She was referring to the woman who’d jumped from the window to escape the count’s killer bite. But was evil still inside?
I had to find out.
While the group focused on Pam, I slipped down Ursuline Street to the side of the house and tried the windows.
One opened.
After a quick look around, I climbed inside.
And I stiffened like a corpse.
I stood in a red living room with a high ceiling, a grand staircase, and a gorgeous chandelier that reflected the streetlight streaming through the windows. But there was no furniture, like when the count had lived in the house. And a foul odor hung in the air.
Trancelike, I moved from room to room.
All empty.
Then I entered the kitchen and opened the fridge.
Wine bottles.
Were they filled with human blood?
Using a sheet from my notepad, I took one and placed it in my bag.
Fighting back fear and nausea from the smell, I returned to the living room and climbed the stairs.
All of the bedrooms were empty, except for the master.
And what I saw there curdled my blood.
A coffin and a reddish-purple stain on the hardwood floor.
8
A door slammed.
My eyes opened.
It was as dark as a black hole, and I was supine on a hard surface.
I reached beside me, and my fingers touched something flat and smooth, like a wall. Of wood.
My lungs stopped breathing.
Was I in Josh’s coffin?
A cork popped from a bottle.
My heart stopped beating.
Josh was about to drain my blood and bottle it.
I bolted upright.
The covers fell to my lap.
Bewildered, I glanced around. I wasn’t in the coffin. I was in the space between my bed and the wall. “I’ve got to stop waking up like this.”
I kicked off the covers and rose to my feet.
And I almost fell to the floor.
Nonna lay on the bed with her arms crossed on her chest.
Like a body in a casket.
Lungs panting, heart pounding, I leaned over to make sure she was alive. Her breast rose and fell, to my relief. In one hand she clutched her rosary, and in the other a piece of paper.
Curious, I worked the paper from her grasp and then opened a curtain and held it to the moonlight.
Sullivan’s business card?
My lips tightened along with my fists, and for a second I thought about strangling her. Instead, I shredded the card.
A cabinet slammed.
Anthony must’ve come home.
Or…was it Josh?
I opened the door and peered out.
A figure in dark clothing was at the kitchen counter where I’d left my purse.
Fear gripped my torso.
Had Josh come for his wine?
“Yo, sis!”
My skeleton nearly jumped from my skin.
Anthony strutted up in a black velvet tracksuit. “I know it’s excitin’ seein’ your big bruthuh, but be cool.” He bobbed his head, his blowout immobile. “Now that I’m in The Big Easy, you get ta see me all the time.”
The reminder did nothing to calm my skittish skeleton.
His Neanderthal brow lowered, and his gaze swept over my gown. “Did you get that tent from Ma or sumpthin’?”
I didn’t know what irked me more—the pajama jab or the permanent Jersey accent he’d acquired from watching The Sopranos. “You’re not planning on coming home this late every night, are you?”
“Chill, awright? I had a meetin’ on Bourbon Street.”
I smirked. “Job hunting until four a.m.?”
“It’s a jungle out theuh.” He let out a wet-sounding burp and pulled a jar of Nutella from the pantry.
My stomach seized, and I snatched the jar.
“Oooh!” he shouted like a goomba at a garden party. “Whatsa mattuh wit you?”
“My apartment doesn’t come with free food.”
“Nice hospitality. What’s a guy s’ppose ta eat?”
With no cash and no culinary skills, Anthony should’ve been taking the waste-cooking class, not me. “How about Nonna’s arancini?”
He opened the refrigerator and grabbed a package of prosciutto and a brick of mozzarella. Then he shoulder-shut the door. “Your boyfriend ate ‘em all.”
I shook the Nutella at him. “Wesley Sullivan is not my boyfriend.”
“That ain’t what Nonna says.” He went into the living room, and I followed. With napkins.
“She doesn’t get a say in this.”
“Maybe she should.” He flopped onto the chaise lounge and kicked his Adidas onto the coffee table.
