by Nina Mason
“The Aquarian need for independence can’t be understated. Although they appear to be friendly and outgoing, they are actually very private and abhor having their privacy invaded. Their outward appearance of sociability stems from a need to be useful, rather than to forge intimate relationships. They love solving puzzles, especially human ones, which they do with logic and detachment, eschewing emotion as much as possible.”
Nothing new there. Nor anything to help with his predicament. Angst gnawing, he skipped down to the paragraphs under the heading Partnership.
“Of all the sun signs, Aquarians are the least likely to establish long-term intimate relationships. Their powerful need for independence makes it especially difficult to grant another entry into their lives, due to an unwillingness to share their personal space—be it their home or their psyche. They often avoid commitment until they are so set in their ways making room in their lives for a companion seems inconceivably disruptive. Thus, many water bearers remain single. Some, depending on the placement of Venus in their charts, enjoy the glamour of romance and, once pinned down, can be loyal. But tread carefully. Most Aquarians see romance as a trap and marriage as a prison to be avoided at all costs.”
Oh, bloody hell. He sure knew how to pick ’em, didn’t he? Well, at least it settled the issue of calling or dropping in uninvited. He’d simply have to wait for her to get in touch and pray her intentions toward him were sincere—and that Venus was well positioned in her chart. If he knew the precise date and hour of her birth, he could figure it out, but, like an idiot, he’d never bothered to find out.
Someone knocked on the door, which he’d shut after saying good night to Duncan. Cursing under his breath, Callum downed his drink and set the glass on the coffee table on his way to see who it was.
Opening the door, he found a fresh-faced young woman in a maid’s uniform with a tray. She was pretty, had large bosoms, and smelled like heaven. Hamish had mentioned hiring a new maid.
She made a wee curtsy and lowered her gaze. “Good evening, my lord. I’ve come to clear up. Is this a bad time?”
“No.” He stepped back to give her room to pass. “Come in. I was just about to go up.”
He did not, however, go up. Instead, he followed her into the room, reclaimed his seat and his cigar, and poured himself another scotch.
She leaned over the table, collected Duncan’s empty glass, and dumped the ashtray. The potent aroma of her blood teased his cock like fingers. He crossed his legs and shifted his body away from her.
Still bending over her work, she lifted her gaze to his. “Can I get you anything, my lord?”
“No. But do close the door when you go, if you would.”
After she’d gone, he took a deep whiff of the scotch in his glass to clear her scent from his sinuses. After gulping it down, he reached for the bottle, but stopped his hand before seizing the neck. Should he have another? More whisky would numb his feelings, but also lower his inhibitions. There were females in the house. Not the maid. Bloody hell, he’d never touch one of his servants. But the faery prostitutes were a definite possibility—if he kept drinking. And maybe even if he didn’t. The maid’s scent had called his lusts and they didn’t seem to be backing down.
He had another drink and then another, seeking the escape of oblivion. Someone knocked at the door. A growl rumbled in his throat. Couldn’t a man get any bloody peace in his own fucking house?
“What?”
“Can I come in?”
Shit. It was the faery who’d accosted him at the train station.
“No.”
Ignoring his objection, she pushed open the door a wee ways and poked her head around the edge. “Duncan sent me to check on you. He wants to know if you’re okay.”
At the moment, Callum wasn’t sure how to respond, so he didn’t bother. As she came into the room, his resentful gaze swept over her. She’d changed into a dress, which was tight, low-cut, and very becoming.
Her orchard smell told him she was from Elphame rather than Ava The orchard scent he now detected confirmed his suspicions she was from Elphame, the largest of the Seelie queendoms. The embers of lust he’d just doused rekindled in a sulphuric flash. He shifted his weight to ease the tightening in his trousers.
She floated across the room and alighted beside him, her tantalizing aroma overpowering his senses.
“Can I pour myself a drink?”
“Help yourself,” he said. “And refill mine while you’re at it, if you would.”
