License to Bite

by Carrie Pulkinen

  Jane followed his gaze to a massive antique mirror with intricate swirling designs etched around the edges. “Well, this is the oldest my tired bones have ever been, so we’ll take two Bloody Marys to go and find a seat elsewhere, thank you.”

  “The restaurant is open.” The bartender poured way more than a shot of vodka into each cup before filling it with a spicy tomato juice mixture and sprinkling in Worcestershire sauce and cayenne pepper.

  “Ugh. No food,” Jane said. “This will be breakfast.”

  He laughed and filled the rest of the glass with olives and pickled vegetables before passing the plastic cups to her and Sophie. “Here you go, two hangover cures.”

  “Is that a guarantee?” Jane paid for the drinks and took a sip. The vodka registered first, sharp and strong, before the smooth, slightly sweet tomato greeted her taste buds, followed by the slow burn of the pepper.

  “Nothing in life is guaranteed.” He winked before turning to the next patron.

  Drink in hand—which seemed to be the standard in this city—Jane followed Sophie into the cool February air and bustle of Jackson Square. Maybe it was her imagination, but three sips of this miracle concoction, and her head already felt lighter, the throbbing easing into a dull ache.

  Situated in the heart of the French Quarter, Jackson Square boasted a central park area with a grassy lawn, manicured trees, and an enormous statue of its namesake, Andrew Jackson, sitting atop a cavalry horse. A paved pedestrian mall lined the fenced-in park, where local artists and street performers enticed tourists to spend their money on souvenirs and photo ops rather than alcohol. Smarter choices than the fortune Jane spent last night that left her with nothing but a massive headache and the memory of a sweet, sexy man who could have killed her as easily as he’d taken her home.

  Sophie stopped in front of a dog lying on its back in the middle of the walkway. Beer bottles lay strewn around the pooch, and it had a hurricane glass tucked under its paw. It wore a dozen strings of Mardi Gras beads around its neck, and a Beers, Boobs, and Beads t-shirt lay next to a puddle of fake vomit. At least, Jane hoped it was fake.

  “Aw. Look at this little guy. Can I pet him?” Sophie knelt beside the dog, and its owner gestured to a cardboard sign giving information about the animal and permission to pet him.

  Jane dropped a dollar into a tip jar and snapped a few photos of the scene. “This’ll make a great article for my blog. How long can he stay like this?”

  She gathered more information about the man and his dog, and by the time she finished the interview, she’d drained her drink. “Wow. This really was a miracle cure. I feel so much better. Ready for another one?”

  “Not quite yet.” Sophie threaded her arm through Jane’s and led her past the St. Louis Cathedral and out of Jackson Square. “The parade starts at six, and I remember you saying something about wanting to get as far down St. Charles as we can, away from the drunks, to get the full experience. Every post you write on the trip can’t be about us getting shit-faced.”

  “True.”

  “Besides, I’m supposed to be working too. If I’m going to expand my company across state lines, I need to spend a little sober time in the city. I’m a small business owner, and you, my dear, are Jane Anderson, travel blogger extraordinaire, social media influencer, daughter of the Texas Governor…”

  “Party girl who blogs because she can’t hold a steady job.” Damn it, that phone call from her father was getting to her.

  Sophie opened her mouth to protest, but Jane held up a finger and defended herself. “Blogging is a real job, no matter what my dad says. I monetized my website, and tour companies pay me to mention them on Instagram. My brothers handle the investments of my trust fund and all the boring math stuff. It’s my job to have fun and share it with the world.” She gestured grandly with the hand that held her cup, dumping ice onto a man’s shoulder.

  He spun toward her, glowering. “What the fuck?”

  “Sorry about that.” She cringed and brushed a piece of ice from his jacket sleeve. “I can be such a klutz sometimes.” She plastered on her Governor’s daughter smile and batted her lashes, thickening her Texas drawl. “No harm done, right, darlin’?”

  The guy blinked, disarmed. “Yeah. No problem.”

  “Be a doll and toss this in the trash for me, will you?” She held the empty cup toward him, and though his brow furrowed, he took it, shaking his head as he walked away.

