Green-Eyed Demon (Sabina Kane #3)

by Jaye Wells

  As if on cue, the lights dimmed and spotlights danced across the red curtain. Catcalls and hoots followed. I shrugged and took another sip of beer, feeling more relaxed. Adam and I still needed to discuss what to do next while we were waiting for Mac to come through with more info. But for the time being, I was content to sit back for a couple minutes and watch the show.

  “Ladies and gents, welcome to Gender Bender night at Lagniappe’s,” the announcer called over the speaker. “Tonight we have a special treat for y’all. Everyone give a warm welcome to the Big Easy’s newest drag sensation—Miss Pussy Willow!”

  As the audience went wild, Adam turned to me and mouthed, “Pussy Willow?”

  I shrugged, mystified, and turned my attention back to the stage. The curtains parted and a vision appeared onstage with a flourish of pink feather boa and attitude. She wore a full-length purple sequined gown and six-inch stilettos. The cut-to-there slit revealed legs that would make a Rockette jealous. And to top it all off, a tiara twinkled from atop a Farrah Fawcett wig.

  The female looked around the audience, searching for someone. When she saw Adam and me, she waggled her fingers and winked.

  My mouth fell open and I hit Adam on the arm. “Oh, my gods, is that Brooks?”

  He rubbed his arm and said, “No way.”

  “Helloo, darlings!” Pussy Willow called. “Where y’at?”

  While the audience ate up the banter, Mac leaned over. “Isn’t she great?”

  Now that the initial shock had passed, I had to admit Brooks was looking pretty fierce. I nodded absently, my eyes riveted on Brooks/Pussy Willow vamping across the stage.

  Mac leaned over and spoke into my ear. “Excuse me for a minute.”

  I nodded absently, unable to pull my eyes from Brooks chatting up the audience. I felt a nudge at my elbow and looked up to see Adam staring pointedly at the front of the club. I followed his gaze and saw a redhead standing by the door. Her eyes scanned the dark place, obviously looking for someone. When she saw Mac, her expression brightened. Unlike Brooks, the new arrival wasn’t tucking anything but a pair of fangs.

  While we watched, the vamp leaned in for a kiss, but Mac waylaid her with a shake of her head and a glance in our direction. The vamp frowned. Her eyes found mine and narrowed. I looked away instead of engaging in a stare off. The last thing I needed was to be recognized or seen as a threat to the local vamps.

  Adam kept his eyes on the pair for me. “Mac’s taking her back to the office.”

  Mac rushed the vampiress through the club, like she was worried about them being seen together. She closed the office door behind them.

  Interesting.

  “Think that’s her contact?” I said.

  “I’d say it’s a safe—” Before he completed that thought, music blared through the club. The opening strains sounded familiar. But it wasn’t until Brooks lip-synched the opening lines to “I Touch Myself” that I spewed beer all over the floor.

  I’d barely recovered when Brooks threaded the boa between her legs and gave her lower decks a good swabbing. She wadded the pink feathers into a ball and threw them. The boa hit Adam square in the chest before sliding into his lap. He stared down at the feathers the same way he might have if someone had thrown an actual boa constrictor at him.

  “Pussy Willow’s got a crush on you,” I sang.

  That earned me an epic glare.

  He picked up the boa and took his time wrapping it around my neck. Crossed the ends and pulled it tight like an über-feminine garrote. He leaned in. His glare was gone. In its place, a mischievous glint shown in his eyes. “I wonder if there’s a matching muzzle.”

  The crowd roared at something onstage and we both turned. The song was almost over, and the whole room tensed in anticipation of Pussy Willow’s grand finale. We weren’t disappointed. First, she spun in circles like a dreidel with her arms spread wide as she mouthed the refrain over and over. Just when the song reached its crescendo, Brooks dropped into a split that defied several laws of physiology and psychics.

  I jumped out of my seat to join the rest of the audience in a standing ovation. Adam stood beside me with his jaw hanging down to his clavicles. “Holy shit!”

  “No kidding,” I said. “I don’t know about you, but I need a stiff drink after that.”

  He paused. “You want me to get you something from the bar?”

  I shook my head. “Nope. I want to go see a butcher about some blood.”

