Authors: Adrian Phoenix
“Indeed I am.” Mauvais held Giovanni’s gaze. “And part of my responsibilities as lord is to discipline vampires who flout our laws. Dante happens to be one of those.”
“Even though I told you that, as a True Blood, he is to be treated with the utmost respect?” Giovanni’s voice slivered ice into the air. “Even though I told you that his crimes would be taken before the Cercle de Druide for proper consideration?”
“
Oui
. I’m afraid that wasn’t good enough for my
fille de sang
. She’d lost so much at Dante’s hands.” Tension crept back into Mauvais’s muscles, his spine, at the thought of Justine. Twin blades of loss and betrayal sank deep into his heart—just before he hardened it once more.
Foolish girl, ungrateful child. I gave you your justice when I ordered Dante’s home burned to the ground. Why couldn’t you let it be enough?
“And where
is
the lovely Justine?” Giovanni asked, lowering his arms to his sides. A breeze from off the river
ruffled through his razor-cut burgundy locks. “I haven’t seen her.”
“And you won’t,” Mauvais said coolly, “as she is no longer a member of this household.” Refusing the question in the Italian’s eyes, he pushed away from the railing, and glanced aft. “Ah, here comes Edmond with our drinks.”
And, oddly, not alone. A tall figure walked beside the majordomo, his stride confident and relaxed. The height and waist-length hair along with the glowing golden eyes made Mauvais think of Lucien De Noir. His heart stuttered against his ribs.
Not De Noir, no.
His
fallen angel had returned.
“Who is that?” Giovanni asked, his tone a verbal frown.
“One of the Elohim,” Mauvais replied with a deliberate nonchalance that suggested he played host to fallen angels all the time and, really, it was becoming a bit of a bore.
“Truly?” Wonder skipped like a child in that single word. “Which is he?”
Mauvais shrugged. “We haven’t yet had an opportunity to speak—not even an exchange of names. But I think that is about to change,” he mused as the pair drew to a halt in front of him.
The angel’s scent—fallow earth and cold stone and thin, crackling ice, the first breath of winter—chilled the air. Tendrils of his red hair lifted on the breeze and moonlight glinted from the torc curving around his throat. He wore a white linen shirt and charcoal-gray trousers, a matching suit jacket draped over one arm.
A wry smile tugged at Mauvais’s lips.
So that’s what Edmond was trying to tell me—that my former statue was up and about and getting a fitting from my tailor.
“
M’sieu
Guy Mauvais, Lord of New Orleans,” Edmond smoothly informed the immortal at his side, “and his guest,
Signor
Giovanni Toscanini of the Cercle de Druide, arrived from Rome.”
“Welcome aboard the
Winter Rose
,” Mauvais said, studiously ignoring the
I-tried-to-tell-you
twitch of the majordomo’s eyebrow. “I’m pleased that my tailor has managed to accommodate you in such fine fashion,
m’sieu
. . .” He trailed off, giving the angel an opportunity to gracefully supply his name.
An opportunity the fallen angel ignored. Instead he smoothed a hand down the front of his pristine shirt and replied in a deep, musical voice, “Your tailor is quite skilled, yes, and seemed to enjoy the challenge.”
Chuckling, Mauvais accepted a half-filled brandy snifter from the tray Edmond extended with white-gloved hands. “I’m sure he did.”
“Ah, refreshments,” the fallen angel said, golden eyes brightening. Ignoring the snifters arrayed upon Edmond’s tray, he instead plucked the white rose from the pocket of the majordomo’s morning coat and popped one snowy petal into his mouth.
Edmond neither blinked nor frowned, simply inclined his head, as though to say,
Excellent choice,
m’sieu, then offered his tray to Giovanni. At Mauvais’s nodded dismissal, he quietly withdrew.
Mauvais slid a companionable arm around Giovanni’s shoulders and murmured, “I need to have a private chat with my winged guest. It shouldn’t take long. If you wait for me in the casino belowdecks, perhaps play a few rounds of roulette, we shall resume our conversation once I’m finished here.”
While Mauvais felt a deep satisfaction—not to mention a bit of triumph—in knowing that Giovanni would immediately contact Renata and the rest of the Cercle and inform them that Guy Mauvais had found favor among the Fallen, he did not want the details of his upcoming conversation with the angel to be included in the handsome Italian’s report.
