Bite Me: Big Easy Nights Page 16

  I forced my fists to unclench, looked at my hands. My nails had left bloody gouges in my palms. I’d let myself come home thinking I could keep Grams safe. Had they waited till she had gone, or had it been lucky timing? Even if I left now, if they didn’t know and she was home next time, could her mojo really protect her? So make sure everybody knows.

  I raised my head. “I’m going to the party, Grams.”

  Her lips tightened. “You are leaving tonight, child.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “I’ll be safe enough at the Midnight Ball, and afterwards I’ll use the safe house one last time—fly out tomorrow night. Casper can put up with company for one more day.”

  Paul nodded. “So every vamp in town will know you’re leaving, chèr. That’d work.”

  “No, child.” Grams’ voice was steel, but her fingers shook as she closed her first-aid kit. “This is too dangerous, and you do not fool me. You are hoping— You—”

  “I will go with her, Mrs. Bouchard,” Paul said. “Keep her safe, me. Safer than I did last time.”

  “And I’ll help, Ma’am,” Dupree seconded as I rolled my eyes. He and Paul weren’t related, but now they looked exactly alike. Paul had told Dupree what the monster had done to his sister, and together they were two bayou boys looking for some justice even if I wasn’t sure what dog Paul had in the fight.

  How freaking wonderful. Two knights in shining armor. I kept my mouth shut. It would make Grams feel better.

  Whether it helped or not—and truthfully I didn’t expect even Acacia’s sire to be bug-nuts enough to try anything direct at the Midnight Ball—Grams didn’t push it. Instead she got busy pulling in favors to make sure we were ready; Liz Alary, one of her longtime clients, owned a costume shop (big business in this town). I headed upstairs while she summoned Liz to save the day.

  * * *

  Liz was a huge woman, but sharp and as forceful as an avalanche. My bedroom hadn’t been blown up in the excitement although there were bullet holes in interesting places from where Paul and Dupree tried to fight their way into my crypt. Showering and changing and packing a few things for the trip, I came back down to find she’d arrived and trapped my two protectors. She’d obviously embraced our plan and ruthlessly plundered her stock, including some special-ordered pieces, to help us out. Help being relative; I wasn’t sure either of the boys appreciated it.

  I found Paul kitted up as a steampunk werewolf. He wore a long brown duster with plenty of room to hide his police-issue firearm, and he’d added a second shoulder holster to carry one of my Desert Eagles. He wore a very fancy face-covering wolfmask (dyed rabbit fur?) under a bowler hat. Under the duster he wore a collared shirt with suspenders and a gadget belt holding up a pair of side-buckled pants.

  Liz had outfitted Dupree in red cardinal’s robes, complete with sash and a big golden gear on a chain where a cardinal’s pectoral cross would be. The robes gave him plenty of room to hide his weapons of choice, and Liz had completed the costume with a smooth white Mardi Gras halfmask (gilded clockwork monocle sculpted over one eye) and a red wide-brimmed hat to match the robes.

  Neither looked happy.

  “Don’t laugh,” Paul growled (yes, growled!), and I did my best. I was so getting a picture. But it was my turn.

  “Jacqueline, come here.” Liz drew me into the parlor. She’d used screens to turn it into a dressing room and she had me out of my fresh clothes faster than I’d have thought possible, then started handing me items. Five minutes later, she had me dressed in goth steampunk. Was that even allowed?

  First there were white knickers that were practically silk shorts, then a short white petticoat and sheer white stockings. Then she passed me a long sleeved high collared white shirt and a clipped black skirt. The skirt could be worn long, but the silver clips just below the tight waist raised it to expose the edges of the petticoat. A tight black padded leather vest dispensed with the need for a bra, and a close fitting open jacket with lots of buckles and gear shaped cufflinks and epaulets finished the costume.

  A tiny top hat, lace gloves, and matching black umbrella accessorized the outfit—I could use a pair of my own buckled boots. My lace half-mask didn’t disguise me at all, but that was the point; I needed to be seen.

