by Faith Hunter
“This hallway is full of sensitive information on paranormal investigations, a lot of it old files that are still only in hard copy format. If I had time to babysit you or had a uniform to put down here, it’d be different. For now, the lock has to do. Call my desk when you’re done.”
I looked back at the file in my hand, knowing I needed to stay. Okay, yeah. I could do this.
CHAPTER 5
I was living in a former whorehouse
According to police records, vamps hadn’t been totally in the closet in certain cities across the globe, even before the famous staking of Marilyn Monroe by the Secret Service in the Oval Office while she was trying to turn President Kennedy. That event had revealed the existence of vampires, and shortly thereafter, witches, to the public, but prior to that, vamps had an undeniable—if shadowed and veiled—presence in such cities as Paris, London, Mumbai, Tokyo, and New Orleans. In and around the French Quarter they had attained a clandestine notoriety in the early nineteen hundreds living in Storyville, the section of the city once set aside for houses of ill repute, saloons, gambling houses, honky-tonks, music halls, and similar such places catering to the baser side of human desires.
Vamps had owned and managed at least three houses of prostitution in the district set aside by Sidney Story from 1897 to 1917, houses licensed and operated within the law. According to the Blue Book, which listed the names, descriptions, and addresses of more than seven hundred prostitutes, the vamp houses had been dedicated to “lusty lasses, a bit of blood, and the nick of a delicate whip,” as well as “the finest professors in the land,” professors being the musicians who played in the houses. The names of the three vamp houses were kind of corny: Countess Simone’s Pleasure House, Le Salon du Tigre, and Katie’s Ladies. That last one I knew well.
I looked up to see the empty room, scanned the corners for cameras or listening devices, saw that it was clean, and blew out a relieved breath. I hadn’t realized how tense I was until I let my shoulders slump. Beast might be provocative, but I was a wimp when it came to cops. I blew out another breath and forced myself to relax fully.
I glanced over the photographs of the bawdy houses, pausing at Katie’s. In front of the house a blond woman posed, standing against a light pole, back arched, her skirts and petticoats tossed high to reveal long, slender legs, garters and stockings, and low boots. Her dress was open, displaying a lot of cleavage. It was Katie, her fangs displayed as carnally as her body.
The house she stood in front of was French with lots of black wrought iron in a fleur-de-lis pattern, and had a second-story balcony over the front. Gaslights burned in the early evening, reflecting on window glass. The narrow door had a leaded glass window in the upper half, and was very familiar to me. The house in the photo was where I currently lived. Great. I was living in a former whorehouse.
But a vamp on film? I hadn’t known it was possible, yet, as I thumbed through the pages, I found several vamp photographs, bodies and fangs on exhibition, each one signed by the well-known Storyville photographer Ernest J. Bellocq. Bellocq had managed to photograph a number of famous vamps of the time, despite the inability of vampires to reflect on the silver used in both daguerreotypes and the later wet collodion-process photographs. I wondered how he had done it. Most people thought vamps had been photo-proof until digital cameras had appeared. And yet, here was the proof that someone had figured out how to do it.
Katie might have answered my questions about vamp history, but she was unavailable, sent to earth to heal the wounds that would have led to her final death. My first few days in New Orleans had resulted in pretty major changes in some of my employers’ lives.
I stopped at one erotic photo of two vamps posed together. Katie was sitting on a bar, bottles of liquor lining the wall behind her, her head thrown back in what looked like pure carnal ecstasy. Her breasts were exposed, her skirts hitched around her waist. Her bare legs were spread. A man knelt between them, clearly servicing her with his mouth. The man looked like a fashion plate, even involved in the intimate activity. He was wearing a short-waist coat, trendy in the day, slim pants and boots, and a top hat. The top hat was still in place, as was the long black hair he wore combed back and tied in a queue. Leo Pellissier.
A strange heat pulsed through me. Remembering when Leo healed me of a wound that would have left a human facing surgery, maimed, and in serious rehab. That had been erotic too, and he had only been licking my arm. Chill bumps rose on the back of my neck.