Napoleon, whose ears were fine-tuned to the sound of food packaging, emerged from beneath the armchair and assumed the begging position at my brother’s feet.
“So you’re anti-Bradley too?”
“It ain’t dat.” He broke off a piece of mozzarella and tossed it to Napoleon. “I’m sick o’ da constant meddlin’.”
I was tempted to shove the cheese brick down his throat. As a male in an Italian family, the only thing expected of him was that he love his mother, whereas I had to get married, have kids, and keep house, all while holding down a job. “How is that possible when the meddling is about me?”
“‘Cause I’m always havin’ to hear about it.”
“Pardon me for indirectly imposing.” I sunk onto the chaise lounge and opened the Nutella.
Napoleon moved to sit at my feet—not out of love or loyalty but an intense passion for anything I ate.
Anthony grabbed a wine bottle from the end table and took a swig. “You know, that detective dude might be Irish, but he’s practically a paesan.”
“That detective dude put me in jail last year and then harassed me the whole time I was working a case.”
“Cut the guy some slack, will ya? His old lady walked out on ‘im.”
Sullivan lived and breathed police work, so his personal life came as a shock. “He was married?”
“Until his lady dumped him for a rich guy.”
“That’s terrible.” His wife’s betrayal didn’t excuse his behavior, but it could’ve explained his surly attitude. And the change I’d noticed in him. Maybe he was over his ex.
Anthony rolled a slice of prosciutto. “He also told Nonna he felt bad for treatin’ you like crap.”
“Well, he should.” My tone was hard, but my resolve to dislike the detective was softening. I licked Nutella from my finger. “What did she say?”
“That he couldn’t have treated you as bad as Bradley does.”
The chocolate-hazelnut soured in my mouth. Sullivan knew too much about my relationship as it was. He didn’t need any more ammunition.
“And dat ain’t the woist of it.” Anthony jolted me with his elbow. “She laid the lemon tradition on him.”
“Oh, God.” I reached for his wine to wash down the bitterness and paused. “Where did you get that bottle?”
“On the counter.”
Unless Nonna had brought wine, then I didn’t have any in the house except for…I swallowed hard. “On the counter in my purse?”
His smile was sheepish. He’d been caught red-lipped.
“Don’t freak out.” I held out my hands to calm him even though I was on edge. “That wine is evidence in a case, and it might’ve been mixed with human blood.”
“The label says Chianti!” He launched the wine.
Red liquid rocketed across the room, and the bottle landed on the bearskin rug in front of the fireplace with a splash.
On my face.
This Anthony thing isn’t working out.
He put his head between his legs and heaved.
I dabbed my face with the napkins. “Try not to throw up on my floor, okay? In fact, why don’t you go to the bathroom while I google what to do?”
He stumbled to my be
droom, and I rushed into the kitchen for my phone.
Sullivan had called at two a.m. and sent a text.
* * *
Santo gave me the slip at St. Louis Cemetery No. 1. He went to an area where Anne Rice fans hang out and disappeared like a puff of smoke.
* * *
Or like a vampire bat. I didn’t believe Josh could turn into an animal, but there were things about him that defied human explanation. And if I was going to continue to represent him, I had to clear him as the killer.
It was time to get information about the underworld he inhabited. And I knew where to get it.
“David, stop with the leg bouncing.” I glanced at Raven Smith’s kitchen to make sure she was still brewing tea. “You’re shaking me off the couch.”
“Dude, why is everything in her apartment yellow?”
I followed his gaze to a poster of a fanged smiley face. “Well, she is fairly young.” I figured she was maybe late twenties. “But it is disturbingly sunny for a vampire.”
“And it’s freaking me out.” His leg practically pogoed. “Why couldn’t I take the wine to the police station?”
“Because that’s the vassal’s job. You’re a PI now, so man up.” I neglected to mention that I’d brought him along because I was as freaked out as him. And because he was young blood.