  Liz circled around me, pulling edges and talking to herself while I wondered if I was ever going to get away from ruffles and skirts again. I sighed philosophically. The flounces the skirt clips and petticoat created let me hide my Kel-Tec in its thigh holster at the top of my stockings, and the jacket sleeves hid my stakes.

  We scattered for last-minute jobs, but before Grams let me out of her sight she pulled me aside and into Legba’s room. It was small and close and smelled of snake, but shelves ringed the wall at chest height, filled with pieces of Gram’s craft that she wanted to keep safe.

  Reaching up, she retrieved a small wood box. Opened, it held a black leather gris-gris pouch on a braided loop of string. She held out the box.

  “You will wear this, Jacqueline. You will not open it, or let anyone else touch it, and it will bring help to you.”

  My throat closed up, but I nodded. Grams waited until I’d opened my collar and tucked it away, and then surprised me with a hug.

  “You will come home, child,” she said.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Vampires are the most self-involved creatures imaginable. They have to be so into the whole creature of darkness thing that they are willing to give up all natural human ties. Family? Can’t have kids, can’t fall in love with someone and grow old together. But they have style. In fact, that’s pretty much what they’re all about.

  Jacky Bouchard, The Artemis Files.

  * * *

  Lalaurie House glowed, all three floors lit, shutters open to the night. Big doormen in black kept the street party away from the front entryway while one of them—Scarhead—checked the guest list. The Midnight Ball began at midnight; the death of the day, the darkest hour of the dark moon, etcetera.

  At sundown I’d called the Master of Ceremonies’ man Vessy to RSVP and let him know the faces we’d be wearing tonight, then we’d sallied forth to join the Dark Moon Krewe. MC had founded the little Mardi Gras marching society three years ago out of local vamps and their courts, and our foot parade started at St. Louis Cemetery (where else?) to dance through the Quarter to Lalaurie House following a brass band pulled on decked out bicycle cabs. Vessy, dressed like an undertaker who’d been attacked by a neon sign, stood in an open carriage pulled by a couple of vamps in chess piece horse costumes, and tossed silver and white beads—Dark Moon Krewe’s signature throws—to the crowds.

  Cheerfully lubricated partiers flowed around us, pushing and laughing, half in costume, half enjoying the wild scenery, goth black mixing with Mardi Gras purple and gold. Less than a hundred guests would be allowed into the exclusive rooms of Lalaurie House, but the rest of the krewe and an accretion of fellow dancers were taking over the street. The jazz band played for them as we pushed towards the door, Paul on my right, Dupree on my left.

  Paul felt steady, and I knew where he was without looking at him. I couldn’t see Dupree’s face at all, but the way he’d stripped and cleaned his gun, sitting at Gram’s kitchen table, had said enough. He’d counted the blessed silver bullets Father Graff had given him twice. While I scanned the crowd and Paul grumbled under his mask, Dupree... flexed his hands. Honestly, he was starting to make me nervous.

  Scarhead greeted us at the door and waved us through with a wink—I’d been prepared to push a little these aren’t the droids you’re looking for influence to avoid a weapons check, but it looked like MC was trusting us.

  By modern standards, Lalaurie House was a mini-mansion; one hundred guests plus staff filled it to bursting. The rooms to the right of the entryway had been opened into one large reception room. Two fireplaces occupied one wall, but the street wall held arched floor-to-ceiling windows behind iron grills. A second reception room to the left had been turned into a small ballroom. S
ervers moved soundlessly across the black-and-white checkered floor, through a crowd of masked faces every shade of goth and carnival. Halloween and Mardi Gras had slammed together for this Midnight Ball.

  Looking around, I decided Halloween had won. Between the other night and now, MC’s decorator had thrown around enough black crepe to make Lalaurie House look like a Victorian home in deep mourning. Who died? Oh wait, we did. The masked servers wore black tuxes and black armbands as they bore trays of wine for everyone (red wine, what else?) and finger foods for the living. In the small ballroom across the hall, by the light of real candles, tapered and white, partners elegantly but carefully wheeled about the floor—to Midnight Waltz, of course, sure to be followed by Flor De Noche, Wake, and just about anything else by Adam Hurst; MC was a huge fan but I could feel my will to live fading.

