Bite Me: Big Easy Nights Page 2

  Hope had first found me in a nice, if small and subterranean, self-furnished apartment with an Asian National Geographic theme. Now I slept in a black coffin—bank-safe steel under wood paneling, but still—in a lamp lit “crypt” behind a secret door in my bedroom. It used to be a walk in closet.

  And I slept in black silk. The secret to a good cover is attention to detail, my unpleasant but very good DSA minder had said. Repeatedly. In Chicago the only black I’d worn had been my Artemis costume—night-stalking dark avengers were supposed to wear black. Mr. Gray had made sure I was outfitted as a goth true-believer.

  If I hadn’t owed the DSA a favor for figuring out a way to test me—then finding out about Grams and helping me create a new private identity that actually grafted me back onto my family tree—I’d have told them what they could do with their little “side job.”

  You’re going down there anyway. Why not do a little good for the community, collect some background for us, learn about how other vampires live? It’ll be easy.

  Yeah, right.

  At least if it was Angels I could have a little fun.

  “Detective Negri is waiting in the parlor,” Grams said disapprovingly when I came down the back stairs into the kitchen.

  “Really?” My mood lifted, knowing how uncomfortable he had to be.

  He always wore his protective gris-gris: dirt from a churchyard sprinkled with holy water, a twist of paper with a verse of scripture on it, other stuff, all in a little cloth bag on a string around his neck. And the way he walked carefully around Grams told me he didn’t think it would help a bit if she did her own mojo on him.

  Now she aimed her disapproval at me. I’d pulled my hair back in a tail, and I wore smoking-hot black jeans and a tight black athletic top under my black leather jacket, a chain for a belt. The top said Bite Me in glittering silver letters. I’d had it made special.

  She sniffed, looking like a disdainful duchess.

  “And where are you going tonight?” she asked.

  “Angels. The club on Camp Street? In the old Confederate Memorial Hall.”

  “Outside the Quarter?”

  “Yes Grams.” Then I saw the tea tray.

  She smiled with evil innocence. “I thought we should all sit down and be hospitable.”

  She let Paul escape half an hour later, and I slipped my hand under his arm as we walked out. He’d dressed appropriately too, and in jeans, chains, and leather, with little spikes in his hair and a fake ankh tattoo on his cheek, he looked like a punk Leonardo DiCaprio.

  A pale punk DiCaprio; he crossed himself when he knew Grams couldn’t see us, and my laugh burbled out. I couldn’t help myself.

  He gave me a disgusted look. “We’re not doing anything! Every time she looks at me…” he shivered.

  I had preternatural hearing, and I’d heard her talking to Legba once as Paul and I headed out the door early in our arrangement. “Handsome as Satan,” she’d said, and “See him jumpin’—” before the door closed. No way was I telling Paul any of that.

  Angels sat on the other side of the Business District. Surrounded by business buildings and old warehouses, it looked like an old stone church. It got badly burned in a superhero-fight a few years ago, and the cash-strapped city sold it to developers who went bankrupt before they could finish restoring the landmark. A couple of months ago, just before I got here, someone picked it up and converted it; now the nineteenth-century building was one of the hottest nightclubs in town and a favorite hunting spot for vampires after younger prey. The supposedly strict age check at the door meant any vamp could at least claim innocent intent if he got caught with an underage donor on the premises.

  They got in, right? So they had to be old enough.

  Paul parked his Harley—seized as evidence in a drug-raid, now a sexy prop—right across from the club line. All the tourists coming for Mardi Gras made the lines even longer, but the bouncer recognized us and held the rope aside to let us by. Paul slipped the big guy a fifty to keep an eye on it. Past the pillared arches, we stepped into the vestibule, all shadow and sudden lights to a pulsing techno-beat.

  Angels had three dance floors plus an “audience room” and lots of private rooms, and catered more to the vampire-punk posers than the vampire-goths. The difference? Leather and chains, louder music. We hit the main dance floor, melting into the sea of black.

  “One enough?” Paul yelled in my ear, scanning the room. I nodded.

