Starry Knight

by Nina Mason

  As he pushed through the newspaper office’s heavy glass door, a freckled lass with ginger hair looked up from the reception desk, meeting his gaze with striking blue eyes.

  “Good morning, sir. How may I help you?”

  After he stated his business, the receptionist pointed toward a row of nearby chairs. “I’ll let her know you’re here. Please have a seat while you wait.”

  Before claiming his chair, he grabbed an outdated issue of People magazine. Thumbing through the flimsy pages of celebrity faces, he recognized none of them. After about five minutes, he heard a velvety voice speak his name. Tossing the magazine on the table, he sprang to his feet.

  The attractive journalist took his offered hand and kept it as she said, “It’s nice to see you again.”

  His probes, aided by her attire and the look in her eye, told him the lady wanted more than an interview. She wore a short, tight skirt and lightweight knit top, which clung to what lay underneath. Sexual musk wafted from her, dispatching the blood in his brain to his groin.

  “Would you like to get a coffee?” she asked, finally releasing his hand. “Or would you prefer whisky?”

  “Coffee.”

  She led the way out of the newspaper office. He followed, trying not to stare at her shapely behind. It wasn’t easy given the snugness of her skirt and the way her hips swung before him like a hypnotist’s pendulum. He tried to imagine it was Vanessa’s bum he was ogling, but that only fueled his lust. It also triggered a hollow feeling in his chest.

  Biting his lip, he averted his gaze and tried to think of something tedious or unappealing—like all the speeches he’d be giving over the next few weeks, starting with tomorrow’s announcement he’d be taking on Sinclair.

  Miss Hornsby had not yet run the promised takedown piece. As he opened his mouth to ask why, she stopped short before the door to a Starbucks. He ran smack into her.

  A smile stole across her lips as she nudged his cockstand. “Well, hello there.”

  He hopped back, equal parts aroused and mortified. What could he say? He needed to get laid in the worst way, but kept putting it off because he couldn’t stomach the idea of sleeping with any lass but Vanessa.

  As Miranda pushed through the door and made her way to the counter, he stuck to her heels. Try as he might to control himself, he found his gaze continually slipping to the curvaceous swell under that snug skirt of hers. What was she wearing under there? As he scanned for panty lines—or, better yet, garters—his cock pulsed with interest.

  She ordered a skinny latte; he a black coffee with a shot of espresso, praying the caffeine would subdue his libido. They took their beverages to an out-of-the-way table, where she sat across from him, set down her cup, and pulled out her notebook.

  He sipped his coffee, doing his best to ignore its bitterness and the persistent ache in his groin. His heart ached, too. God help him. How was he supposed to give an interview in such a deplorable state? He never should have agreed to this or the campaign.

  “Your opponent has been slinging a lot of mud in your direction,” she said, recapturing his attention, “claiming you’re a bleeding-heart liberal with no experience who will base his decision on New Age hocus-pocus. How do you respond to these allegations, Baron Barrogill?”

  He gaped at her, dumbfounded. There was no blood left in his brain to answer hard-hitting questions, which she had to know. Were all women black widow spiders who devoured the men they lured into their webs?

  He forced a smile. “Call me Callum.”

  She held his gaze. “All right then, Callum. How do you respond to these allegations?”

  He regarded her with a blend of suspicion and bewilderment. Whatever her motives, he needed to answer the bloody question. He searched his voided brain for a response.

  “I may be inexperienced,” he said at last, “but I say better fresh blood and new vigor than a washed-up party puppet like Alasdair Sinclair.”

  She looked pleased. “Can I quote you on that?”

  He nodded while fighting to maintain his focus. He picked up his coffee, took a swig, and ran his tongue across the points of his sprouting fangs. Shit, he needed to get out of here before he lost control.

  “I like your confidence—among other things.” As she said it, she placed her stocking covered foot between his legs and wriggled her toes against his erection, further unraveling his resistance. “But tell me why the voters of Caithness should choose you?”