  9

  After a quick good-bye to Brooks, we left him to enjoy his post-performance glow. The plan was to hit the butcher shop on Magazine Street before heading back to Zenobia’s.

  As the St. Charles streetcar rocked its way toward the Garden District, Adam and I lapsed into silence. Under different circumstances, the trolley might have been a pleasant way to see the city. But my thoughts inevitably turned to Maisie, and the nocturnal scenery only served to depress me. Spanish moss draped the trees like funeral shrouds. The old houses crouched on either side of St. Charles like mourners watching a funeral procession, their dark windows like eyes closed in grief.

  Adam took my hand, his warm on my cold skin. “We’ll find her.”

  I looked up into his eyes. I wanted to grab his words out of the air and cling to them like a buoy. But the practical side of me knew it wouldn’t do any good. Hope was a mirage. And reality was a harsh mistress. “You don’t know that.”

  He sighed, his own frustration making his shoulders tense. “You’re right. I don’t.”

  I swallowed and looked out the windows again. My hand found the two amulets—mine and Maisie’s—as if the contact might somehow forge a real connection with her. Instead, the metal and stone just felt cold against my skin. Adam didn’t let go of my other hand, and for once, I didn’t worry about what he might think my easy acceptance of contact might mean. He was offering much-needed comfort, and I’d be a fool to refuse it out of pride.

  Gears hissed under the trolley, signaling an upcoming stop. I squinted and saw we’d finally reached Washington Street. “This is us.”

  We exited the car and jogged across St. Charles to enter the stately neighborhoods of the Garden District. According to Brooks, if we kept going straight for a few more blocks we’d end up on Magazine Street. The street was dark and mostly mortal-free, except for the homeowners tucked away inside their mansions. I could just scent their blood in the damp air.

  After growing up in the urban sprawl of Los Angeles, New Orleans was like an entirely different country. Between the antique architecture, the slower pace of life, and the spicy southern culture, I found myself liking what I’d seen of the city. Maybe once all the drama was over, I could come back to enjoy the city’s delights.

  Once we turned onto the shop-lined Magazine Street, the butcher’s place was hard to miss. Two eight-foot tall phalluses—okay, maybe they were sausages—flanked the doors and a sign on the front door read: Cajun Sausage Fest, Home of the World’s Best Boudin.

  A small bell dinged as Adam I entered. The shop boasted a long meat display case and a few bistro tables pushed together in one corner. The place was empty of customers for the moment, thank the gods. Not a surprise, given the late hour. But who knew? Maybe when the bars cleared out, hordes of drunks stumbled through the doors in search of sausage.

  A portly human male burst through the horizontal plastic flaps separating the shop from the work area in back. He’d pasted his thinning brown hair across a shiny pate. The comb-over, in addition to not fooling anyone, also accentuated his jowls. His apron had a threadbare appearance that indicated religious washing and heavy use. A beige short-sleeved dress shirt and brown tie—complete with a gold tiepin—peeked over the top of the apron.

  When he saw us waiting for him, he paused. His eyes widened a bit and then narrowed as if he was sizing us up. I couldn’t blame him, really. I’d imagine his normal clientele didn’t include leather-clad vampires and mages in dusters.

  I held up my hands. “Hi there. Madam Zenob
ia sent us.”

  He visibly relaxed. “Alodius Thibodeaux at your service.”

  I nodded. “I’m Sabina and this is my friend Adam.”

  Alodius’s eyes narrowed. “Where y’all from?”

  “New York,” I said automatically. Then I paused. Since when did I consider New York home? For the first fifty-three years of my life home was Los Angeles. Funny it only took a few weeks with the mages to change so much of my identity.

  “Ah,” he said. The single word came out sounding like a verdict: Yankees. “So you’re an old friend of Madam Z’s, you said?”

  “She’s putting us up for a few days,” Adam lied. “She said you might be able to help us acquire some… blood.”

  “I see.” He pursed his lips and nodded. “Well, cher, you come to the right place. Alodius slaughters his own product, so we’ve got lots of fresh blood. Bovine or porcine?”

  My nose crinkled at the idea of drinking pig’s blood. Not that cold cow’s blood sounded any better, I guess. “Cow’s fine.”