  Sophie crossed her arms.

  “What? He was headed in the general direction of a trash can, and he shouldn’t have cussed at me. It’s rude.”

  “One of these days, you’re going to meet someone who’s impervious to your magical man-taming powers, and he’s not going to drop everything to be at your beck and call.” She laughed. “That’s the man you’re going to marry.”

  “Psh.” Jane waved off the comment. She became a travel blogger to get away from her father’s and brothers’ control, which obviously wasn’t working out as planned. She wasn’t about to invite another man into a position of power in her life. “I can’t help it if I’m good at delegating.”

  She paused, peering up at an intriguing wooden sign hanging above a bar entrance. The words “French Quarter Absinthe” carved into the misshapen piece of reclaimed wood appeared black against the medium brown tone of the background, almost as if they were burned in. Such a fun aesthetic. “Have you ever tried absinthe?”

  Sophie grinned. “Can’t say that I have.”

  “Look. The bartenders are dressed like pirates. It’s my duty to share a place like this with the world.” She turned her back to the entrance, angling the front-facing camera on her phone just right to snap a selfie with the sign. “Perfect. Let’s make this our last drink of the day, and then we’ll head to the parade and get some food along the way.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  Jane strutted inside and slid onto a stool, patting the one next to her for Sophie to sit. The place was small and dimly lit, with a giant ship’s wheel hanging on the wall behind the dark wood bar. A couple sat at the opposite end, engrossed in their own conversation, and rock music played softly from a speaker hanging from a wooden post. Otherwise, the bar sat quiet. Dull.

  “We need to liven this place up.” Jane slapped a hand on the green marble countertop. “I’ll have one of those absinthe thingies.”

  “Make it two,” Sophie added.

  The bartender, a woman in her mid-fifties with gray-blonde hair and dark eyes, handed Jane a laminated menu listing at least a dozen different brands. Jane scanned the offerings before focusing on the woman. She wore a black pirate’s hat and a brown bar wench dress with a nametag that read “Sally.”

  “Hi, Sally. I’m Jane.” She held out her hand to shake, and Sally accepted. “I have no idea what any of this is. What do you recommend?”

  “This one’s my favorite.” She pointed to the fourth entry on the list. “It’s got a mild flavor, but it still packs a punch.”

  “We’ll take two of those then.” Jane leaned toward Sophie and snapped another selfie while Sally set up the drinks.

  She filled a glass urn with ice water and set a small wine glass on the counter, filling it with a bright green liquid. A concentrated beam of light shone from above the bar, illuminating the drink, and Sally set a sugar cube on a slotted metal spoon atop the glass. She turned a spigot on the urn, and chilled water dripped over the sugar, dissolving it into the drink.

  “Impressive,” Jane said as she accepted the glass.

  Sally repeated the show for Sophie’s drink before excusing herself to the back of the bar to slice lemons.

  “Can’t say I’ve ever seen so much flare go into making a drink.” Sophie clinked her glass to Jane’s. “Cheers.”

  Sadly, the show was a thousand times better than the result. “Ugh. This tastes like toothpaste.” Jane bucked up and chugged the rest of the awful liquid—true southern girls never wasted alcohol—cringing as the weird, minty, licorice-flavored concoc
tion slid down her throat.

  Sophie coughed, pushing her empty glass away. “We paid twenty bucks for that?”

  “Live and learn.” Jane typed her thoughts about the drink into her phone to reference for her blog post later: Great show. Disgusting drink. Do not recommend unless you like black jelly beans and mouthwash…together.

  “Ow! Shit.” Sally clutched her hand, lifting it in the air and gesturing at the other bartender. “Grab me a Band-Aid from the back, will ya, Jess?”

  Jane’s gaze locked on Sally’s hand, and she froze. A half-inch gash sliced across her thumb below the knuckle, and bright red blood oozed from the opening, trailing down her wrist. Sally grabbed a towel, wrapping it around the wound, but it was too late. Jane had seen enough.

