On Midnight Wings

by Adrian Phoenix

  He needed a good stiff drink of fine bourbon, then he would go into the Quarter and dine. Perhaps a naïve tourist as an appetizer, followed by a full-course meal, in the form of the hunt, chasing down a more canny New Orleans native, and feasting on their fear and adrenaline-simmered blood.

  Feeling the tension drain from his muscles as he pondered his meal options, Mauvais gave his temples one final circular rub before ending the massage. Eyes open once more, he left the workroom and climbed the stairs to the deck, his shoes soundless against the iron. He breathed in the river’s cool, muddy scent.

  Perhaps Laurent and Rafe would finally track down that betraying bâtard Vincent, and bring him home as a flesh-and-blood gift, one offering superior tension-releasing opportunities. Perhaps Vincent could even be the dessert capping a night of fine dining. Mauvais smiled at the thought.

  Lanterns hung from hooks spaced evenly along the riverboat’s length, casting wavering pools of pale yellow light across the teak deck and infusing the air with the pungent aroma of kerosene. Even though it meant the generators still weren’t working, Mauvais felt nostalgic at the sight of the lanterns, the sound of their steady hiss, remembering a time when there were no such things as electricity or GPS or computers.

  Once we relied on only the moon and stars to guide us.

  On our instincts. Our hunger. Our blood.

  We’ve become lazy. Complacent. Stagnant.

  An image flashed through his mind, one nearly four nights old: Dante Baptiste on his knees, held in place by Mauvais’s vampires, his pale face defiant, a smirk on his bloodied lips as he jerks his chin free of Mauvais’s grasp and meets his gaze.

  Dante, Dante, Dante . . . You refuse to recognize my authority.

  Authority over what? Wharf rats? Ass kissers?

  You’re disrespectful. Defiant, and rude. You even break our laws.

  Fuck your laws.

  Another smile curled across Mauvais’s lips. Well, he amended, as he remembered the intoxicating taste of Dante’s blood—copper and pomegranates, heady adrenaline and sun-warmed grapes—and the power that had surged through his veins, courtesy of the True Blood’s unwilling donation. Perhaps not all of us have forgotten our instincts. His smile deepened. Nor our hunger.

  As Mauvais strode toward the wheelhouse, he heard the familiar tread of his majordomo hurrying behind him. An acrid tang—concern, unease, perhaps—smudged the man’s scent of cedar and Irish moss.

  “What is it, Edmond?” Mauvais called lazily, not bothering to slow his pace for the mortal. “I am not in the mood for any more problems.”

  “Not a problem, m’sieu,” Edmond said in hushed, if somewhat breathless, tones as he drew up alongside Mauvais. Tall, lean, and in his early forties, he was impeccably dressed in his usual uniform of black morning coat and vest, sharply creased black trousers, and shoes polished to a mirror-bright gleam. “Well, not exactly, I should say.”

  “Then what is it exactly? Spit it out.”

  “M’sieu, it’s the tailor—”

  “The tailor? Why are you bothering me with the tailor? Has he run off to design his own fashion line? Everyone seems to be doing so these days.”

  “No, he has not. But it’s not the tailor, per se, m’sieu, it’s—” Edmond’s words stopped cold at a warning shout from one of the guards at the riverboat’s gangplank, a warning answered with a contemptuous string of fluid and very imaginative Italian.

  Giovanni Toscanini.

  Mauvais sighed. Whether he was in the mood for it or not, another problem had just arrived in the form of Renata Alessa Cortini’s emissary, her fils de sang; a guest Mauvais had, admittedly, lied to and deceived and had hoped to avoid for a while longer.

  Perhaps he was cursed after all, he mused ruefully. Well, nothing for it, but . . .

  Mauvais sent to his guards.

  “M’sieu, the tailor,” Edmond persisted quietly, “he—”

  Mauvais flapped a dismissive hand. “Can wait.”

  Edmond shot a glance toward the stairs leading belowdecks, then gave a nearly imperceptible shrug. “As you wish, m’sieu. I shall fetch brandy for you and your guest.” Turning, the majordomo left in a brisk stride.

  Mauvais crossed to the railing and leaned against it, elbows resting on the gleaming wood, the night-blackened waters of the Mississippi at his back. Giovanni blurred to a stop in front of him a mere moment later, fragrant with the scent of the sea—salt, sand, and deep waters.