A vampire needed secrets, after all.
Giovanni’s muscles tensed beneath Mauvais’s arm. “This had better not be another trick to get rid of me,” he warned in a low voice.
“I’m merely asking you to wait, not leave.”
With a soft, frustrated sigh, Giovanni looked past Mauvais to the fallen angel, then lifted his snifter of brandy to his lips and tossed back its dark amber contents. “Fine, then,” he muttered, resting the empty glass on the railing. “I’ll wait. But don’t make me wait long.”
“Of course not,” Mauvais replied with a warm smile. He gave Giovanni’s shoulder a companionable squeeze before releasing him. “You have my word.”
With a derisive snort—one Mauvais chose to ignore—Giovanni strode away, following after Edmond. Once they were alone and the only sounds Mauvais heard were the hissing kerosene lanterns, the creak of the wood beneath his feet, and the Mississippi’s wet kisses against the riverboat, he gave his attention to the immortal standing silently beside him.
“For a guest, he seems somewhat cranky and demanding,” the fallen angel commented. “Although, given that he’s a vampire, I suppose that’s to be expected.”
Mauvais pursed his lips, considering, then admitted, “True.”
The angel laughed, the sound of it like the joyous pealing of wedding bells. “I understand that I have you to thank for my freedom,” he said, once his mirth had passed. He drew in a deep breath of air, seeming to savor the simple action of breathing. “I truly appreciate it.”
“I’m glad I could help,” Mauvais replied with an elegant half-shrug, knowing the gesture would suggest a careless modesty and an altruistic nature that he didn’t possess. “We’re fortunate that my people stumbled across you while chasing down a rude
marmot
in desperate need of a lesson in manners. How
did
you end up as a stone statue guarding a tomb, anyway?”
“The usual way. Treachery. Betrayal by a brother.” A smile—dark and somehow eager—curved the fallen angel’s
lips, revealing sharp white teeth. “But I intend to pay back in kind.”
“I am willing to help in any way possible,” Mauvais said, then took a sip of the brandy, savoring its smooth oak-and-rose flavor.
“Wonderful.” The angel pulled several more petals from the rose and ate them, chewing thoughtfully. Swallowing, he said, “Perhaps you can help me find the guilty party since I believe he resides in the area—or did, before he tricked me with lies and a blood spell.”
“Of course. What’s his name?”
“He’s known as the Nightbringer, but it’s his son I’m most interested in.”
“Son?” Mauvais stared at the fallen angel, startled. “Lucien De Noir—the Nightbringer—doesn’t have a son. At least, not that I’m aware of.”
But even as the words left his mouth, a dark suspicion snaked through Mauvais’s mind as he remembered how De Noir had always guarded Dante Baptiste, remembered how he used to wonder why one of the Fallen had chosen to stand beside the beautiful and dangerous True Blood—or any vampire for that matter. He’d often wondered if Dante had pulled a thorn from the lion’s paw.
Mon Dieu.
Is it possible?
“Oh, but he does,” the fallen angel said. “A very special child, he called this son. Unique. And one I’m most eager to meet.” His smile darkened even more, became an abyss. “I have plans for the boy.”
Apprehension iced Mauvais’s blood. He had a feeling neither Lucien De Noir nor his son would enjoy that meeting very much. But he reminded himself that he owed nothing to either De Noir or—if his suspicion proved correct—Dante. Their fates were their own. Still. . . .
“As I said,” Mauvais murmured. “I know nothing about a son, but I can tell you where to find De Noir.”
“Lucien De Noir,” the fallen angel mused, shaking his head. “Where
does
he come up with these names?”
“And
your
name,
m’sieu
?” Mauvais prodded gently. “What shall I call you?”
“Loki,” the immortal replied. “Call me Loki.”
Mauvais drained his brandy in one swallow.
N
EW
O
RLEANS
C
LUB
H
ELL
V
ON STOOD OFF TO
one side of the club’s kicked-in door, Silver’s coiled presence right behind him, and listened to the chaotic and brutal sounds issuing from the darkened and grafittied entrance hall—shouts, the fleshy thud of fists against flesh, pained grunts, the spatter of blood hitting the floor—a free-for-all battle.