  Both Paul and Dupree moved in tighter and I almost laughed, but we had a problem. The usual Midnight Ball etiquette called for attending vampires to wear a black rose somewhere (really a red rose with black tones), but for tonight’s masque all bets were off and I couldn’t tell the vamps from the breathers. Anybody could be anybody. I couldn’t see Leroy or Sable—or I could be looking right at them—but I recognized Belladonna despite her owl mask; she’d ditched her goth punk leather and wore a backless, armless ballroom gown to display an amazing set of corset piercings. The velvet-laced rows of gold piercings ran from the top of her butt to up between the angel wing tattoos covering her shoulder blades. I’d seen both before at the goth-tats party where I got my Shit Happens tramp stamp.

  Maybe Liz had known something; nearly every guest I could see wore an animal mask. Fur, leather, feathers: a menagerie, in black, in purple and gold, in every other color, filled Lalaurie House tonight.

  So now what? I took a wine glass from a passing server, sipped, then carefully didn’t spit. The wine was fine, but Darren had just sidled up to me. What?

  He didn’t wear a mask, but he walked hunched over, had three days of beard stubble, serious bed hair (with something dark and sticky pulling strands up above one ear), chalky skin, fake blood on his lips, and a skeletal, demented grin. His clothes looked Victorian-era, complete with detaching collar, suspenders, and turned back cuffs. The white shirt was missing buttons, and the whole outfit looked like he’d crawled through ditches. What?

  He winked at me, pulled a…cockroach? out of his pocket, and crunched down on it. Chewed wetly, really—it was a licorice bug.

  “Who are you?” I blurted.

  He wiggled his eyebrows, giggled maniacally. “Renfield, beautiful lady. Who else would serve my dark master? He promised me beautiful things! Will you go to him?” He pointed, and I turned to see the Master of Ceremonies standing by the stairs, Vessy beside him. He wore a black and white tuxedo under an opera cloak. His mask was gone, replaced by whiteface makeup, rouged lips, and arched eyebrows, his hair slicked back into a widow’s peak. He was Arnold Schwarzenegger channeling Bela Lugosi.

  Oh. My. God. I stared from “Renfield” to MC and my image of him shifted, like the ink portrait of the old woman who turns into a young lady wearing pearls if you looked at it differently.

  MC knew. He knew this place was a Disney mansion and he was laughing.

  “Welcome, my dear Mina.” He bowed and kissed my gloved hand when I reached him, causing sighs of envy among the Victorian ladies orbiting him. Vessy leaned down to whisper in his boss’s ear before gliding away through the crowd.

  He raised an eyebrow at my companions. “May I steal her from you, gentlemen? I promise to return her to you safe.”

  Paul nodded behind his wolf mask, stepping back, and Dupree had no choice but to follow his lead. Turning and drawing his cloak aside, MC drew on my hand to lead me up the stairs. In the upstairs hallway, Scarhead stood by the door to the library; he must have changed posts as soon as he let us in, and now he opened the door and stood aside. Even here, MC had lit the room with a candelabra over the fireplace.

  A wine bottle, opened to breathe, and two glasses sat on a side table. MC poured, handed me a glass with a half-bow and flourish, invited me to sit and followed suit. I rested my folded umbrella on the arm of my chair and he did the same with his cane, sitting back to swirl his wine in the glass and test its bouquet. He ventured a sip, smiled archly.

  “I can say all sorts of things about its nose and pallet, if you like.”

  Wound tight as a spring, I looked at Count Dracula and still had to sit on the urge to laugh.

  “I thought you didn’t drink…wine.”

  His smile widened. I sipped my own, decided to try.

  “Are you Leroy’s sire?”

  His smile didn’t waver. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because your pet lawyer lives with him. Because I don’t know any more about you than I do about him but I know bullshitting when I see it.”

  “I do not possess that gift, and have only met one vampire who does. Until you arrived in town, I thought her unique. Is Acacia well? Have you learned who enthralled her and how?” Above the smile his eyes were steady, watchful.