They sipped their whiskies in awkward silence while he thought about the bracelet he’d bought for Vanessa. Was she still wearing it? Bitterness embalmed his heart. He’d wager anything she bloody well wasn’t. She’d probably taken it off the minute she got inside the terminal. Christ, what a chump he’d been—his own bloody fault. He’d known what Aquarians were like, knew the lady guarded her heart, and let himself care for her in spite of his awareness.
“What sign are you, lass?”
“Gemini.”
The twins. Not much better than Aquarius, but then, he wasn’t looking for more than a suck-and-fuck.
She set a hand on his thigh. His mind was clouded by the whisky and the sweet fragrance of her blood. He thought dimly about telling her he was seeing someone, but wasn’t sure it was true.
Seriously doubted the fact, actually.
Against his better judgment, he pulled out his mobile and placed a call to Vanessa, making a deal with himself: if she answered, he’d send the faery away. If she didn’t, he’d bang the bitch’s brains out.
The call went straight to voicemail. Fury rocketed through his system, incinerating his reason. He hurled the phone at the bookcase with all his might, shattering it into electronic rubble.
The faery withdrew the hand on his leg. “Are you all right, my lord?”
“Not by a long shot,” he ground out through clenched teeth, “but it’s nothing a good hard fuck won’t cure.”
Just as he reached for her, the temperature in the room dropped abruptly. The next instant, the half-empty whisky bottle flew unaided across the room and smashed against the fireplace.
Startled, Callum shot to his feet. He hadn’t felt the ghost since Vanessa’s departure and assumed she’d crossed over.
“I take it you don’t approve?” he said to the unseen spirit.
“What the fuck?” the faery exclaimed from the sofa. “Who are you talking to?
“The ghost of my first wife.”
“Jesus, dude. You’ve got more problems than sex can solve. Maybe I should go.”
“Aye, well,” he said, returning to his senses. “Maybe you should at that.”
* * * *
“What are you working on, Mr. Armstrong?” Vanessa asked as she and her employer crossed Magazine Street. They’d just taken the trolley tour through the Garden District, the part of the city with all the stately old mansions, including the purple Italianate once belonging to Anne Rice. They were heading to another local institution, a diner famous for its chocolate pecan pie.
“First of all, please stop calling me Mr. Armstrong. I’m Beau. Mr. Armstrong was my daddy’s name and, if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not be reminded of that lying scoundrel.”
Should she ask? Deciding she shouldn’t, Vanessa shelved the topic beside Callum, who she was doing her best not to think about. He’d called last night while her phone was dead, but left no message. She’d considered ringing him back, but doubt and what she’d read about Leos stopped her from doing so. What if he’d hit the speed dial by accident? If he’d meant to call, he’d ring her again, right? In the meantime, she’d throw herself into Mr. Armstrong’s—or rather, Beau’s—orientation of the city.
“And to answer your question,” Beau went on, “I’m working on the same thing I’ve been working on for the past decade: trying to prove Jack St. Germain is a vampire.”
Vanessa knew the name. Well, sort of. “Is Jack St. Germain a
ny relation to Count Saint-Germaine, the legendary alchemist?”
“He claims to be a descendent, but I believe they’re one and the same.”
Back in the eighteenth century, the count visited the crowned heads of Europe, claiming to have learned the secret of immortality and to possess “mastery over nature”—whatever that meant. Accounts of the time claim he never took a bite of food.
“Do you have reason to believe he’s in New Orleans?”
“I do,” Beau affirmed with a nod. “According to local lore, St. Germain showed up in the French Quarter around the turn of the twentieth century. He called himself Jacques Saint-Germain at the time and claimed to be descended from the notorious French count.”
Beau stopped, speaking and walking, when they reached the gate of the picket fence surrounding their destination: a one-story white house with a big front porch. The only hint the place wasn’t a private residence was the pink neon sign above the porch pillars reading “The Camellia Grill.”
“You must be a lucky charm,” he said as he opened the gate. “There’s usually a line to get in.”