“The fuck?” Silver muttered under his breath. “What
now
?”
Von heartily agreed. The fuck, indeed. It sounded as though a posse of idiots—
nightkind
idiots, given the lack of mortal heartbeats—had broken in, drunk all the booze, then decided the fire-scorched club was the perfect place for a UFC bout.
But he was pretty damned sure that something else very different was going on.
Someone was fighting for his or her life.
Von slipped a hand inside his leather jacket for one of his holstered Brownings—a gesture as natural and automatic
as breathing—and felt a cold shock when his fingers brushed against only the jacket’s soft lining.
No guns. No holster.
Hell, it wasn’t even his jacket, but a brown bomber borrowed from Jack—one smelling of stale beer and spearmint gum and thankfully missing any pithy declarations or tiny gators.
Standing across from him on the other side of the boot-battered door, her Glock held in both hands, Merri Goodnight arched one eyebrow, her expression asking:
Missing something or just feeling your bad self up?
With a let’s-keep-her-guessing wink, Von pulled his hand free of the jacket. Maybe his Brownings were inside, upstairs in his sprinkler-drenched room along with his double shoulder holster, leather jacket, and non-gator-infested clothing, but he sure as hell wasn’t weaponless. Neither was Silver.
But he couldn’t say the same for Thibodaux, despite the gun in the man’s hand. Merri’s partner towered behind her, his attention focused on the darkness beyond the battered doors, his Colt held down at his side in a one-handed grip.
A nightkind rumble was no place for a mortal. No matter how good a shot.
Von suddenly regretted his decision to bring the former SB agents along in the hope that their investigative skills might turn up a clue as to who had snatched Dante. And where he might’ve been taken.
“On three?” Merri whispered.
Von nodded, then glanced over his shoulder at Silver. Clothed in more of Jack’s generous donations—a black Voodoo Fest tee, jeans, and classic Converse high-tops, all suspiciously gator-free—his purple hair smudged nearly black in the moonlight, Silver met his regard with gleaming eyes.
<
Ready?
>
Silver flashed fangs for reply.
“One,” Von said, low.
“Two,” Merri picked up.
“Three,” from Silver.
Von
moved
, Merri and Silver right on his sneakered heels—
sneakers
, for chrissakes—the entrance hall blurring past in a smoke-reeking streak of black walls, fluorescent paint, and red flickering light.
BURNBURNBURNBURN
Even as he sped into the club, Von heard only a few low, pained moans—the hard-knuckled combat had ended. As he came to an abrupt halt in the center of the soot-streaked dance floor, he also realized that only one vampire remained standing.
One he recognized. Murphy and his stupid law had struck again.
Holly Miková pushed silky tendrils of hair the color of honey butter back from her face. Red light from the buzzing neon
BURN
sign jittered along the crescent moon tattoo beneath her right eye.
“Ah, there you are, McGuinn,” she said, a faint Russian accent flavoring her words. She wore a curve-hugging rose-red lace mini over black tights and wedge-heeled black boots, looking for all the world like a pop diva during a video shoot break instead of what she was—deadly. “Just the man I was looking for.”
“Well, you found me, darlin’,” Von drawled, despite the tight knot forming in his belly.
Holly’s return to New Orleans so soon after her last visit could only mean bad news given the summons she’d delivered less than a week ago—and a lifetime of shit had passed since then—and the promise he’d made in response.
You are to report to the
filidh
in Memphis in one night’s time to explain why they’ve learned of a True Blood through outside sources and not from the
llygad
serving this alleged True Blood’s household
.
Why’d they send you? Because they thought you’d enjoy breaking the news
?
No, they thought you’d listen to me—because of what we once had.
Is
Dante Baptiste a True Blood
?
Ain’t my place to say. You need to ask him
.
Of course it’s your place! It’s your
duty
to observe, compose, and
report
. This is information vital to vampire society and you’ve kept mum. Abandoned your duty, your impartiality. Oh, Vonushka. You’ve got a lot to answer for
.
Tell the
filidh
I’ll be there. And have a safe trip back, darlin’
.
A promise made to buy time. But a promise he’d intended to keep—
after
he’d kept his promise to Dante, a promise never voiced, but held deep in his heart:
I will see you free and whole and walking the path
you
choose
.