  He gulped his coffee, all his focus fixed on her massaging toes. His heart was pounding and he was starting to perspire. “With the incumbent, it would be business as usual, wouldn’t it?”

  Aye, it was a half-assed answer, but the best he could manage.

  Still holding his gaze, she walked her toes up and down his aching engorgement. “Where do you stand on the question of independence?”

  He looked away and slurped his coffee, burning his tongue in the process. “Why don’t you ask me how I feel about what your foot is doing in my crotch?”

  She laughed. “I don’t need to ask what I already know.”

  “Is your goal to interview me or get laid?”

  “Both.” Her gray eyes grew smoky as her mouth curved into a seductive smile. “Do you have a problem with that?”

  “Aye,” he said, swallowing hard. “For one thing, I can’t think straight when my cock is hard. For another, I’m seeing someone.”

  She arched a penciled eyebrow. “I know all about your so-called relationship. It’s in all the London papers. You’ve been seeing the socialite they call Madam Butterfly, because she can’t be caught—even by you, it would seem.”

  Her words bit him hard. Had Vanessa flown away for good? Was that why she’d refused to commit to a date for his visit? Why she’d failed to ring him?

  “You deserve better, Callum. You deserve a woman like me who knows how to treat a man like you.”

  Blistering emotion surged through him, half passion, half fury. He slipped a hand under the table and seized her teasing foot. Rather than push it away, he rubbed it back and forth across his throbbing sex. “I agree, Miss Hornsby. I do deserve better.”

  After a few more torturous swipes, she removed her foot, gathered her belongings, and nodded toward the back of the café. “Come on, then.”

  Too aroused to rise from the table, he coughed in surprise. “You want to do it here?”

  With a shrug, she got to her feet. “Why not? There’s a lock on the door to the loo.”

  He saw himself bending her over the sink as he tugged up her skintight wee skirt before thrusting into her. It was a fantasy he could definitely get into. “Fine. Just give me a minute, eh?”

  “Just don’t keep me waiting too long.”

  He nodded his agreement while still debating within himself. As she walked away, backside twitching, he searched his brain for something to take the starch out of his lust. He drew a blank. Vanessa crept in to fill the void. Guilt weighed on his heart, but hurt and anger soon flared up to burn it away.

  He sat there a long while, drinking his coffee and drumming his fingers as anger and guilt blew through him like competing storms. His libido calmed down, but not his resentment.

  Meanwhile, Miss Hornsby waited on him, probably growing more impatient with each tick of the clock. He should go. Just get up and walk out. So why was he still sitting there? The picture returned of the journalist bent over the sink. This time, he was banging her hard enough to knock her teeth together.

  Vanessa broke through the fog in his brain, twisting the screw in his chest until he couldn’t breathe. Damn her to hell and damn himself for believing she cared. Biting down, he gave his head a firm shake to evict the Aquarian vixen from his thoughts.

  He got up from the table. Aye, he would fuck Miss Hornsby. And while he was at it, purge his heart of all the disenchantment stored therein—romantic hopes poisoned by Sorcha, Morgan, Deirdre, Vanessa and every other cold-hearted bitch he’d been
with.

  He followed the sign around a corner and down a small hallway. Finding the restroom door closed, he gripped the cool metal knob before snatching away his hand as if burned. He couldn’t do it. Not while a shadow of doubt about his butterfly’s intentions still remained. Aye, he wanted a woman who knew how to treat him, more than anything in the world, but not just any woman.

  As he made up his mind to go, the door jerked open, taking him with it. Miss Hornsby grabbed his arm, pulled him inside, and shut and locked the door behind him. Before he could protest, her mouth was on his. She tasted of coffee, lipstick, and desperation. He heard the rasp of a zipper, felt fingers close around his cock, which pulsed in her hand as she liberated it from his trousers.

  He tore his mouth free. “I can’t do this.”

  “What? After I’ve waited fifteen minutes for you?”

  Her voice was loud and shrill. He’d best tread lightly given that she still had his prick in her hand. “I just don’t feel right about it all of a sudden.”