There wasn’t a line, but there were two men on the front porch having a chin wag while smoking. Beau led the way up the path and across the porch. As Vanessa followed him through the door, she wondered if she’d stepped through a portal into the past. Before her was a perfectly preserved circa 1950s lunch counter. There were no tables, just marble counters jutting out from the kitchen. Surrounding each were vintage chrome-and-vinyl swivel stools.
“Have a seat anywhere you like, Mr. Beau.”
The greeting came from a big black man in a crisp white jacket and bow tie. Beau led the way to the far counter, where he and Vanessa claimed two stools with a view of the room.
When the black man came over, pad and pencil at the ready, Vanessa noticed he wore a voodoo talisman similar to Beau’s.
“Hey, Milton,” Beau said with a grin. “How’s your mama doing?”
Milton’s mouth spread into a broad, white grin. “She’s lots better, Mr. Beau. Thanks for asking.”
Beau turned to Vanessa. “Milton’s worked here as long as I can remember. His mama fell off the porch and broke her hip a few weeks back.”
Unsure what to say to that, Vanessa just nodded.
Still grinning, Milton asked, “What can I get you folks this fine morning? Grits? Biscuits and gravy? A thick slice of country ham and some eggs?”
“We’re here on a serious mission, Milton,” Beau returned. “I brought Miss Bentley here to sample your specialty.”
Milton gave her an exaggerated wink. “Just between you and me, sweetheart, it’s the same as regular pecan pie, only with a chocolate cookie-crumb crust.”
“Sounds perfect,” she said.
Shifting his gaze to Beau, Milton said, “I thought her kind couldn’t come out in the daylight—or eat anything.”
Vanessa stiffened, terrified she’d been found out, but Beau just laughed. “Dang, Milton. Miss Bentley’s not a vampire. She’s my new assistant.”
Milton eyed her with suspicion as he fingered his gris-gris. “You sure about that? She’s as white as a sheet.”
“That’s because she’s from England,” Beau explained, to Vanessa’s great relief. “Everybody over there is as pale as a ghost. Don’t you watch Dr. Who?”
Vanessa forced a smile as she deftly changed the subject. “What’s in your gris-gris, Milton?”
“You’d better hope it’s not garlic, sweetheart,” the waiter returned, still eyeing her warily. “Pardon me for saying so, but you need to get some sun.” He produced his order pad, which he’d slipped into the pocket of his coat. “Now, what can I get ya’ll?”
“I’ll have the biscuits and gravy,” Beau replied. “And Morticia here will have the chocolate pecan pie.”
“You want some coffee with that?”
They both nodded.
“Be right back.”
Vanessa was mortified. What if Milton’s comments had made Beau suspicious? Not wanting to give him the chance to ponder the possibility there was some truth in the waiter’s observations, she asked, “Have you always lived in New Orleans?”
“I have,” he returned. “And can’t imagine living anywhere else—even as bad as it was after Katrina.”
“Where were you when the hurricane struck?”
He licked his lips and got a faraway look. “The Superdome, like lots of folks who couldn’t get out before the worst of it hit. It was supposed to be safe, but, as the wind gusted and howled, the roof peeled off like an eggshell. All around me, people wailed and clung to each other like it was the end of the world. And for lots of them, it was. Everything they knew, gone. Just like that. My wife and kids were at my in-laws over in Shreveport, and all I could think about was letting them know I wasn’t dead. We were stuck there for a week with no way to communicate with the outside world. The whole thing felt like a really bad, really long nightmare.”
Vanessa didn’t know what to say. Unable to imagine enduring anything so awful, she started to question her decision to move to a city plagued by violent storms. According to her research, New Orleans had been hit with hurricanes thirty-seven times in recent history. Maybe she should have stayed in Scotland as Callum’s mistress.
Speaking of Callum, the urge to check her mobile for a message itched like a mosquito bite on her psyche. Even so, she was determined not to scratch it.
“Is something eating you?” Beau asked.