  Dressed in a black, silver-buttoned short-sleeved shirt, and tight designer jeans, Giovanni folded his arms over his chest, biceps defined against the black material. He looked down his proud Roman nose at Mauvais, his hazel eyes no longer warm or full of playful mischief, but narrowed into an icy glare.

  “Tu sei un bastardo mentendo,” he said, voice tight.

  Mauvais arched an eyebrow. “And a good evening to you, as well.”

  Giovanni snorted. “I don’t want to play the innocence and denials game. I haven’t the patience.”

  “Actually, neither do I,” Mauvais said, somewhat relieved. He usually looked forward to the verbal chess playing and mental sparring between vampires, but tonight—between the ungrateful and missing fallen angel, the bizarre electrical mishaps, and claims of curses and angry loas—he just didn’t have it in him.

  “You knew I wanted to be notified the moment Dante Baptiste returned to New Orleans,” Giovanni said, dark brows slanting down in a scowl. “Yet you sent me off to the French Quarter like a drunk tourist, knowing that Baptiste was not only in town, but right here”—he stamped one boot against the deck—“right under my feet. And against his will, no less.”

  “A necessary deception,” Mauvais replied, “for which I apologize.”

  “Playing me for a fool was a necessary deception?”

  “Unfortunately. Again, my apologies. I truly had no choice.”

  Giovanni laughed, darkly amused. “No choice? How is that possible? You’re the Lord of New Orleans.”

  “Indeed I am.” Mauvais held Giovanni’s gaze. “And part of my responsibilities as lord is to discipline vampires who flout our laws. Dante happens to be one of those.”

  “Even though I told you that, as a True Blood, he is to be treated with the utmost respect?” Giovanni’s voice slivered ice into the air. “Even though I told you that his crimes would be taken before the Cercle de Druide for proper consideration?”

  “Oui. I’m afraid that wasn’t good enough for my fille de sang. She’d lost so much at Dante’s hands.” Tension crept back into Mauvais’s muscles, his spine, at the thought of Justine. Twin blades of loss and betrayal sank deep into his heart—just before he hardened it once more.

  Foolish girl, ungrateful child. I gave you your justice when I ordered Dante’s home burned to the ground. Why couldn’t you let it be enough? “And where is the lovely Justine?” Giovanni asked, lowering his arms to his sides. A breeze from off the river ruffled through his razor-cut burgundy locks. “I haven’t seen her.”

  “And you won’t,” Mauvais said coolly, “as she is no longer a member of this household.” Refusing the question in the Italian’s eyes, he pushed away from the railing, and glanced aft. “Ah, here comes Edmond with our drinks.”

  And, oddly, not alone. A tall figure walked beside the majordomo, his stride confident and relaxed. The height and waist-length hair along with the glowing golden eyes made Mauvais think of Lucien De Noir. His heart stuttered against his ribs.

  Not De Noir, no. His fallen angel had returned.

  “Who is that?” Giovanni asked, his tone a verbal frown.

  “One of the Elohim,” Mauvais replied with a deliberate nonchalance that suggested he played host to fallen angels all the time and, really, it was becoming a bit of a bore.

  “Truly?” Wonder skipped like a child in that single word. “Which is he?”

  Mauvais shrugged. “We haven’t yet had
an opportunity to speak—not even an exchange of names. But I think that is about to change,” he mused as the pair drew to a halt in front of him.

  The angel’s scent—fallow earth and cold stone and thin, crackling ice, the first breath of winter—chilled the air. Tendrils of his red hair lifted on the breeze and moonlight glinted from the torc curving around his throat. He wore a white linen shirt and charcoal-gray trousers, a matching suit jacket draped over one arm.

  A wry smile tugged at Mauvais’s lips. So that’s what Edmond was trying to tell me—that my former statue was up and about and getting a fitting from my tailor.

  “M’sieu Guy Mauvais, Lord of New Orleans,” Edmond smoothly informed the immortal at his side, “and his guest, Signor Giovanni Toscanini of the Cercle de Druide, arrived from Rome.”

  “Welcome aboard the Winter Rose,” Mauvais said, studiously ignoring the I-tried-to-tell-you twitch of the majordomo’s eyebrow. “I’m pleased that my tailor has managed to accommodate you in such fine fashion, m’sieu . . .” He trailed off, giving the angel an opportunity to gracefully supply his name.