  Looking at MC, I made a second decision. “She will be. As soon as the DSA is done debriefing her I’m going to find her and make sure she forgets everything as far back as the night she met me.”

  Now the smile froze.

  “You work for the government?” His voice didn’t change, but his eyes were ice.

  Did. They cut me loose. For the first time since I’d met him, MC looked like what he was: a predator. I hugged my wineglass to my breasts, feeling the pressure of the gris-gris pouch beneath my shirt, and switched hands to sip my wine while letting my free hand fall to rest beside my thigh, ready to draw and start shooting. I smiled back.

  “Did you think I was here just to chase vamps who like young blood? The cops can do that.”

  Neither of us looked away, neither of us extended so much as a wisp of influence.

  “I’m flying back to Chicago tomorrow night,” I said.

  “May I ask why?”

  I told him about a monster and serial killer, a vampire using V-Juice to create his own little army. He deserved that much.

  “Are you running?” he asked when I finished. His eyes had warmed and he didn’t look dangerous anymore. He didn’t sound angry, or disappointed. Mildly curious. I put down my glass.

  “Yes. The feds will get him now. Everyone leaves a trail somewhere and now that they know how he works they’ll find him. Until then I’m dangerous to be around.”

  He didn’t ask; he had to know about today. And he was quick.

  “So you’re here tonight to announce your departure. And what of the favor you wanted of me?”

  I’ll get it another way. I shrugged, setting down my glass, and smiled. “Would you look at the time?”

  “The clock is behind you.” But he stood smoothly, collecting his cane. “One dance, my dear. And I will make the announcement for you. Regretfully, of course.”

  We didn’t make it to the door.

  * * *

  The explosion threw the door, in two pieces and a cloud of slivers, across the room. One piece clipped MC, throwing him back over his chair and barely missing the candelabra. The other spun past as I rose, only to be flattened by Scarface’s body—tossed like a rag doll after the door. My Kel-Tec skittered across the hardwood floor.

  “Get them!” someone screamed, certainly the stupidest, most obvious command possible in the circumstances. I promised to suggest alternatives when I caught him, and went to mist—to get hammered back into flesh as three vamps dropped on me. I shrieked as one drove a spike through my right hand, nailing me to the floor with the strength of the damned. I grabbed my spiker’s ear and ripped it away before his buddy got the second spike through my shoulder.

  Then they were off me as I clawed uselessly at my shoulder, breath a thin wail. Meaty thunks behind me attested to MC’s fight, but it ended quick. A roar shook the room, rage and frustration, a familiar cleaver-on-flesh sound, and his head bounced
across my angle of vision. Distantly, through the rage and pain, screams echoed up from downstairs. Screams of fear, of crowd panic; I knew that one.

  I turned my head, ignoring the pain fogging my brain, and stared at a pair of buckled shoes and white knee-socks. Sable smiled down at me, quite pleased.

  “Darling Jacqueline,” he said. “It appears you’ve missed your flight.”

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Werewolves are closer to nature. It sticks in their teeth.

  Jacky Bouchard, The Artemis Files.

  * * *

  My grave in New Orleans was going to read Here lies Jaqueline Bouchard: too dumb to live. It would be empty of course, since I would be ash.

  The attack today really had been a Last Shot before I left town, it had to be—after five years I knew something about hunting somebody, and anything else would have been easier to set up.

  But if Emerson hadn’t known I was leaving, his department didn’t know so the leak couldn’t have come from there. Gray had known, but if the DSA field office had a leak…no, they were too small and paranoid for that. Which left only one other person who had known my plans, because I’d told him last night.

  How could I have possibly missed it? All seven known victims—the two poor tortured girls, the five drug victims, Acacia—were blondes. Whose favorites were always Lucys?

  “And what are you thinking, darling girl?” Sable asked, tapping my spiked shoulder with his cane. I hissed, took a breath.

  “That you won’t find Stephanie. You are such an asshat.”

  He frowned and dug into my shoulder.