  “An excellent choice. Most of my vamp customers prefer bovine.”

  His casual attitude about discussing blood preferences with a vamp surprised me. Most places I’d been, humans were blissfully unaware of the existence of vampires. But this guy seemed like he dealt with this sort of thing all the time. I leaned forward and whispered, “You know many vampires?”

  “Some. Most around here prefer to eat off the hoof, but every now and again one’ll find hisself here.” He shrugged. “You pay Alodius twenty a pint, yeah?”

  I wasn’t sure what was more disturbing, his insistence on referring to himself in the third person or his prices. “I’ll take two pints to start.”

  “Yes, ma’am. We’ll ring that up for you tout de suite.”

  He went to a cooler behind the counter. From it he retrieved a milk jug filled with red liquid. I shared a grimace with Adam. Thank the gods I didn’t have to worry about food poisoning.

  While he worked, he chatted away like a jaybird. “Y’all in town long?”

  “Just got here yesterday,” I said. “Not sure when we’ll leave.”

  Adam shot me a look. I frowned at him. No sense being rude to the guy. Even though he was human, he seemed friendly enough.

  “Well, you came to the right place. Old Alodius has the best blood in town.”

  Watching the cold cow’s blood drip into the plastic container, I had my doubts. But I figured it couldn’t be worse than the bagged blood I’d been forced to consume in New York. I had no idea how to respond, so I just made the appropriate noises. Adam was suddenly busy studying a diagram explaining different cuts of meat.

  “You a mage, son?”

  Adam’s head swiveled slowly on his neck. “What’s it to you?”

  I shot Adam a look. The last thing I needed was for him to piss off my blood supplier.

  “Just making conversation. Most of your kind hightailed it outta here a few days ago. Oddest thing. One day they’re going about their biddness and the next thing, poof, all gone.”

  “That’s interesting,” Adam said evenly.

  “Alodius? Can I ask you a question?” I jumped in to prevent any further probing.

  “Shoot.”

  “You’re human, right?”

  “No, darlin’.” He chuckled from low in his belly. “Alodius ain’t just human. He’s Cajun.”

  I frowned at the odd man’s insistence on referring to himself in the third person. “Okay, so how exactly does a Cajun end up serving cow’s blood to vampires? Most people would freak if they knew they had a vampire in their store.”

  “Darlin’, this is N’Awlins,” he said, as if that explained everything.

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Y’all got to understand. People down here? We been raised hearing stories from our Mameres ’bout ghosts and voodoo. So when old Alodius got older and learned the world is chockablock with vampires and other magic things?” His shrug was decidedly Gallic. “ ’Course it helps that selling blood and raw meat to your kind brought Big Poppa some sweet Mameaux.” As he drawled out the words, he lazily dragged his right thumb across his fingers.

  “Ah,” I said.

  He handed over a plastic bag filled with two plastic tubs of blood. “Speaking of, cher, there’s more where that come from.” He grabbed a magnet shaped like a kielbasa from the top of the raised counter. “This here’s got Alodius’s number. You call him anytime and he’ll fix you up proper.”

  I nodded my thanks and stuck the magnet in my back pocket. “Thanks, Mr. Thibodeaux.”

  He waved the air like he was trying to shoo a fly. “Mr. Thibodeaux was our father. It’s Alodius.” He winked at me like a conspirator. “Or Big Poppa.”

  I squinted, trying to wade through the pronoun soup. And wondering if I dared ask why he called himself Big Poppa. He seemed nice enough, but I was beginning to wonder if this odd Cajun was a few shrimp short of gumbo.

  “Okay,” I said slowly. “Alodius, then.”

  “Y’all sure you don’t want some boudin to go with that blood? Maybe Madam Z can cook y’all up some dirty rice?”

  After he rung up the blood and the pound of sausage he’d talked us into, Adam threw some money at the crazy Cajun and pushed me out the door. As the bell dinged again, Alodius called out: “Y’all don’t be strangers, y’hear?”

  “That guy was weird,” Adam said.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I thought he was friendly.” I swung the plastic bag as we strolled. Despite the worries hanging over me, I felt optimistic for some reason. Maybe it was the beautiful night. Or the bag of blood in my hands. Or the hot mage walking beside me. Either way, I was determined to make the most of the few moments of peace I could get.