  She released his manhood, thank the stars, but something told him this wasn’t over. With great care, he put himself away and started to zip up. She moved toward the sink. The image flashed of him pounding her from behind. Blinking it away, he turned round and grabbed the doorknob.

  “Wait a minute.” He froze, but didn’t turn. “If you go, I won’t run my exposé on Sinclair.”

  He hesitated. “Are you honestly that selfish and spiteful?”

  “Leave and you’ll find out.”

  Rounding on her with murder in his heart, he took a step toward her. Looking deeply into her hard gray eyes, he spoke in a cool monotone. “This never happened. When you finished our interview, you went to the toilet. And when you returned to the table, I was gone. You will run the takedown piece on Sinclair and wholeheartedly endorse my candidacy.” He licked his lips, which still tasted unpleasantly of her. “Nod if you understand me.”

  She dipped and raised her head like a robot, her glassy gaze still locked with his.

  “Good. And while I’ve got your attention, astrology is a legitimate science, the first science, in fact, whose insights have benefitted some of the greatest leaders of all time. Not a bunch of New Age bollocks. Have you got that? Nod if you understand me.”

  * * * *

  “The city was named for the Duke of Orleans, the Regent of France at the time the colony was founded,” Beau told Vanessa as they made their way across Jackson Square Park toward the St. Louis Cathedral—the starting point for the private vampire tour he was about to take her on. “The advantages of the site were its relatively high elevation on the flood-prone banks of the Mississippi River and its proximity to trade routes. Its disadvantages were snakes, alligators, malaria-carrying mosquitoes, hurricanes, and the fact that it started life as a penal colony.”

  As they stopped under an old-fashioned street lamp, she looked up at the cathedral’s towering white face and jagged black spires. Inside, the pipe organ boomed out a somber hymn, lending a ghoulish mood to the church and the balmy night.

  Beau led the way down a long, narrow street flanked by aged buildings with sidewalk pillars and ornate iron balconies. The air carried a foul bouquet of mildew, stale beer, and sewer gas.

  “Our first stop’s gonna be the Old Ursuline Convent,” he said as they walked. “It’s the only structure from the original colony still standing.”

  “How long ago was it built?” she asked, genuinely interested.

  “Back around seventeen fifty,” he replied. “King Louis had it built for the Sisters of Ursuline, who came over from France to provide medical care and to run a school for the daughters of the wealthy Creoles. There’s a wonderful old story that tells how it was saved from the Great Fire of New Orleans by Our Lady of Prompt Succor.”

  “Our Lady of Prompt Succor?”

  While she’d been raised in the Catholic faith, that particular incarnation of the Blessed Virgin had somehow eluded her.

  “The patron saint of New Orleans,” he replied with a grin. “Many miracles have been attributed to her intercessions, including sparing the convent from the fire.”

  “How’d she do it?” Vanessa asked, fighting a grin. “Appear out of the clouds with a fire extinguisher?”

  “Not exactly.” Beau gave her a censorious glare, letting her know wisecracks were unwelcome. “As the story goes, the convent was facing imminent destruction. The fire had already consumed the cathedral, the rectory, and scores of surrounding shops and houses. A strong wind was blowing across Jackson Square, driving the flames straight toward the nunnery. When the order was given to evacuate, some of the sisters and the Mother Superior ran up the staircase clutching a small golden statue of the Madonna. They set the figure on a window seat, facing the flames, and began to pray. ‘Our Lady of Prompt Succor, we are lost unless you hasten to our aid!’ Almost instantly, the wind changed direction, blowing back the flames and saving the convent.” He ran a hand through his hair as his gaze met Vanessa’s. “It’s just too bad the statue wasn’t there during Hurricane Katrina.”

  “Why? What happened to it?”

  “The statue or the convent?”

  “Both.”

  “The statue was moved to the new convent on State Street,” he told her. “And as far as the old convent goes, the hurricane blew down a chimney, setting off the fire sprinklers. The water really messed up the interior.”