Raven returned to the living room and set a tea tray on the coffee table with a clatter. “I’m sorry, but I’m so over being a suspect in these kinds of crimes.” She flipped her hair, which was as black as the bird she shared a name with. “Like I told that detective, it’s profiling.”
She should have thought of that before having her canines enhanced. And before buying the luminescent contacts. “No offense, but you are an obvious suspect.”
The look she laid on me was as pointed as her teeth. “I’m not a sanguinarian, okay? I’m a psychic feeder.”
I pulled a notepad from my bag. “How does that work?”
She sat cross-legged on a sun-shaped cushion. She was fit but so thin that the black fabric of her yoga pants sagged. “Instead of human or animal blood, I feed off people’s energy and emotions.”
Oh, like Chandra.
David swallowed. “Are those the only ways to, uh, feed?”
“There are also vampires who use tendrils from their minds to drain energy from a person’s aura.”
Doom darkened David’s brow. “Like a Star Trek creature.”
And my mother.
Raven poured red liquid into a floral porcelain cup. “Would either of you like some hibiscus tea and raspberry shortbread cookies?”
After what had happened to Anthony with the wine, I wasn’t willing to gamble on anything blood colored, especially considering the source. “We had coffee before we came.”
“And beignets.” David bobbed his head in time with his leg.
I gave him a look that said give it a rest. “Going back to sanguinarians, is it safe to drink blood?”
“It depends on whether it’s diseased and, if so, the type. That’s why they vet their donors.”
“Donors?” David gave me a scared side-eye.
She tucked a long lock behind her ear. Her neck was smooth, sans bite marks. “There are people who want to be in relationships with vampires, to love and nurture them.”
For the life of me, I couldn’t fathom why.
“And it violates our code of ethics to feed from unwilling donors, so I didn’t kill Gregg. I’m not the blood bank thief, either.”
“Vampires have ethics?” That seemed like an oxymoron.
“Those of us who belong to a house or coven do.” She spooned sugar into her cup. “But if the killer is a role-player or a Ronin, then no.”
The culture reminded me of Dungeons and Dragons. “Could you define those terms?”
“Roleplayers are usually Goths who dress like stereotypical vampires and sleep in coffins, but they don’t feed. Ronins are real vampires who don’t belong to a house. In a sense, they’re rogue.”
I jotted down the descriptions, wondering which one fit Josh. “Are you affiliated with the New Orleans Vampire Association?”
“I’m with NOVO, the New Orleans Vampire Organization. We split with NOVA after a disagreement over charity sponsorship.”
I looked up from my pad. “About feeding the homeless?”
“It’s a good cause, but it doesn’t fit with our mission.” She smiled, uncovering her cuspids. “We sponsor a blood drive.”
David plastered himself against the couch, and I was tempted to follow suit. I didn’t know about their Buffalo brethren, but The Big Easy vampires needed a publicity agent. “Which house are you with?”
“I’m the head of the House of Lestat, after the Anne Rice character.”
“So, can you tell me why her fans hang out at St. Louis Cemetery No. 1?”
“That’s where Lestat’s lover, Louis, is buried. It’s fiction, of course. And like most of the depictions of us in books and movies, the story is exaggerated. We’re really just regular people.”
There was nothing regular about feeding on human blood. “Then why is your house named after a fictional vampire?”
She sipped her tea, pinky extended. “Because Rice’s novels are partially responsible for the emergence of our culture. Thanks to her we organized, which is why New Orleans has the largest community in the nation. It’s also why we have the best bars, like The Dungeon, and the best balls.”
“Have you been to the Crimson Cotillion?” I asked.
“That’s our event.” Her cheeks turned pinkish. “It’s this Saturday. You guys can come as my guests.”
“Uhhhh.” David was stuck.
I unstuck him with a knee knock. “We’d love to. Is there a theme?”
“Eighteenth-century French Court or anything in basic black. And there’ll be music, dancing, and drinking.”
The drinking caught my attention. “Is Campari served?”
