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Though an actual drink might be better at this moment. A Hand Grenade or a Hurricane, or any one of the other alcoholic libations so enjoyed on Bourbon Street.
But she couldn’t have a drink. She couldn’t drink away what had happened—or everything she feared might be about to happen next.
She made her way through the open air patio to the take-away window, ordered a large café au lait to go, then headed on up toward Chartres Street and then Royal. Her love for the city returned to her like a massive wave as she walked. She returned a greeting to a friend who gave tours in one of the mule-drawn carriages, and headed on past the red brick Pontalba Building. She passed shops selling T-shirts, masks, the ever-present Mardi Gras beads, postcards and sometimes, true relics, along with hand-crafted art and apparel.
Some of the buildings along her path were in good repair, while others still needed a great deal of help. Construction was constant in a city that was hundreds of years old, where the charming balconies often sagged, and where, even before Hurricane Katrina, many had struggled through economic difficulties to do what was needed piecemeal.
But there was something she loved even about the buildings that were still in dire need of tender care.
The French Quarter’s buildings were an architectural wonderland. The area had passed through many hands—French, Spanish, British and American—but it had been during the Spanish period in 1788 that the Great Fire of New Orleans had swept away more than eight hundred of the original buildings. And then, in 1794, a second fire had taken another two hundred plus. The current St. Louis Cathedral had been built in 1789, so it, like much of the “French Quarter,” had actually been built in the Spanish style.
She reached her destination, a corner on Royal, and paused, looking at the facade of their shop and their livelihood.
A Little Bit of Magic was on the ground floor of a truly charming building that dated back to 1823. She ran the shop with Caitlin and Shauna, her sisters, and she supposed, in their way, they were as much a part of the tourist scene as any other business. When you got right down to it, they sold fantasy, fun, belief and, she supposed, to some, religion. She remembered that, although they attended St. Louis Cathedral regularly, her mother had once told her, “All paths lead to God, and it doesn’t matter if you call him Jehovah, Allah, Buddha, or even if you believe that he is a she.”
She knew that her parents had always believed in two basic tenets: that there was a supreme being, and that all creatures, including human beings, came in varying shades of good and evil. The world was not black and white. Like New Orleans, it was all shades in between.
And so, in A Little Bit of Magic, they sold just about everything. They had expansive shelves on Wiccan beliefs, voodoo history and rights, myths and legends, spiritualism, Native American cultures, Buddhism, Hinduism, Christianity and Judaism and more. She ordered the books for the shop, and she loved reading about different beliefs and cultures.
Caitlin, however, was their reigning mystic. She was brilliant with a tarot deck. Shauna was the palm reader, while she herself specialized in tea leaves—easily accessible, since they had a little coffee and tea bar of their own.
They also sold beautiful hand-crafted capes, apparel, masks—this was New Orleans, after all—jewelry, wands, statues, dolls, voodoo paraphernalia and, sometimes, relics and antiques. The shop had always done a good business, and despite occasional disagreements, the sisters got along extremely well.
She sipped her café au lait, hoping it would give her what she needed: patience, wisdom and strength.
In a way, at the beginning, it had been easier. She’d been nineteen, an adult. Caitlin had been right behind her at seventeen, but Shauna had been only fifteen. It had been quite a fight to get the family courts to allow her to “raise” her sisters, but she had managed. She’d had help from a dear old friend, August Gaudin—a werewolf, of all things—but he had a fine reputation in the city, and he’d been her strength. At first, her sisters had been young, lost, so what she said was the law. But she had never wanted to hold them down, and now they were women in their own right, with valid thoughts and opinions.
And they were both going to be in a state of extreme anxiety now!
Squaring her shoulders both physically and mentally, Fiona entered the store. Caitlin was behind the counter, chatting with a woman who was selecting tea. She eyed Fiona sharply as she entered, but continued her explanation of the different leaves.
Fiona saw that Shauna was helping a young couple pick out masks.
She nodded to both her sisters and walked through the store to the office in the rear, where she pulled up the chair behind her desk.
First things first. Then, tonight, a trip to the morgue.
A minute later, Caitlin burst in on her.
“Is it true? A dead woman in the cemetery, drained of blood?”
Fiona nodded. “I saw Jagger DeFarge. He’s lead detective on the case. Naturally I told him that he has to find the killer right away, and obviously we don’t care if it’s one of his own, the murderer must be destroyed.”
Caitlin sank into the chair on the other side of the desk. Fiona knew that the three of them resembled one another, and yet there were also noticeable differences. Her sister had the most beautiful silver eyes she had ever seen, while Shauna’s had a touch of green and hers were blue. Her own hair was very light, Caitlin’s a shade darker and Shauna’s had a touch of red. Their heights were just a shade different, too. She was shortest at five-seven, while Caitlin had a half an inch on her, and Shauna was five-eight.
Right now, Caitlin’s eyes were darkening like clouds on a stormy day.