  Beau stopped at the corner of Chartres and Ursulines before a low gray wall. On the other side, beyond a sizeable lawn and boxwood knot garden, stood a palatial home with a stone face. A round window with a little cross ornamented the pediment crowning the roofline.

  “This is the old convent,” he said, gesturing toward the building. “Back in the eighteen hundreds, the French Quarter was a pretty awful place. The city’s leaders, hoping to attract a better element, encouraged the fashionable families of Paris to send their daughters here to find husbands. The young ladies arrived in great numbers, with trousseaus packed in coffin-shaped trunks. The sisters took them in and packed away their trunks until the girls got engaged. When the trunks were brought down, all were found to be empty. Rumors spread rapidly throughout the Quarter that the girls had smuggled in vampires.”

  “It seems far more likely somebody broke into the attic and stole their belongings,” Vanessa offered, feeling the need to be the voice of reason.

  “Maybe so,” Beau returned, pointing to the house. “But explain this if you can. The upstairs windows are sealed with more than eight thousand screws, but they still fly open sometimes for no apparent reason.”

  “That can’t be true,” she protested, despite the shiver inching down her spine. “Why would vampires open the windows?”

  He shrugged. “Who knows why the undead do what they do?”

  They moved up Ursulines, stopping at the corner of Royal Street outside an elegant but eerie-looking brick building with ornate ironwork and French doors.

  “This is the house I was telling you about—the one belonging to Jacques Saint-Germain.”

  Vanessa scrutinized the premises, keeping an eye out for the cat or any sign of movement from within, but saw no signs of life. “What if we just knocked on the door?”

  With a grin that said, “I dare you,” he gestured toward the house. “Be my guest.”

  Vanessa, not about to be intimidated, strode to the front door and proceeded to knock like she meant business while Beau stood on the sidewalk, looking equal parts amused and impressed.

  Unable to raise a response from within, she gave up and rejoined him. “Nobody’s home.”

  “Nobody’s ever home. Or so he’d like us to believe.” He led the way up Royal Street. “Any word yet from your Scotsman?”

  “I’m afraid not,” she replied dejectedly.

  “Well, if you ask me, it’s his loss.”

  “That’s just what I think,” she said with a smile she didn’t feel.

  He walked on
with her a step or two behind before drawing to a halt before a grand house similar to, but even bigger than the one allegedly belonging to St. Germain.

  “This place, reputed to be the most haunted house in the city, once belonged to the actor Nicolas Cage.” Turning to her, he added, “You might recall he played a vampire in a movie back in the late eighties.”

  “Vampire’s Kiss,” she volunteered. She’d always loved vampire books and movies, another reason for becoming a paranormal investigator.

  “That’s right.” He turned back to the house. “This place used to belong to Delphine LaLaurie, who did some shocking things within these walls. It’s said she witnessed the brutal murder of her parents by their slaves when she was a girl, but, in my opinion, that’s no excuse for the heinous things she did to her own.”

  Vanessa could feel an energy emanating from the house, a dark, terrible energy that gave her the heebie-jeebies. “What kinds of things?”

  He arched an eyebrow in her direction. “Do you really want to know?”

  “Probably not.” She gulped. “But tell me anyway.”

  “Well, as the legend goes, Madame LaLaurie moved here with her third husband, a physician, around eighteen-twenty. The couple liked to throw parties. During one of these affairs, a fire broke out in the kitchen, which, as was the norm back then, was located across the courtyard. When the fire brigade entered, they found two slaves chained to the stove. In a state of near-hysteria, the slaves begged the firemen to look in the attic. Finding the door locked, the firemen broke it down with an axe. The space, to their horror, reeked of rotting flesh and human waste, but the stench was nothing compared to its cause. Slaves, most dead, some alive, were chained to the walls and floor. It looked as if they’d been subjected to bizarre medical experiments. One man had been castrated. A woman, locked in a cage, had her limbs broken and reset at all sorts of odd angles. Some had their mouths sewn shut. Half the flesh on the face of a boy had been peeled back to reveal the musculature underneath. The firemen also discovered teacups and saucers encrusted with the remnants of human blood.”