  Her head spun, the sensation of her own blood dropping from her skull to her feet making the room turn on its side. Her stomach lurched, her eyes fluttering as her vision tunneled and she tipped over, sliding off her stool.

  “Whoa, Nelly. I got you.” Sophie clutched her shoulders, lowering her to the ground. “Deep breaths. In and out.”

  Jane sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning forward and willing herself to stay awake. Sophie shot to her feet and returned with a glass of water, pressing the straw to Jane’s lips. “You all right, hon?”

  She sipped the water, pausing for the room to stop spinning before she replied, “Blood.”

  “Yeah, it’s cleaned up now. Not a drop in sight. Come on.” Sophie dragged her up by the arm. “Let’s get you some fresh air.”

  Leaning into her best friend’s side, Jane shuffled out of the bar. The crisp afternoon air helped to clear her head, and within minutes, she felt like herself again…a little embarrassed, but no worse for wear. “Did anyone else see that?”

  “Sally did, but she thought the absinthe knocked you out.” Sophie rubbed her back. “Do you think you’ll ever get over your aversion to blood?”

  “Doubt it. My therapist tried, but all she managed to do was dig up the suppressed memory that triggered the problem.”

  “That time you walked outside the cabin to find your dad field-dressing a deer?”

  She shuddered. “Poor Bambi.”

  They strolled through the Quarter, crossing Canal Street, the six-lane dividing line between the French and American sides of the city, where Royal Street turned into St. Charles Avenue. Chain hotels with floors soaring into the double digits were interspersed with tourist shops and fast-food restaurants along the busy thoroughfares, making it feel like they walked into a completely different city when they crossed the street.

  They stopped at Serio’s, a restaurant with a muffuletta to die for—who knew chopped olives would taste so good on a sandwich?—and Jane chased it down with a Dr. Pepper, while Sophie munched on a meatball sub.

  After way too much walking, the evening sun bled into night, and they claimed a spot on the corner of St. Charles and Conery in an upscale, safe-looking part of the city—just to make her dad happy—to watch the parade.

  The crowd was thinner this far into the Garden District, which was a good thing, but Jane’s feet were barking like angry dogs by the time they stopped. She made a mental note to stick with sneakers for treks like this in the future. She’d save her knee-high stiletto boots for their less athletic excursions.

  Marching bands sprinkled between the massive floats provided toe-tapping background music for the spectacle that was Jane’s first Mardi Gras parade, and she caught enough plastic beads to match her body weight. With a thick mass of necklaces draped over her head, she let most of the smaller, plain throws land on the ground. A girl could only carry so many, and these krewe members weren’t stingy with the good stuff. Thick strands with massive beads and plaster pendants were normal here. She didn’t have to show her boobs for anything, not that she ever had, unlike the carnival back home in Galveston, where krewe members expected the spectators to put on the show if they wanted the good beads.

  Jane was all about having a good time, but she wasn’t about to demean herself for any type of prize. Respect was the key to success. She looked down to examine a throw shaped like a locomotive when Sophie elbowed her in the ribs.

  “Hey, aren’t those the guys from last night? The ones who took us home?” Sophie pointed across the street.

  Jane squinted, her heart thrumming as she searched the faces in the crowd. “Where?”

  Sophie pointed again and let her arm fall to her side. “I swear they were there a minute ago.” She shrugged and returned her focus to the guy who’d sidled next to her. Sophie would be busy for the night.

  His buddy nodded a hello to Jane, and if she’d felt like being a good friend, she’d have played wingwoman. But the possible spotting of the mysterious man from last night sent a little flush of adrenaline through her body, and she couldn’t help but continue the search. If Sophie saw him across the way, he had to be there. He’d probably just slipped behind someone taller.

  She stood on her toes, trying to get a better view, when the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Her skin turned to gooseflesh, and her blood seemed to hum in her veins.

  Someone was watching her.

  Chapter Three

  Ethan’s fangs elongated, his mouth watering with the urge to taste her. Jane’s long, dark hair flowed over her shoulders, hiding her neck, but he could imagine the vein pulsing just beneath her creamy skin, the soothing sensation of her warm blood sliding down his throat, her naked body pressed against his as he made love to her.

