by J. R. Rain
I’d planned to go back to my hotel room at the Holiday Inn near the Superdome and catch up on my duty calls. Normally, of course, I’d owe one to Kingsley, but it was the night of the full moon, a “blood moon” in fact, complete with a lunar eclipse, and he was going to be a very busy boy for the next few nights. However, there was always my sister, Mary Lou, who was looking after Tammy and Anthony for me while I was gone. They had both reached that rebellious stage―mind-reading teen and hyperactive, super-strong pre-teen―where they resented going over to their aunt’s house but didn’t have the maturity to look after themselves. No way. Even worse, they’d started bickering with and bullying their three cousins, who thought they were weird.
Sigh…Mary Lou’s family didn’t know the half of it. I had been a happy normal wife and mother in Orange County until ten years ago, when I was attacked by an evil vampire—and turned into one myself. Making my life since gross and scary and, let’s face it, weird.
Luckily, Mary Lou, who was the closest person to me in the world, except maybe for Allison, had kept my many secrets. Allison Lopez started out as my blood donor―she got some kind of kinky thrill from it―but had evolved into my BFF through our unique bond. She’d kept quiet about my secrets, too, so far, but at least where she was concerned, it was all “out of sight, out of mind.” Though I guessed I really needed to at least text her, too; she’d be hurt if I didn’t.
So would the kids―but I knew from experience that when I called, they’d just whine and complain, if they deigned to speak to me at all.
Being wined and dined by Detective Bordelon and her boyfriend suddenly seemed like a more attractive option.
“Darryl says the Morgue shut down after a couple of the girls disappeared.” She set down her Android. “And the owner’s sister hung herself in the upstairs lounge. But the tour still exists, and maybe some of the guides will remember Wendy―it starts across the street from Pat O’Brien’s, so we’re meeting him there for drinks and shrimp, if that’s okay by you.”
Her guy was named Darryl Piggott, she told me on the way down to the police parking lot. They’d only been seeing each other a few months, but she was hoping it would turn into something pretty serious for the two of them. I didn’t need to read her mind to see she’d gone pretty overboard for the dude; she was lit up with it from inside like a candle. Yet, at the candle’s core, there was something cold and hard and shielded from my gaze.
“What does Darryl do?”
“He is a musician,” Bordelon said. “He plays stringed instruments―string bass, banjo, jazz guitar. But since everybody in New Orleans is a musician of some kind, he’s got a regular job, too. He’s a ghost hunter.”
“He’s a what?” I asked. That was a job?
“Well, they call it paranormal investigator. He does it for the Travel Channel: writes, produces, and directs. They go into haunted buildings all over Louisiana”―she pronounced it “Loosiana”―“and spend the night there, put their instruments up all over the place, and record flashes of energy and video anomalies, they call them ‘orbs.’ That’s how he knew all about the Morgue Bar. It’s all bullshit, but, hey! At least it pays the bills, right? Here we are.” She stopped next to a late-model maroon Caprice Classic and unlocked it. It was so old she used an actual key, not a fob.
“Cop car. I’m not taking mine, I’ve pulled a double shift startin’ early tomorrow.” We both got in, and she started the engine. “We’ve got a real manpower shortage now because we lost so many officers after Katrina.”
“You mean they were killed?”
“I mean they were indicted. Or got out of Dodge before they were. Don’t suppose you’d like to apply for a job here?” She’d obviously pulled my jacket up onto her computer screen before asking me out. It had told her I was a trained former federal agent who’d worked for HUD for a number of years.
I just snorted. “So, you don’t believe in the supernatural?”
“Hell, no, hon. I’m a police officer! I believe in reality. You know, stuff I can touch and see.” The tires squealed slightly as she turned onto Tulane Avenue; we were already going about twenty miles per hour over the posted limit.
I could have told her that not everything was what it seemed. Beginning with me.
Moon Bayou
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About the Author:
J.R. Rain is the international bestselling author of over sixty novels, including his popular Samantha Moon and Jim Knighthorse series. His books are published in five languages in twelve countries, and he has sold more than 3 million copies worldwide.
Please visit him at www.jrrain.com.
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