“No. Why?”
“You’re as jumpy as a bag of tree frogs.”
She swallowed. “Am I?”
“If you’d like to get it off your chest, you’ll find I’m a pretty good listener.”
“It’s personal.”
“Man trouble?”
“You could say that.”
“Some fella back in England?”
“Scotland, actually.” She heaved a sigh. “He hasn’t called.”
“Have you tried calling him?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“He’s a Leo.”
Beau chuckled. “I don’t know what that means, but I do know this much: if he ain’t calling, he ain’t worth your time.”
She hoped he was wrong, but only time would tell. In the meantime, it would do her spirits no good to dwell on it.
Milton returned with their food. As she took a bite of her pie, which was delicious albeit cloyingly sweet, Beau picked out the small bottle of Tabasco sauce from among the condiments sitting on the counter beside a chrome napkin dispenser.
“There are two things I really love about New Orleans,” he said, rolling the bottle between his fingers. “The first is that you’ll find hot sauce on every restaurant table, however fancy the place may be. The second is that you can order a Bloody Mary for breakfast and nobody automatically assumes you have a drinking problem.”
Vanessa took another bite of pie and, as she chewed, wondered if her father had convinced Callum to run for Parliament. Her father’s message implied their meeting went well, which probably meant he had persuaded Callum. So, her lion might be too busy to call, though it was hard to believe he wasn’t eager to share the news with her.
After swallowing her pie, she flicked a glance toward Beau, who had returned the Tabasco to its place and was working on his biscuits and gravy. “Tell me more about Jack St. Germain.”
Beau speared a bite of his food, which to Vanessa looked like someone vomited on a scone. Before putting the forkful in his mouth, he said, “He picked up a girl in a bar one night—back when he called himself Jacques Saint-Germain—and took her to his house. One of the neighbors heard a scream and looked out just in time to see the girl jump off the second-floor balcony. Before she died, she told the neighbor, who’d rushed out to offer aid, that Jacques Saint-Germain had bitten her. He denied it, of course, and when the police returned to search the house, Saint-German and most of his belongings had vacated the
premises. All that remained in the house was the stench of death, numerous blood stains, and bottles filled with a mixture of red wine and blood.”
“Oh, my God,” she exclaimed, shuddering a little.
“Seventy years later, Jack St. Germain rolled into town, claiming to be a relative. Jack, as you might imagine, bore a remarkable resemblance to a portrait of the count from the eighteenth century.”
Beau pulled out his wallet, opened the billfold, and extracted two pictures, which he set in front of Vanessa. Both were black-and-white prints. One showed a portrait of a man in a powered wig and fancy frockcoat trimmed in gold braid. The other was a circa 1970s photograph of a dark-haired man in a shirt unbuttoned almost to his navel. The facial features of both men were nearly identical.
She handed Beau back the pictures, which he returned to his wallet before looking back to her. “Jack’s still here. People see him in the French Quarter all the time, drinking and picking up women. The house where the police found all the blood-laced wine is supposedly unoccupied, but someone owns it and pays its property taxes. I’ve been keeping an eye on the house, but so far, all I’ve seen is a black cat prowling the upstairs balcony.”
Vanessa almost said something about St. Germain maybe being a shape-shifter, but stopped herself in time. The more she revealed to Beau about vampire attributes, the more he’d recognize in her. Between Milton’s comments and Callum’s bite on her neck, it wouldn’t take a genius to suss out her secret.
“Tonight, I’ll introduce you to all the suspected vampire haunts in the French Quarter,” Beau told her, “including St. Germain’s place. How’s that sound?”
“Sounds amazing,” she said, scooping up the last bite of pie on her plate. “I can’t wait.”
Chapter 15
The next morning, Callum still felt on edge. He needed to hunt and to replace the cell phone he’d stupidly smashed the night before, but, unfortunately, those things would have to wait until after he spoke to Miranda Hornsby, who’d jumped at Duncan’s offer of an exclusive.