  The out-of-towners on pilgrimage to the vampire Mecca didn’t know me from Eve (or Lilith), but the regulars were happy to point me out and before long I’d attracted a temporary court. Paul reminded them to be respectful so I wouldn’t have to, but his focus was gone tonight. He kept looking beyond our circle.

  I scanned the crowd but didn’t see the Sisters, Belladonna or Acacia. I’d had a hard time not snickering when we’d first been introduced, but at least their vampire names were better than Sable. The two Barbie-blonde vamps had appeared on the scene just a week or two after I arrived, but they’d put Angels on the map. If they were out, I might be the only real vamp the club saw tonight; there really weren’t that many of us and we mostly kept to our own haunts, and I was fine with that. The exception was the first night of the dark moon, when every vamp in the Big Easy got together and danced the night away at the Midnight Ball in the town’s most infamous haunted mansion, Lalaurie House.

  It was like Cats, only without music by Andrew Lloyd Webber.

  I’d only been in town long enough to attend one Midnight Ball—unwillingly and in Sable’s company—and I’d been bored out of my mind. All the town’s vamps had come to pose for each other, play dominance games, pick out aspiring donors (fang fans paid a steep subscription for the privilege of attending), and settle our little community’s political issues under the watchful eyes of the mysterious Master of Ceremonies. The whole thing had been as formal as a Dixie debutante ball, as full of cliques as my old high school cafeteria, and as classy as a stuffed raven.

  Like the one in the Lalaurie library. I’d named it Edgar, then renamed it Marc after meeting the dullest fang-boy of the lot.

  As if remembering him conjured him up, I spotted Marc Leroy across Angels’ dance floor (Le-Roy—he was French, which I supposed made New Orleans the only US city fit for him).

  I blinked. I never saw Leroy dressed in anything but what I called Boardroom Goth: conservative-cut suit and tie, everything in black and nothing shiny. Now he looked as bored as he had at the ball. A good looking blond guy standing next to him said something I couldn’t hear above the music, and the two of them bent close in earnest conversation.

  What was up with that?

  Marc Leroy didn’t keep his own court or visit others much, but I’d never caught him hunting and no one knew where he got his own donors. Despite the crush, nobody else invaded Leroy’s personal space or even really noticed him, an impressive use of influence. He caught my gaze and raised an eyebrow.

  I turned away, felt Paul’s hand on my arm.

  Paul leaned in and yelled “Drinks,” then pushed away into the crowd. I stared after him for a moment, looked back to see that Leroy had also vanished, shrugged and turned to my court. Punk meant less makeup, more hair-gel, making age easier to guess; I had to pick at least one donor or things could get ugly, but I didn’t see any clubbers who screamed minor yet. Maybe they really were getting more careful at the door?

  “Picky, darling?”

  I sighed, turning as the space around us widened.

  “Acacia, I didn’t see you.” I bit my tongue as soon as the words were out.

  Sister A’s eyes narrowed, but Sister B smiled. Belladonna had more of a sense of humor.

  “Jacqueline, we’ve missed you.” She linked hands with me and we exchanged air-kisses.

  “Sable likes to keep me close,” I said, and now Belladonna frowned minutely. What is with me tonight?

  The Sisters looked like sisters, both natural blondes, both cute in the same way, and they
dressed to play up the similarities. Tonight both wore more leather and metal than me, upscale biker-chicks. I decided to smooth the waters.

  “Seriously Bell, I’m glad I’m here; ruffles and lace make me itch.”

  “So stay at Angels,” she coaxed, dimpling. I sighed theatrically.

  “Grams doesn’t want me joining anyone’s court.”

  Her smile disappeared and I almost laughed. She brought the smile back, but her eyes were wary. No, they wouldn’t mess with Mama Marie.

  “Ladies,” Paul said, emerging from the crowd with drinks in his hands.

  I accepted my Coke and, looking at Acacia, reached up to stroke his neck. He took my fingers and kissed them. Acacia’s face darkened, but Bell just rolled her eyes. She didn’t mind my asserting my claim, and I relaxed.

