was that the
real
client in this insanely tangled web of murder and corruption was…
me
.

BOOK
TWO

DAMIEN

Gotham’s rules of engagement are
simple: no contact with humans … ever. Rules more honored in the breach than
the observance, with consequences that threaten the fabric of their very
existence. Damien is the pride of the Vampire Council, a bad boy given to
thumbing his nose at authority, indulged and coddled, until one day he
oversteps and is forced into exile with his long suffering offspring.

Not a bad fate when a world of
corruption and opportunity beckons, yet when boredom sets in, Damien acquires a
new pet, one he pays for with his honor and his future. Her name is Catrina.
She is Roma … and so much more.

Recalled to the home of his
birthright, Damien assumes command of the Havens in New Orleans, ruling with
ruthless disregard and an eye to profit, backed by his enforcer, Magda. When
the full Council descends on Damien’s city with an offer he can’t refuse, his
dirty little secret comes under the scrutiny of men who can make or break him
and his organization.

In the hidden world of the
vampire subculture, not everyone toes the party line. Many disagree with the
Council, flaunting the ‘no contact’ rule, stirring up trouble.  When Damien
goes missing it’s a race against time to avoid a very public bloodbath and an
outing none can afford.

Prologue

He’s
watching me.

Again.

From
a distance, next to me, the paleness startling in one so dusky. Twin lanterns
with knowledge passing for wisdom and I can’t give in, not yet.

He
comes and goes at will, I accept that, reject it, anger and need clouding
judgment. Odd word that … judgment, implying more than I have to give, not
today.

Not
when the rain blurs my vision, coating the glass in a tepid stream…

It’s
accusing, my fault, yet he left me, stranded and out of sorts and it’s
perfectly fine, to be expected and I’m to yield but, oh, I think not, my mind
whimpers because he’ll win, he always does.

I
can hear it now, torrents, slamming against the house. I cringe but he glowers
and dares me to move out, go ahead witch he shrills … melt, dissolve because I
own you.

And
he does, body and soul.

He
is me…

CHAPTER ONE

Turning Point

“Well,
Damien, how’s your new pet doing?”

Magda
sneered, knowing full well the answer. The screams, the terror, the anguish…
something in the way the walls reverberated, the floor resounded and trembled
under the onslaught, something that should have moved her to pity but she was
too fresh, too jealous to care much one way or the other.

Except
for that need to remind the elegant man lounging artfully against the frigid
stone, one booted foot crossed over the other.

Riding
boots for Christ’s sake. The man hadn’t ridden since… well, forever.

Damien’s
lips twitched, enjoying her discomfiture.

Petulant,
she growled, “She needs to feed.” That was self-evident. The fact he ignored
her agony spoke volumes about him. A tidbit she’d learned the hard way.

“Green
becomes you, Cher,” he drawled, the soft vowels sweeping up and down her spine,
buttery sweet, silky smooth.

Feeling
argumentative, she persisted, “She’ll end up like me if you don’t have a care…
shugah
.”

I
was his, his first, his only.

“Well,
we wouldn’t want that, now would we?”

Damien’s
eyes swept her stem to stern, disapproving, and he’d always been such, never
seeing the woman, just the warrior. For a time that’d been enough.

Until
the Roma showed him another way. And she could no longer compete or satisfy his
lust.

Feeling
petulant and not caring, she whined, “I want to go home.”

That
touched a nerve. Damien glowered, glanced at his watch, shifted, composure
dissolving, replaced with genuine irritation, the masque falling away.

Needing
to engage him, she persisted. “Why are we here?” A childish, stupid question,
even she knew that. The Council decreed and whatever those aristocrats wanted,
they got.

Her
maker had displeased and embarrassed the powers that be, risking exposure for
all of them. Lessons needed teaching. Exile appealed, as if there’d been a
choice. She’d followed, as she always did, content that she’d finally have him
alone.