Bite Me: Big Easy Nights Page 7

  Gray always looked like a seedy lawyer or corrupt councilman out to relax, an image strengthened by the Pimm’s Cup—a lemonade cocktail and Napoleon House’s signature drink—that he held in his hand as he read the paper. Seeing me, he put down the drink and took another bite of his muffaletta before wiping his hand and winking at me.

  One of the fey (do not call them fairies unless they’re three inches tall with wings), Gray had held down the DSA’s New Orleans station for years. I had no idea why he wasn’t in San Francisco where the Seelie Court hung out in their perpetual Ren-Faire.

  “Hey, darlin’” he said. “Don’t be shy—Kimie knows to leave us alone.” He’d grabbed a corner table, and looked a perfect match for the crumbling plaster walls hung with old pictures and yellowing framed newspaper clippings. Glancing back at the bar as I sat, I caught “Kimie” glaring at us.

  I raised an eyebrow. “How nasty were you? Did she spit in your sandwich?”

  He grinned, leaning close. “Believe me, I checked. If she spit in my drink, the alcohol took care of it.” His hand crept over to cover mine and he squeezed. When I winced for our audience and pulled away he sighed and sat back, looking mulish. He waved Kimie over.

  “Another Pimm’s for my girl. She needs sweetening up.” Kimie actually hesitated and I looked away, quiet and trapped, till she came back with the drink—and an iced water glass and pitcher—and retreated again. My “date” chuckled.

  “Make sure I’m wearing that when you leave.”

  “That won’t be a problem.”

  “Hey darlin’, don’ be like that. I was starting to wonder, you being involved in a police incident an’ all. Makes a man wonder what he isn’t hearing about.”

  His hand came back to play with mine, and I let a shudder out for Kimie’s benefit. The man was good at his role; his voice made me want to disinfect, but his eyes were cold. The guy ran the DSA’s New Orleans station for a reason, and it wasn’t just because his fey glamour kept anyone from remembering details he didn’t want them to. I had no idea how he did it but it wasn’t telepathy; it even worked on me, and I was brain dead with no sparking neurons to affect. I only saw his pointy ears when I focused, and they never showed up in photographs. Magic.

  A fanatic about details, he used our meetings to strengthen his cover as an amoral “fixer” who could buy anything and do anything for a price. They always remembered Gray—and remembered me as a mousy worn down blonde “girlfriend” he bullied and bought drinks for. They probably thought I did things for him.

  In low tones and trying to look like I was telling something shameful, I sketched out Emerson’s theory, the second attack, and Leroy’s revelations. His expression didn’t change.

  “So, you think someone’s found a new hit-and-miss way of making vamps?” He hadn’t missed the fact that, Acacia aside, there were at least two vamps I didn’t know in town. “Building himself a bloodsucker army? Why?”

  “I don’t know, but three or four isn’t an army yet. I want him before Emerson gets to him—news of vamps being made by drugs is almost as bad as the real thing.”

  “Does Emerson know?”

  “If he didn’t, Paul will tell him. And Emerson’s good at his job. What do you want me to do?” I crossed my fingers beneath the table.

  “Exactly what you’re going to do. Find this sonovabitch. Find out what he is, if he’s the real deal or a good imitation. But don’t take too long; this’ll go up the chain, and they’re cautious at the top—without hard facts, they’ll go with Better Safe Than Sorry.” He shrugged, unconcerned. “Now get out.”

  I skimmed condensation from my water glass and wiped my cheeks to wet them, tossed my drink in his face, and slapped him for good measure. Twice. It was the most fun I’d had all night, and Kimie stared at me in awe as I stormed past, already thinking about where I was going to spend the day.

  * * *

  St. Louis Cemetery #1, New Orleans’ oldest necropolis, filled up before the Civil War and most of its old mausoleums were neglected and decaying. I’d recovered my gear from the church, and now I crept along the shadowed alleys between white and age-stained tombs, eying my prospects.