I shook my head and pushed away the memory and the sensations that warmed my skin. I removed the camera from my boot and took photos of the photos. Thank God for digital cameras. I was honest enough to admit that I might not need all of these for my investigation, but an investigator can never know too much backstory.
I drew another file from the history folder. This one was marked Vampira Carta, which was the vamp’s code of law. According to the lawyer who had done the paperwork for my license, in it was the legal justification for hiring rogue hunters, which made my livelihood dependent on it. A notation on the front cover indicated the papers had been found during the construction of the Iberville Housing Projects, on the site of the old Storyville. Iberville was the housing project where I’d killed a vamp, where Derek Lee lived. Curious, I opened the file.
It was set up a lot like the Magna Carta, with a preamble and numbered paragraphs of importance. If I remembered right from high school, the Magna Carta had thirty-seven paragraphs. The Vampira Carta had twenty-two. I wondered which document was actually older. It was written in an old form of English, or maybe Latin; fortunately, a translation started at the bottom.
The first paragraph read:
Preamble: Jules, Blood Master by the shame of sin, Master of the Guilty of England, Ireland, and Aquitaine, sends solemn greetings to all to whom the present letters come. Concerning the liberties of the dead and living, we submit this great charter to the Blood Master of Europe, the lord Lucius, our father of the Mithrans.
I turned the page. There wasn’t another. The translation stopped, or the next page had been removed. I searched through the history folder, but the rest of the translation was gone, or had never existed. I set the pages on the table and quickly snapped off six shots, folded the history info back up, and went to work on other stuff. I wondered if the vamp council would let me have a translated copy of the carta, and what kind of story I’d have to use to get them to hand it over.
At the back of the file was a handwritten list in pencil on lined paper, of names and words titled Anomalies. When I read them, my skin went all prickly.
Anomalies
Sabina Delgado y Aguilera—shaman, Vampire, out-clan (meaning?), Cross? Second gen?
Bethany NLN—shaman, Vampire, out-clan (meaning? related to Sabina?), Cross? Third gen? War?
Sons of Darkness? What the hell are they?
There was no sig line. At some point, some cop had done a supernat investigation, and he’d clearly been left with some loose vamp ends. I wondered if he’d survived being nosy. The words were too faint to photograph. I didn’t recognize the blocky handwriting and when I sniffed the page, the scent signature was unfamiliar, almost obscured by lingering tobacco smoke, as if the writer had been a two-pack-a-dayer. But something about the list felt important, so I copied it into my little spiral notebook, then texted it to myself, just in case I wasn’t allowed to leave with notes, and went back to the files.
The cops had done a history on each of the clans, and rather than read the info here, I took more photos, hoping the picture clarity would be good enough for later reading. I continued searching the cabinets and came upon a stack of old MPRs—missing persons reports—with a reference to file number 666-0W. I checked the other cabinets but all of them were locked. I remembered the ring of keys Rick had carried. Shrugging, I settled to the one I had. And I spotted a red folder. A quick search told me there weren’t many of them in the drawer, and when I sniffed it, it smelled strongly of Jodi Richoux. It was the fi
le she’d been putting in the drawer while she looked meaningfully at me. Inside were more MPRs.
All the missing in Jodi’s file were children and teens, all within the last twenty-five years, ten of them from recently. They had all vanished at night, all were under eighteen, all were witch children. The chill I’d been feeling off and on settled across my shoulders as I stared at the photographs and the reports.
All of them vanished at night. It was circumstantial, but could vampires be involved? I couldn’t see what they had to gain.
The last witch child had vanished three months ago.
The reports were scanty and didn’t go beyond interviews and I wondered how much the cops were doing to find the little witches. NOPD had a well-publicized antipathy to witches that deepened following the witch debacle of Katrina, when a lone witch coven tried to turn a category-five hurricane away from land. They got it down to a cat three, but they couldn’t turn it. Their efforts and power weren’t enough; the old, poorly built levees failed; thousands died in New Orleans and across the Gulf Coast from wind and storm surge. But would human anger be enough to make some cops ignore the continuing kidnapping of witch children for decades? I hoped not. But I had a bad feeling about it.