  An opportunity the fallen angel ignored. Instead he smoothed a hand down the front of his pristine shirt and replied in a deep, musical voice, “Your tailor is quite skilled, yes, and seemed to enjoy the challenge.”

  Chuckling, Mauvais accepted a half-filled brandy snifter from the tray Edmond extended with white-gloved hands. “I’m sure he did.”

  “Ah, refreshments,” the fallen angel said, golden eyes brightening. Ignoring the snifters arrayed upon Edmond’s tray, he instead plucked the white rose from the pocket of the majordomo’s morning coat and popped one snowy petal into his mouth.

  Edmond neither blinked nor frowned, simply inclined his head, as though to say, Excellent choice, m’sieu, then offered his tray to Giovanni. At Mauvais’s nodded dismissal, he quietly withdrew.

  Mauvais slid a companionable arm around Giovanni’s shoulders and murmured, “I need to have a private chat with my winged guest. It shouldn’t take long. If you wait for me in the casino belowdecks, perhaps play a few rounds of roulette, we shall resume our conversation once I’m finished here.”

  While Mauvais felt a deep satisfaction—not to mention a bit of triumph—in knowing that Giovanni would immediately contact Renata and the rest of the Cercle and inform them that Guy Mauvais had found favor among the Fallen, he did not want the details of his upcoming conversation with the angel to be included in the handsome Italian’s report.

  A vampire needed secrets, after all.

  Giovanni’s muscles tensed beneath Mauvais’s arm. “This had better not be another trick to get rid of me,” he warned in a low voice.

  “I’m merely asking you to wait, not leave.”

  With a soft, frustrated sigh, Giovanni looked past Mauvais to the fallen angel, then lifted his snifter of brandy to his lips and tossed back its dark amber contents. “Fine, then,” he muttered, resting the empty glass on the railing. “I’ll wait. But don’t make me wait long.”

  “Of course not,” Mauvais replied with a warm smile. He gave Giovanni’s shoulder a companionable squeeze before releasing him. “You have my word.”

  With a derisive snort—one Mauvais chose to ignore—Giovanni strode away, following after Edmond. Once they were alone and the only sounds Mauvais heard were the hissing kerosene lanterns, the creak of the wood beneath his feet, and the Mississippi’s wet kisses against the riverboat, he gave his attention to the immortal standing silently beside him.

  “For a guest, he seems somewhat cranky and demanding,” the fallen angel commented. “Although, given that he’s a vampire, I suppose that’s to be expected.”

  Mauvais pursed his lips, considering, then admitted, “True.”

  The angel laughed, the sound of it like the joyous pealing of wedding bells. “I understand that I have you to thank for my freedom,” he said, once his mirth had passed. He drew in a deep breath of air, seeming to savor the simple action of breathing. “I truly appreciate it.”

  “I’m glad I could help,” Mauvais replied with an elegant half-shrug, knowing the gesture would suggest a careless modesty and an altruistic nature that he didn’t possess. “We’re fortunate that my people stumbled across you while chasing down a rude marmot in desperate need of a lesson in manners. How did you end up as a stone statue guarding a tomb, anyway?”

  “The usual way. Treachery. Betrayal by a brother.” A smile—dark and somehow eager—curved the fallen angel’s lips, revealing sharp white teeth. “But I intend to pay back in kind.”

  “I am willing to help in any way possible,” Mauvais said, then took a sip of the brandy, savoring its smooth oak-and-rose flavor.

  “Wonderful.” The angel pulled several more petals from the rose and ate them, chewing thoughtfully. Swallowing, he said, “Perhaps you can help me find the guilty party since I believe he resides in the area—or did, before he tricked me with lies and a blood spell.”

  “Of course. What’s his name?”

  “He’s known as the Nightbringer, but it’s his son I’m most interested in.”

  “Son?” Mauvais stared at the fallen angel, startled. “Lucien De Noir—the Nightbringer—doesn’t have a son. At least, not that I’m aware of.”

  But even as the words left his mouth, a dark suspicion snaked through Mauvais’s mind as he remembered how De Noir had always guarded Dante Baptiste, remembered how he used to wonder why one of the Fallen had chosen to stand beside the beautiful and dangerous True Blood—or any vampire for that matter. He’d often wondered if Dante had pulled a thorn from the lion’s paw.