  New Orleans’ old cemeteries are not places to be after dark, unless of course you’re a resident. They’re famous since, unlike in cemeteries elsewhere, all their residents sleep above ground in mausoleums; they have to since the water table is so close to the grass that when it rains real hard, buried caskets just come right back up.

  The moon had waned to a thin crescent, giving me welcome darkness but reminding me that the Midnight Ball was only four nights away. The cemetery’s caretakers locked its gates at night, but its walls weren’t high and its proximity to the Iberville Projects meant running into project kids sneaking in over the wall on an adventure was always a possibility. I’d jumped the old graveyard’s wall easily enough with my stuffed bag over my shoulder.

  You always see Hollywood vampires hanging around graveyards, and of course goths love them, but properly consecrated graves are holy ground. Since the Event, in places like New Orleans they’d gotten really serious about making sure graveyards were ritually blessed at least annually. Church processions through the tombs, with waving aspergillum spraying holy water and swinging thuribles fumigating with liturgical incense, were a big part of All Saint’s Day now, so graveyards that hadn’t been completely abandoned were the last place you were likely to meet a vampire; even the stupidest vamp wouldn’t go where he could get a nasty burn off just leaning against the side of a tomb.

  But crosses, holy water, the host, none of that bothered me, and the safest place to hide is where nobody thinks you can go.

  I found my new home right next to a whitewashed and well-kept mausoleum belonging to the Most Sacred Order of Funny-Hatted Drinking Buddies. A big one with dozens of vaults still being used, it overshadowed an old and decrepit quadruple decker belonging to the Bacquets, a family that obviously wasn’t around anymore. The top vault was dated 1873, the mausoleum’s roof had fallen in on it, and its bottom two vaults had been smashed open sometime and never reclosed. The third vault, just at head-height, had been opened and bricked up. The bricks were old and blackened.

  The tomb right next to it was in much better shape. I stood in its shadow for five minutes, listening to the night, and then scaled it to drop into the Bacquet’s exposed top vault. Rubble filled the open space and I cleared a spot to work in, giving the night one more good listen as I assembled my field drill. The diamond bit made an easy job of the vault floor, and I worked my fiberscope into the hole. As I’d hoped, the third vault was clear, whoever had occupied it long gone.

  My full bag weighed just under my carrying limit, but there was no way I could fit it in with me so I tucked it under the biggest pieces of roofing I could find, keeping out only my weapons and field gear. I went to mist and pulled myself through the quarter-inch hole and into the vault. Snug inside, I wiggled around to get the blanket and pillow under me, then stretched out and switched on the dim camp light I’d brought with me and accessed my epad for a little reading before bedtime.

  Paul had sent me everything he could find on Leroy, and it was past time to do my homework. He also included a file on Acacia, but it was thin on information—family background, school records, first appearance in New Orleans as a vamp—and since Leroy was actively involved in some side of all this I was much more interested in him at the moment.

  Twenty minutes later I was swearing like a sailor.

  Leroy didn’t exist.

  He came to New Orleans already a vampire, but every known breakthrough, supernatural or otherwise, became a person of interest to governments and law enforcement; there was no way for him not to have a paper and electronic trail. But the French Sûreté hadn’t heard of him, Interpol didn’t know anything about him, and as “Marc Leroy” he had no history of residence in Orleans—or anywhere else in France.

  How could he be so French and not be from France?

  And why
was he here?

  Besides New Orleans being Vampire Central, of course. But if he came here for that, why his lack of participation in the whole vampire scene? The Midnight Ball, the occasional club appearance, that was it.

  Paul’s files included business and tax records, and the first time his name and tax-ID appeared on a piece of paper was when he bought his building—in full, no mortgage. He’d incorporated his fencing school two months after arriving, and he’d been a good boy since. Between the school and his bodyguarding business, he made good money and paid his taxes without resort to shelters, offshore accounts, or other legal dodges. Personally, he was as clean as a vamp could get—no complaints, arrests, charges, Notes Of Interest. He lived behind his school with Darren, who I’d thought of as his house boy but was apparently a practicing pro bono attorney to the vamp community. Darren financed his practice through a retainer agreement with one paying client, the LH Association.