  Too soon—Bell looked at Paul’s unmarked neck and smiled. “Do the two of you need to be alone? Where do you place your lover’s bite?”

  Paul flushed, and Acacia’s eyes widened hungrily. When had she fed last? I smiled and the crowd edged away. Paul didn’t move, but he tensed. Shit.

  Pulling my influence in, I focused on Acacia. “We have plans later,” I said.

  “Perhaps we could join you?” she whispered. Her hunger beat at me and everyone watching our little scene.

  “Some other time.” And Paul’s mine, bitch, I pushed back hard.

  Bell gave a high, silvery laugh, and everybody blinked. The club-goers around us relaxed without knowing why.

  “You two are so sweet.” She clasped Acacia’s hand and winked at me. “Enjoy the club, and feel free to pick something out. Paul can’t be all you need.”

  Paul gave her a bland smile and sipped his Coke.

  Chapter Three

  Sure I’m dead. I don’t eat, sweat, piss, flake, breathe except to talk, or get pimples. No heartbeat (which makes you wonder how my blood gets around, doesn’t it?). But in Chicago I know a reservist Sentinel named Iron Jack who can turn into a riveted iron statue with no loss of mobility—and then he doesn’t even have blood. The legal definition of “alive” has become more flexible since the Event, so despite the fact that any coroner would pronounce me DOA if I just held still, I’m legally among the living. There are people who aren’t happy with this.

  Jacky Bouchard, The Artemis Files.

  * * *

  In the end I grabbed a tourist from New Jersey and used one of the private rooms. The accent was annoying but he didn’t talk much, and afterward I danced with Paul till the buzz went away. Then we left. He slipped the bouncer another bill on seeing his bike was still there, and I threw myself on behind him, wrapping my arms around his chest and enjoying the living warmth. He didn’t take us far—just around the corner to where General Lee stood atop his pillar in the center of his circular memorial park. Paul crossed the trolley tracks, pulled his bike up on the curb beside one of the power posts, and kicked it up on its stand.

  We had the little park to ourselves, and Paul took my hand and led me up the steps and around the base of the pillar. The place was supposed to be lit, but someone kept vandalizing the monument lights and real strolling lovers would be insane to hold a makeout-session here. Looking up at the general, I wondered how the upright old soldier would have felt about being memorialized by the Big Easy, the wickedest city in the world.

  “Well?” Paul asked.

  I shrugged and sat on the marble footing. “Jersey-boy seemed legit, and I didn’t spot any babies there tonight. Maybe they really are getting serious at the door.”

  He nodded, distracted. “That checks. We’ve been hearing from there less.”

  He didn’t look happy; to Paul a vamp he couldn’t catch doing something wrong was just a vamp he hadn’t caught.

  “So why did we go there tonight?” I asked. “And why—” Then they jumped us.

  The rumbling trolley car had masked their run-up, coming around the monument, but they’d been damn quiet anyway—hunters who knew how to stalk prey. One of them clubbed Paul and two grabbed my arms before I had a chance to move, the fourth one swung the stake. It bit and I screamed as my sight went red. Someone waved a cross in my face, shouting Latin at me. Trying to draw breath I didn’t need, I spat blood from my punctured lung. Twisting away from the agony, I scrambled backward up the monument steps—the two on my arms clinging like leeches so I pulled us all along, every jerk a fresh burst of agony as the stake in my chest ground against my ribs. The guy who’d swung it lunged after me, tried to fall on it, push it deeper. What a stupid way to die.

  Then we all heard the howl. A deep-throated roar, it wasn’t human.

  “Sweet Jesus!” someone screamed, and the guy pushing on the stake disappeared. The two on my arms didn’t have time to let go before something pulled them off me and smashed them together. Then I was picked up, screaming again as the stake moved inside me, and found myself dangling from clawed hands as big as dinner plates, staring into animal eyes in a furred and snarling face. Kicking uselessly, I closed my eyes and waited for it to bite my head off. Instead it set me down, pushed me back, and pulled the stake out as I bit down on a shriek.