  Mon Dieu. Is it possible?

  “Oh, but he does,” the fallen angel said. “A very special child, he called this son. Unique. And one I’m most eager to meet.” His smile darkened even more, became an abyss. “I have plans for the boy.”

  Apprehension iced Mauvais’s blood. He had a feeling neither Lucien De Noir nor his son would enjoy that meeting very much. But he reminded himself that he owed nothing to either De Noir or—if his suspicion proved correct—Dante. Their fates were their own. Still. . . .

  “As I said,” Mauvais murmured. “I know nothing about a son, but I can tell you where to find De Noir.”

  “Lucien De Noir,” the fallen angel mused, shaking his head. “Where does he come up with these names?”

  “And your name, m’sieu?” Mauvais prodded gently. “What shall I call you?”

  “Loki,” the immortal replied. “Call me Loki.”

  Mauvais drained his brandy in one swallow.

  14

  FUCK MURPHY AND HIS STUPID GODDAMNED LAW

  NEW ORLEANS

  CLUB HELL

  VON STOOD OFF TO one side of the club’s kicked-in door, Silver’s coiled presence right behind him, and listened to the chaotic and brutal sounds issuing from the darkened and grafittied entrance hall—shouts, the fleshy thud of fists against flesh, pained grunts, the spatter of blood hitting the floor—a free-for-all battle.

  “The fuck?” Silver muttered under his breath. “What now?”

  Von heartily agreed. The fuck, indeed. It sounded as though a posse of idiots—nightkind idiots, given the lack of mortal heartbeats—had broken in, drunk all the booze, then decided the fire-scorched club was the perfect place for a UFC bout.

  But he was pretty damned sure that something else very different was going on.

  Someone was fighting for his or her life.

  Von slipped a hand inside his leather jacket for one of his holstered Brownings—a gesture as natural and automatic as breathing—and felt a cold shock when his fingers brushed against only the jacket’s soft lining.

  No guns. No holster.

  Hell, it wasn’t even his jacket, but a brown bomber borrowed from Jack—one smelling of stale beer and spearmint gum and thankfully missing any pithy declarations or tiny gators.

  Standing across from him on the other side of the boot-battered door, her Glock held in both hands, Merri Goodnight arched one
eyebrow, her expression asking: Missing something or just feeling your bad self up?

  With a let’s-keep-her-guessing wink, Von pulled his hand free of the jacket. Maybe his Brownings were inside, upstairs in his sprinkler-drenched room along with his double shoulder holster, leather jacket, and non-gator-infested clothing, but he sure as hell wasn’t weaponless. Neither was Silver.

  But he couldn’t say the same for Thibodaux, despite the gun in the man’s hand. Merri’s partner towered behind her, his attention focused on the darkness beyond the battered doors, his Colt held down at his side in a one-handed grip.

  A nightkind rumble was no place for a mortal. No matter how good a shot.

  Von suddenly regretted his decision to bring the former SB agents along in the hope that their investigative skills might turn up a clue as to who had snatched Dante. And where he might’ve been taken.

  “On three?” Merri whispered.

  Von nodded, then glanced over his shoulder at Silver. Clothed in more of Jack’s generous donations—a black Voodoo Fest tee, jeans, and classic Converse high-tops, all suspiciously gator-free—his purple hair smudged nearly black in the moonlight, Silver met his regard with gleaming eyes.

 

  Silver flashed fangs for reply.

  “One,” Von said, low.

  “Two,” Merri picked up.

  “Three,” from Silver.

  Von moved, Merri and Silver right on his sneakered heels—sneakers, for chrissakes—the entrance hall blurring past in a smoke-reeking streak of black walls, fluorescent paint, and red flickering light.

  BURNBURNBURNBURN

  Even as he sped into the club, Von heard only a few low, pained moans—the hard-knuckled combat had ended. As he came to an abrupt halt in the center of the soot-streaked dance floor, he also realized that only one vampire remained standing.

  One he recognized. Murphy and his stupid law had struck again.

  Holly Miková pushed silky tendrils of hair the color of honey butter back from her face. Red light from the buzzing neon BURN sign jittered along the crescent moon tattoo beneath her right eye.