  I noted that last bit for later research, and closed the useless file.

  In my months of apprenticeship with the Sentinels, Blackstone had taught me to triage questions for order of importance and then to move from what I knew to what I didn’t know. Now I stared at the granite slab above me.

  So, what did I really know?

  Start with appearance, manner, attitude.

  The man looked good, handsome as sin as Grams would say. African-European—what Heather, one of my less PC high school girlfriends, would have called “light chocolate.” His narrow nose, cheekbones, chin were aristocratically cut. He had clear, grey raptor’s eyes.

  He was always well groomed, but other than wearing black he didn’t follow vampire fashion—not goth, punk, or noir. He didn’t hunt publicly or feed off fang fans. Where did he get his donors? Were he and Darren lovers, like everyone thought Paul and I were? If they were, he still needed more than Darren could give him.

  Moving on, his attitude towards the rest of the vamp community was… disdain. He didn’t enjoy the posing any more than I did, he despised Sable, he—

  My thoughts skidded to a stop and I nearly bashed my head trying to sit up.

  He was me.

  Oh crap.

  * * *

  I’d forgotten that Marie Laveau’s tomb could be a busy place at night, and the tourists woke me not long after sunset. I checked my watch to be certain the sun had truly hit the horizon, then misted up into the top vault to spy.

  Blue still touched the western sky, but stars were coming out and the shadows had disappeared into night. The guide led the noisy group with a camp lantern—everyone else had little club lightsticks—and I remembered hearing that they’d recently begun funding historic restorations by conducting “voodoo tours.” They couldn’t keep them out, so why not take advantage and minimize the damage? I quickly packed my stuff, but then temptation won and I followed them, floating through the alleys to the famous voodoo queen’s grave. Halfway there I reformed and quietly joined the back of the group.

  The guide slipped in a pretty good history lesson along their indirect rout, about how most of the residents of the cemetery were pre-Civil War and had died of yellow fever. He talked about other famous residents and about preservation efforts, and the group pretty much tuned him out. The tomb of New Orlean’s most famous voodoo queen looked worn but cared for, a whitewashed narrow three-vault stack with no indication of which one she was in. Recent visitors had covered the ground in front of it with offerings: coins, beads, flowers, candles—even shot-glasses filled with whisky. The guide turned off his camp light to leave the tomb lit by candlelight, and as the group crowded forward to take pictures or leave their own offerings with wishes for love, fortune, and darker things, my inner devil began pushing me.

  After five years of hunting I could read a group like nobody’s business, and I easily picked out the bored, the tagalongs, and the nicotine-fiends. I tapped the guy next to me on the shoulder.

  “I’m dying here, got a smoke?” I whispered, giving him my best smile and pushing just a little influence at him. His pupils widened and he grinned. “Sure!” He fumbled in his pockets, found his pack and lighter while the girl beside him snapped pictures of the tomb.

  When he lit me up she turned, realizing something was going on. Taking a drag, I exhaled with a sigh.

  “Thanks,” I sighed. “I’d have killed for a cig.” Then I misted quick, dropping the cigarette and pulling into the shadows before they could blink. He screamed, she screamed, and I flowed around the crowd to snuff all the candles in passing, floating away as the shouts and screams spread behind me.

  I was still laughing when Paul picked me up in a classic Cadi. I’d gone back for my things and still gotten out faster than the tourists, who’d scattered through the cemetery. One of the speeding tour vans had nearly hit me on the street.

  “What?” I asked when he looked at me.

  “Do I want to know?”

  “Probably not, but if you hear a new ghost story about Marie Laveau’s grave, it wasn’t me.”

  “We need to talk,” he said, checking his mirrors. “Someone made a try for you today, chèr. Mama Marie got in his way.”

  Chapter Eleven

  I hate a lot of people, on general principle.

  Jacky Bouchard, The Artemis Files.

  * * *

  “Turn around!” I screamed. Paul was not headed for Esplanade.

  “She’s not home!” he said quickly. “She’s down at the precinct having words with Emerson, and we’re not going there. It’s bad for our cover.”