Her iceberg eyes chilled me to the bone. “I don’t know what Campari Crimson means. But yes, we serve most red liqueurs, wine, sodas.” She smirked. “No blood.”
She broke a cookie in half and licked raspberry jam from her finger.
At least, I hoped it was raspberry jam and not the blood clot spread from Boutique du Vampyre. “I’m curious. Why would you go on the Vampires and Victims tour?”
“As head of my house, I receive a salary from NOVO. One of my duties is to keep the organization informed about how we’re being represented in the community. We have a reputation to protect, you know?”
I didn’t, but I nodded.
She picked up her teacup. “Anyway, I left after the bar break at Molly’s. The tour guide seemed sensitive to my people, but she told the same tired legends. And I don’t like hearing us described that way.”
“As bloodthirsty killers?”
Her eyes flashed, as did her fangs. “As I said, we feed only from willing donors. And we leave them alive.”
David’s leg had jumpstarted into action, so I switched to a non-sanguine subject. “About the bar, a witness said Gregg spoke to a woman with dark hair and a Mardi Gras boa. Was that you?”
“I was wearing a boa to try to blend in with the Quarter crowd, but it made my neck itch, so I took it off before we got to the bar. And I didn’t talk to him.”
Thomas Van Scyoc had said otherwise, so someone was lying. “Maybe the witness confused you with another woman on the tour, like Linda West?”
Raven’s cup wobbled. “I don’t know her.” She paused. “What I meant was, I don’t look like her.”
Based on her bout of nerves, I had a feeling she did know Linda. And that she’d talked to Gregg.
The question was, had she lied about not feeding on blood too?
My ringtone sounded, and my eyelids flew open.
Linda West’s office was so spa-like that I’d drifted off. If Private Chicks were half as inviting as Pharmanew, I would’ve moved in and left Nonna and Anthony to fend for themselves.
&n
bsp; Actually, who was I kidding? I would’ve moved into Private Chicks that day if I could’ve gotten Veronica’s permission. As it stood, I was almost ready to sleep in one of Chef Mel’s dumpsters.
I yawned and pulled my cell from my purse. The number on the display was unfamiliar, but it could’ve been Sullivan calling about the wine. “Hello?”
“Miss Franki?”
I stared at the device, dumbstruck. Glenda had never called me. In fact, I’d never seen her use a phone. “Hey, I’m about to interview someone for a case. Can I call you in an hour?”
She blew a burst of what had to be cigarette smoke into the receiver. “No, child. This is urgent. The Lilliputians are back, and they’re powwowing in your apartment.”
I breathed in the sandalwood scent of the lit candles and mentally uttered an “om.” “Yeah, my nonna’s visiting. She must’ve invited her friends over.”
“Well, every time those little people come around, they try to tie me up.”
I mind-uttered another om. My nonna and her nonna friends, aka the nonne, had used their aprons and tablecloths to cover her nudity. But, like Gulliver during his travels, Glenda lacked self-awareness and couldn’t see that her nakedness would be offensive to female octogenarians from Roman Catholic Sicily. “Just stay away from them, and they’ll leave you alone.”
“I’m not worried about myself, sugar. It’s Miss Carnie. She came over to debut her costume for the Lucky Pierre’s Halloween show, and they called in a priest.”
Gesù. I grabbed the miniature rake from a Japanese Zen garden on Linda’s desk and dragged it through the sand, trying to recapture my shattered serenity. “That doesn’t make sense. They’ve met Carnie. What’s the costume?”
“Countess Dragula. She got the idea from that Dracula float at the Krewe of BOO! parade.”
Cristo. The nonne were planning an exorcism. “Don’t open the door. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”
“There’s no time.” Her drawl verged on desperate. “Miss Carnie’s got to go rehearse.”
Rehearse? She was born for the role, especially if the countess was an energy-draining feeder. “Then what do you want me to do?”
“Meet me and Miss Ronnie for happy hour at Thibodeaux’s. We need to have a powwow of our own.”
Campari Crimson Page 10