“He admits the killer has to be a vampire?”
“No, of course not. He didn’t admit anything.”
“But we all know it has to have been a vampire.”
Fiona hesitated. The last thing she wanted to do was defend Jagger DeFarge.
She had kept her distance from him, for the most part. Keepers were not supposed to interfere with everyday life. They did have their councils—kind of like a paranormal Elks Club, she thought with a smile—but as long as the status quo stayed the status quo, each society dealt with their own.
She knew, however, that Jagger did well in life passing as a normal citizen of the city. He was a highly respected police detective and had been decorated by the department.
She’d seen him a few times on television when he’d been interviewed after solving a high profile case. She remembered one interview in particular, when Jagger and his squad had brought in a killer who had scratched out a brutal path of murder from Oregon to Louisiana.
“Frankly, most of the time, what appears on the surface is what a perpetrator wants us to see. Any good officer has to look below the surface. In our city, sadly, we have a high crime rate much of it due to greed, passion or envy, not to mention drugs and domestic violence. But in searching for those who murder because of mental derangement or more devious desires, we can never accept anything at face value,” he had said.
Before she could reply to Caitlin’s question, Shauna came rushing into the office breathlessly. “Well?”
Her youngest sister’s hair was practically flying. She was wearing a soft silk halter dress that swirled around her as she ran, and even when she stopped in front of the desk, she still seemed to be in motion.
“Jagger won’t admit that it was a vampire. Maybe I’m phrasing that wrong. He said that he has to investigate. He reminded me that this is New Orleans—that we attract human wackos just the same as we attract those of us who just want to live normal lives. He didn’t insist that it wasn’t a vampire, he just said that he needs to investigate.”
“Vampires!” Caitlin said, her tone aggravated, as if vampires were the cause of everything that ever went wrong.
“What are you going to do?” Shauna asked.
Fiona frowned. “I don’t know. But look, we can’t all be back here. We can’t leave the shop unattended.”
“I put the Out for Lunch sign up in the window,” Shauna said.
“Out for lunch? It’s ten-thirty in the morning!” Fiona protested.
“Okay, so we’re having an early lunch,” Shauna said with a shrug.
“What do you intend to do?” Caitlin asked. “And don’t say you don’t know, because I know that’s not true.”
“Investigate myself,” Fiona said with a shrug. “Vampires. It’s my duty. I will find out the truth, and I will fix the situation.” She sighed. “Obviously I’ll be out most of the day. Oh, and even if we have to have ‘lunch’ several times in one day, never leave the shop unattended with the door open. We need to be especially careful now, all right?”
Her sisters nodded gravely.
Fiona rose. She had to get started. The situation demanded immediate action.
“Where are you going first?” Caitlin asked her.
“To see August Gaudin,” Fiona said grimly.
Usually werewolves were not her favorite beings, though she tried very hard not to be prejudiced and stereotype them. It was the whole transformation thing that seemed so strange to her—so painful. And the baying at the moon.
Vampires were capable of certain transformations, as well, it was far more a matter of astral projection and hypnotism. A vampire could take on a few legendary forms, such as a wolf and a bat, but they were weakened in such states, and since no vampire wanted to go up against an angry werewolf, for example, in the creature’s own shape, the legendary transformation seldom happened.
Like vampires and shapeshifters, werewolves lived among the human population of the city, controlling themselves—with Shauna as their Keeper. But August Gaudin had fought alongside her parents, and in his human shape he was a dignified older man with silver hair, a broad chest and broad shoulders, and benign and gentle powder-blue eyes. He was an attorney by trade, and he had been elected to the city commission, and also worked with the tourism board. He had been genuinely wonderful to Fiona and her sisters, helping them when they truly needed a friend.
His offices were on Canal Street, and she walked there as quickly as she could, not wanting to call ahead, because trying to explain on the phone or, worse, leave a message would be too difficult.
August would see her. He always did.
The office manager stopped her when she would have absently burst right through to see him, but they had met before, and the woman knew that August wouldn’t turn Fiona down. Still, the woman pursed her lips and said, “Please, sit, and I will let Mr. Gaudin know that you’re here.”
“I’ll stand, thank you,” Fiona said. Silly. The woman was just wielding her power.
August Gaudin came out to greet her, reaching out to take her hands. “Fiona! Dear child, come on in, come on in. Margaret, hold my calls, please.”
Gaudin’s office was a comfortable place. He had a large mahogany desk, and leather chairs that were both comfortable and somehow strong. The office conveyed the personality of the man.
He sat behind his desk as Fiona fell into a chair before it.
“I was expecting you,” he told her.
“I suppose the entire city has heard by now,” she said. She leaned forward. “August, the girl was murdered by a vampire. I’m sure of it. She was drained of blood. Completely. The wretched creatures are at it again!”