  I took a deep breath and tried to enjoy the parade of Greek Revivals, Italianates, and Queen Anne Victorians on display. Up ahead, the sidewalk buckled where the roots of an ancient oak had protested being smothered with concrete. When we reached it, I stepped over. But Adam had been too busy watching for attack to notice the crack. He ended up sprawled on the pavement at my feet.

  “Oops, sorry,” I said, grabbing his arm. “Should have warned you.”

  He grimaced and dusted off his pants with as much dignity as he could muster. Before he could retort, a shriek ripped through the night. We went still. My heart ran laps around my chest. My eyes narrowed.

  Fucking Stryx.

  “Shit,” Adam said under his breath. He ducked down as if expected the owl to dive-bomb at any moment. Which, come to think of it, wasn’t out of the realm of possibility.

  “Do you see him?” I said, crouching next to the mancy.

  Out of nowhere, a flash of white zoomed in from the right. A blur of beak and talons flashed. Adam jerked away with a curse. A streak of blood ran down his cheek.

  “That’s it. I’m killing that bird right fucking now.” My eyes scanned the branches overhead for a pair of glowing red eyes or a mass of white feathers. I pointed to an upper limb. “There.” I grabbed for my gun.

  “Sabiiiiina!” the owl screeched. The hairs on my neck prickled. He rose like a ghost from the tree. I tracked him with the muzzle of my gun, ready to finish the job I’d started in New York. He flew in circles, taunting me. “Sabiiiiiina!”

  At the last moment, Adam put a hand over mine. “Wait, maybe we should try to catch him and see if he can tell us anything about Lavinia’s plans.”

  “Adam, he’s an owl. What’s he going to tell us?”

  The mage shrugged. “Maybe we could use him as a bargaining tool.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Right, because Lavinia will totally barter the Oracle of New York for an owl. Come on, Adam.”

  “Look, he works for the Caste, right? Maybe he’s got some value or something. We need every advantage we can get. Or has it escaped your attention that we still have no idea where Lavinia’s keeping Maisie?”

  I cringed inwardly. Of course it hadn’t escaped my notice. I berated myself hourly for that fact. “
Fine. Do your best, magic man,”

  Adam slowly rose from his crouch. Stryx broke out of his circle and shot off into the night like a bullet.

  “Shit! Let’s go,” I said, already running. Adam kept up, muttering something under his breath. A laserlike flash of magic shot through the air. The hair on my arms prickled as the shot went wide. The owl’s hoot sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

  Unfortunately for the bird, this only served to piss the mage off even more. Adam dug in, picking up speed even as he raised his hands and shouted, “Zi dingir anna, keshada, Stryx!”

  The owl’s latest screech cut off like someone pulling a needle from a record. His white body nosedived to the ground and disappeared into a group of shrubs along the garden wall of one of the mansions. We high-fived before zooming to retrieve our feathered captive.

  Adam pushed the branches aside to reveal Stryx’s inert body. “Is he dead?” I whispered.

  He grabbed the owl by its legs. Its head hung just a couple inches over the sidewalk. Unmoving and spookier than ever with its sightless red eyes.

  “Nope. Just catatonic.” Adam raised his eyebrows. “What now?”

  “Hey, this was your plan. If it was up to me, we’d take that bird back to that butcher. Alodius probably thinks owls are good eatin’.”

  Adam’s lips quirked. “Or he’d give us the name of some cousin of his that lives in the swamps who could give us a good deal on some taxidermy.”

  I pursed my lips as if considering it. “Now that you mention it, I wouldn’t mind seeing this damn thing stuffed and mounted.”

  Adam shook his head at me. “Or we could take him back to Zen’s, lock him up, and then figure out how to use him to find Maisie.”

  “Oh, all right,” I said. “But you might want cover him up or something.”

  With that, Adam tucked the owl’s body under his duster and we made our way back to Zen’s.

  10

  By the time we finally made it back to the shop, it was pushing one in the morning. Even though I normally hit the sack at dawn, I was ready to crash the minute we walked in the door. Too bad we still had to deal with Satan’s owl.