  Putting my hand to my side, I breathed in and felt blood bubble from the punctured lung. Damn it, Jersey Guy was going to waste. But the terror of the attack, of the huge thing in front of me, faded as it failed to eat me. My attackers stirred and groaned; a blood-freezing growl and they lay still, trying to not even breathe. I didn’t want to move, but where was Paul?

  Sirens. Paul must have pushed the panic-button. If he wasn’t too badly hurt—

  I saw the cloth bag hanging from the thing’s neck, and started to laugh. Which hurt so bad I was laughing and crying when the cops flooded the park.

  * * *

  “Seriously, Paul. What the hell?”

  The police arrested everyone in sight, although ambulances had to take two of them to the hospital first. They took Paul and me in as well, just for appearances. The paramedics looked like they wanted to do something for me but couldn’t think of what, making me laugh again; the blood had stopped flowing by the time they’d arrived.

  Somebody gave Paul a crime-scene coat to go over the knee length spandex shorts that were apparently wolf-man wear—at least they were the only piece of clothing that survived his transformation (and I wondered how it felt when he burst out of his boots)—but we still got stares as we walked into the French Quarter Precinct. They put us in one of the interrogation rooms, and I wondered why they kept it so chilly until I realized it was me. Blood loss. Dammit. Think about anything else.

  “So?” I pushed.

  Paul watched me carefully. Blood loss didn’t weaken vampires right away—it made us hungry first.

  “Later,” he said.

  “Later? You just…and—later? Seriously?”

  He shook his head, looking at the one-way glass. “Are you going to be alright?”

  “They keep us here long and I’ll go nuts for the first paper-cut I see, but if we get out soon I can pick up something on the way home.” I looked down at myself, groaned. My shirt and jeans were soaked in Jersey Guy’s blood, the jacket not much better off, no way I could hide what had happened.

  Paul looked at the window again, then pulled back his sleeve and held out his wrist.

  “What—”

  “Shut up. Just don’t try and vamp me. It may be awhile and we can’t have you going crazy in here. Besides, Mama Marie will kill me anyway, letting you get hurt.”

  “But you hate—”

  “My foul, my penalty. Dammit, don’t argue.”

  Argue? I’d focused like a laser on the suicide-vein. With a sigh, he held it up so I barely had to lean forward. I gripped the arms of my chair—if I grabbed him now I’d leave bruises—my lips kissed his skin, and with a touch of my teeth his living blood flooded my mouth. He flinched, but didn’t break the seal.

  One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four… I’d been told the bite feels like breath on sensitized skin, running through
all your veins. It’s practically hallucinatory when amplified by influence, but even doing it straight like this Paul had to be feeling it hard. I forced myself to stop at thirty, and raised my head. His jaw was locked, but he hadn’t looked away or closed his eyes.

  “Done?”

  I nodded.

  “Good.” He pulled the sleeve down over the tiny marks. We won’t speak of this again, his eyes said.

  Fine. I sat back, looking at the ceiling while the buzz wore off. I still had Grams to worry about. She’d been dead-set against my participation in Operation Younger Stuff from the beginning; the only reason she’d gone along with it was it was the price for the Department of Superhuman Affair’s legalizing my Bouchard name and creating the semi-fictional background that went with it so nobody knew I was also the Jacky Siggler that died five years ago in Chicago. Besides—

  Wait.

  “What do you mean, your foul your penalty?”

  Paul shrugged. “I knew someone was watching you. Figured I’d lure them into the open with an easy opportunity—I just hadn’t realized how many.”

  “You used me as bait?” The buzz was definitely gone.

  Chapter Four

  Superheroes do good and fight supervillains. Vampires pose a lot and fight each other, mostly with dramatic but harmless little dominance games since we’re as self-centeredly amoral as cats. But once in a while we have to fight hunters, idiots who believe that we’re Evil with a capital E. Can you blame them? If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck, right?

  Jacky Bouchard, The Artemis Files.

  * * *

  Lieutenant Emerson’s entrance kept me from hurting the rat-snake bastard.