“Now, Fiona, that’s not necessarily true,” August told her. “First, we all know that—”
“Yes, yes, there are ridiculous human beings out there who think they’re vampires, who even cut each other and drink each other’s blood.”
“It is possible that such a lunatic killed the woman,” August said.
“Possible, but not likely.”
“I take it that Jagger DeFarge is the investigating officer?”
“Yes. Imagine,” she said dryly.
“That’s good, cher. He’ll know how to investigate properly, and he won’t get himself killed in the process,” he told her.
“August, this is my fault,” she whispered.
“Now, stop. It’s not your fault. It’s your duty to see that the perpetrator is caught and punished. But it’s not your fault any more than it’s your fault when some crackhead falls on top of his own infant and kills him, or when drug slayings occur on the street. Crime exists. And it’s unreasonable to expect that crime will never exist in—our world just as it does in the human world,” he said softly.
She stood and began pacing the room. “Yes, but … if the vampires respected me as their Keeper, they wouldn’t have dared attempt such a thing.”
“Not true. There will always be rogues in any society.”
“August, you’ve always helped me. What should I do?” she asked.
He leaned back. “You tell me.”
“All right. Tonight, I make sure that the victim isn’t coming back, that … that she rests in peace. I’ll go as soon as the morgue is closed, and hopefully before … well, before. Then I’ll go to see David Du Lac at the club and make sure he’s ready to deal with what’s happened.”
“The perfect plan. Here’s another,” August told her.
“What?”
“Trust in Jagger DeFarge. He’s a good cop. He became a cop to make sure he regulated things that happened among our kind. He’s thorough in every investigation. He’ll be especially vigilant on this one.”
“He’s a vampire.”
“He’s proven that he has integrity and honor.”
“He won’t want to destroy another vampire.”
“He’ll do what is right. You have to trust in that.”
“I’d like to,” she said.
“But?”
“He’s a vampire,” she repeated.
Jagger headed straight to Underworld, the club owned by David Du Lac, the head of the vampire population of the City of New Orleans. His rule stretched farther, but the city was his domain. He was essentially considered the vampire mayor.
And he did a better job than some of the human beings who had been entrusted with the city’s human citizens, Jagger thought.
Naturally Underworld was frequented by vampires. But David Du Lac prided himself on running an establishment where everyone was welcome. He brought in the best bands and kept the place eclectic, and the human clientele never had any idea just who they were rubbing shoulders with.
Underworld was located just off Esplanade, on Frenchman Street. The edifice was a deconsecrated church. Beautiful stained-glass windows remained, along with a cavernous main section, balconies and private rooms. The old rectory, David’s home as well as a venue for jazz bands and private parties, was right behind the old church. There was a patio, too, open during the day, and a jazz trio played there from 11:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m. every day, while the clientele enjoyed muffalettas, crawfish étouffée, gumbo and other Louisiana specialties—along with the customary colorful drinks served in New Orleans and a few designer specials, dryly named the Bloodsucker, Bite Me, the Transformer and the Fang.
Jagger paused for a minute after he parked just down the street from the club. David took good care of the place. The white paint sparkled in the sunlight. The umbrellas in the courtyard were decorated with pretty fleur-de-lis patterns—naturally boasting the black and gold colors of the home football team, the Saints.
He got out of his car and walked through the wrought-iron gate to the courtyard, where a crowd had already gathered, and where the jazz trio was playing softly pleasant tunes.
“Detective Jagger!”
He was greeted by Valentina DeVante, David’s hostess. She worked all hours, although she was almost always at the club at night. She was a voluptuous woman, with a way of walking that was pure sensuality. She had the kind of eyes that devoured a man.
He didn’t actually like being devoured, so he’d always kept his distance.
“Valentina, is David up and about?”
“Actually, he’s over there in the courtyard, toward the back. Tommy, the sax player, is sick, so the guys brought in a substitute. You know how David loves his jazz. He’s making sure he likes the new guy so he can fill in again if he’s needed. Come on. I’ll take you to him.”
She turned. She walked. She swished and swayed. Half the men in town, especially the inebriated ones, would trip over their tongues watching this woman. He was surprised to find himself analyzing his feelings toward her. Too overt. He liked subtlety. Sensuality over in-your-face sexuality. He liked a woman’s smile, a flash in her eyes when she was touched, amused, or when she flirted. He liked honesty, an addiction to decency …
Fiona MacDonald.
God, no.
Yes. She was sleek and smooth, and she never teased or taunted; she was simply beautiful, and even when she was angry, there was something in the sound of her voice that seemed to slip beneath his skin. Her hair was like the sunlight, and her eyes …
“David, Jagger is here,” Valentina said, leading him to David’s table and pulling out one of the plastic-cushioned patio chairs. As he took the seat and thanked her, she leaned low. Her black dress was cut nearly to her navel, displaying her ample cleavage right in front of his face.
But then, since Valentina was a shapeshifter, she could shift a little more of her to any part of her body she desired.