  The precinct. Thank God not the hospital. Or the morgue. I had to remind myself to breathe so I could speak.

  “What happened?”

  “Somebody sent a professional, chèr. A big guy armed with every anti-vampire tool in the box: crosses, holy water, stakes, butcher’s knife, lots of fire-starter. He went in maybe an hour before sunset, relied on how deeply you guys sleep to take you in your coffin, I guess.”

  My nails were digging divots in my palms. “How did he get past the guys you had watching?”

  “I’m going to find out. Oz and Steve are two of the best. Anyway, he never made it up to your room; your grandmother was there with a client.”

  “And?” I pushed when he stopped.

  “Chèr… The hitter brought a gun for them. Your grandmother says it jammed when he tried to shoot her. So he pulled the butcher’s knife and… he tripped over Legba and fell on it. Dead before we got there.”

  “You’re jok—”

  “Jacky, your grandmère has the mojo! You’ve been living with her for weeks and you still haven’t figured that out? This guy had to be from out of town; nobody local would take a contract out that meant crossing Mama Marie...”

  Paul’s voice muted to a background buzz as murder rose inside me like a tide of rotten blood. Whoever had sent a killer into Gram’s house was going to scream when I found him. It was all I could do to keep from misting away. I really, really wanted to get into the morgue and seriously desecrate a corpse after draining it dry.

  Sickened, I dropped my head back against the seat and closed my eyes, tasting blood in my mouth; I’d bitten myself when I screamed at Paul. If the hitter hadn’t been dead, nobody could have stopped me from killing him.

  Paul stopped talking and looked over at me. “Are you alright?”

  “No,” I croaked. “I need you to take me to church.”

  Not what he’d been expecting, and he was even more surprised when I told him which one. As he drove down narrow streets watching his mirror for tails, I called Grams. No details, just I’m with Paul and alright. She threatened Paul, he made respectful promises, his fingers white on the steering wheel, and I kept quiet. It all felt deeply wrong.

  Parking was a bitch this close to Mardi Gras, but Paul found us a spot a couple of streets from Jackson Square and we walked. I wore my jacket to hide my new gun and knife—again glad I didn’t sweat—and we wound our way through the happy tourists and partiers, past a jazz band performing
in front of General Jackson’s statue. As white as the cemetery tombs, St. Louis Cathedral looked across Chartres Street to the square. Not well lit, its shadowed mass rose above the street lamps to frown disapprovingly at the frivolity displayed in front of it.

  The cathedral remained open after sunset, for the gift shop and for those who wanted to come inside and pray. Paul dipped his fingers in the font at the entrance and crossed himself before remembering me, then frowned when I did the same. Not that I was confirmed Catholic—growing up, my family had been Sunday Baptists and not much stuck, but I preferred to be inside a house of God for the talk Paul and I were about to have.

  Right now any reassurance that I remained beati mortus helped.

  The place was almost empty, and we chose a pew facing the shrine of the Holy Mother at the front of the left gallery. Paul lit a candle and said a prayer, and I lit one too for Grams. I wanted to see her, and that wasn’t going to happen until the current situation was resolved. We sat far away from the closest visitor, who sat in front of the sanctuary with rosary in hand, reciting from a prayer book. As long as we were quiet we’d be invisible to him.

  “What if somebody recognizes you here?” Paul asked.

  I smiled thinly, sitting so I could keep an eye out. “I’m using a little influence—anybody seeing me in a church will think I can’t be here, so they’ll realize I’m someone else. It’s a simple I’m Not Here suggestion.”

  “Could you make me think you’re not here?”

  I ignored the implied have you? “Not anymore, and not if you were looking for me.”

  He nodded. “Chèr, I talked to Emerson before the call came in on Mama Marie. Leroy was right about the V-Juice, and Emerson’s already got teams watching Acacia and Belladonna. We didn’t hear about it because he likes to compartmentalize, but I’ve got a file of overdose cases—they found a whole bunch stashed together. I’ll send you the file, see if you recognize any of them…and why don’t you look happier about that?”