  His dick hardened as he watched her from the shadows, behind her now, since her overbearing friend had spotted him when he stood across the street. Though invisible to the human eye, his mark shimmered in her aura, adding to her radiance. He hadn’t been this drawn to a woman since his sweet Vanessa died, and that could only mean one thing.

  Jane had to be her.

  “She is marked.” Gaston activated his glamour, sending the giggling woman he’d just bitten on her way. “Is it yours?”

  “Yeah.” His sire should have known what his mark looked like. He dragged his gaze away from the beautiful woman. “I didn’t bite her; I just didn’t want anyone else to.”

  Disbelief flashed in Gaston’s eyes as he stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? This is forbidden. It’s been illegal for two hundred years, ever since Willem created that uncontrollable hybrid abomination that went on a killing spree throughout the entire parish. They both deserved the stake, if you ask me.”

  Ethan ignored his sire’s rant and cast his gaze toward Jane. She turned her head, rubbing the back of her neck, her eyes searching as if she felt his presence.

  “You can’t blame this on your spam container,” Gaston droned on. “I’m certain I taught you this law.”

  “It’s spam folder.” Ethan drifted toward her, his sluggish heart beating at as close to a sprint as his undead condition allowed. She hadn’t found him yet, but as soon as their eyes met, he’d—

  “Oh, no you do not.” Gaston grabbed his arm and yanked him into the shadows of a building. “I am far too sober to deal with this. What the devil have you done?” He thumped his forehead, and Ethan blinked, shaking his head.

  “I haven’t done anything.”

  “Your mark. She is sensing you.”

  This was fate. She was meant to be his, so why wouldn’t she? “It’ll wear off. No one will know I didn’t bite her.”

  “Ethan, my dear son, you did not simply mark her as a meal. That’s a mating mark.” Gaston stepped back, peering at the crowd. “Satan’s balls, you’re an idiot. Go.” He shoved him, taking him by the arm again when he didn’t move, then running down the street toward the next intersection before dragging him into a yard.

  With his back against the wall and Gaston’s forearm pressed into his chest, Ethan watched as Jane drifted away from the parade, down the dark street toward them.

  “Hello?” Her voice was music from her lips.

  “It’s not
a mating mark.” He struggled to go to her, but Gaston refused to release his hold. “It felt a little different when I did it, but I didn’t claim her that way. It’s not possible.”

  “Oh, it’s absolutely possible, my friend, and you’ve done it. What in hell’s name was going through that thick skull of yours?”

  “Nothing. I didn’t…” He didn’t mean to. He’d only wanted to keep anyone else from having her. To mark her as his own. Oh, fuck.

  “‘Nothing.’ Of course, because you were thinking with the wrong head. What’s the modern expression I’m obliged to call you? Oh, yes. Dick for brains.”

  “It’s ‘shit for brains.’”

  “Is it?” Gaston leaned into him until the pressure felt like his ribs would snap. Jane stood ten feet away. “Activate your glamour so she can’t find you.”

  “But if she wants to—”

  Gaston’s pupils narrowed into slits, his fangs lengthening predatorily as a low hiss escaped his throat. “Do it now, or on my mother’s grave, I will stake you myself.”

  Uh oh. He was serious. Funny how a little adrenaline could sober a guy up.

  Ethan turned on his glamour full blast, blocking her from seeing or sensing him, and Jane stopped in her tracks, scratching her head before parking her hands on her hips. “Huh.” She looked up and down the street. “I could have sworn I saw him.”

  She spun in a circle, then something in the distance caught her eye. Her entire face brightened, and she cast a glance toward the parade, typed something on her phone, and then turned around, heading straight for Lafayette Cemetery #1.

  With Ethan’s hold on Jane broken for the time being, Gaston released him. “You need to remove the mark before anyone else finds out.”

  He drifted toward her, no longer needing the cover of shadow with his glamour concealing him from human eyes. “I’m not even sure how I marked her. I don’t think I can remove it.” And why should he? Accidents like that didn’t just happen. It had to be fate.