The MPRs weren’t up to date, but they indicated the direction of the investigation—back into the witch community itself, which I figured was a smart place to start. Over the last decade, it looked as if every known witch above twelve years of age had been questioned, and some fifty vamps. I checked the name of the lead investigator. Elizabeth Caldwell. It meant nothing to me, but I could pump Rick later. And then I remembered the look on Leo’s face, torchlight flickering across his features. His eyes on Angelina above me, his nostrils wide as he took her scent. Leo couldn’t be involved with the disappearing kids. Yet the thought iced across my shoulders and down my spine like sleet, sharp as frozen knives.
I spent the next hour photographing police files. I didn’t know what I was looking for until I found a folder with twenty-seven police reports in it. The reports were cases of attempted and successful rogue vamp attacks. They too went back some twenty years.
A heated frisson of certainty sizzled over my skin. This was it.
The reports were in no particular order, so I spread them out over the table. Making educated guesses, I pushed any reports that might be about old rogues into one stack, while young-rogue attacks went into another. Once I got them separated, I had twenty-one that fit my profile—small fangs, unclaimed by any clan. I wanted the addresses of the attacks so I could situate them on a map and see if any particular locales stood out. Wishing for a map application on my cell phone, I jotted notes, texted them to myself, and added anything that looked interesting. Then I photographed the pages. Info in triplicate. I was so not losing this.
On a hunch, I did a quick comparison to see if any witch disappearances correlated with the young-rogue attacks and was disappointed to discover that none correlated exactly; they were weeks apart in some cases. But it was close enough to make me curious.
Before I put them away, I sniffed the reports. Three of the oldest reports smelled like the same cigarette tobacco on the anomaly list. All of them had been handled by Jodi. Satisfied, I put them away, making sure I was leaving nothing behind.
I looked at the locked door. And around the room. No landline phone. Hadn’t Rick told me to call his desk when I was done? I checked my cell. No bars. I had texted a lot of stuff to myself and the info would be in my sent texts, but still . . . I was locked in. Beast woke and snarled. She did not like cages.
Holding her down, I knocked on the door, and before the second tap, it opened. A wrinkled patrol officer stood there, poorly shaven and overweight. I could have sworn that was powdered sugar on his shirt, like from donuts, or the New Orleans version, beignets, but I figured it was impolitic to ask or stare, and maybe something like racial profiling. Could you do employment profiling? And would it be politically incorrect? Not feeling my usual cop-induced nervousness, I smiled. Beast settled down, tail twitching. Annoyed.
“What?” he said roughly, seeing something in my eyes he didn’t like. “You done?”
“Um . . . almost. I need to use the ladies’ room.”
He shook his head, turned away, and waved me to follow. He took me up two flights of stairs and waited outside while I went in. I pulled the phone and the camera’s memory chips, discovered that I had two bars, and uploaded all the photographs to a secure Web site I’d had created last year. It was a fail-safe in case my camera and my notes were confiscated on the way out.
I started to sweat halfway through. It was taking too long. After twelve minutes, the officer opened the door to inquire after my health. That wasn’t quite what he said, but it was kinder than his “Hey, lady. I’m not rushing you or nothing, but shit or get off the pot. I got work to do.”
New Orleans’s finest and best.
I finished, forced myself to relax again, flushed to make things sound right, and walked out. “Not feeling too good,” I told the guard, holding my stomach. “Must be the unrefrigerated dinner.”
“Yeah,” he said. “We got a lot a’ pukers in the hospital. You need to go?”
“No. I’m good,” I said, doing a mental head shake. I saw the metal detector just ahead and put my hand out for a shake. “Thanks. I can find my way out from here.”
The cop looked at my hand, held his to the side, and backed away saying, “No offense, lady, but you just finished being sick in the toilet.”
I nodded and dropped my hand. “So I did.”
He moved away, leaving me with no witnesses. I didn’t see Rick on the way out, but I did set off the metal detector. I pulled my cell out of my boot, held it up to justify the alarm to a cop walking in the door, who shook his head. Feeling a spurt of relieved adrenaline, I jogged out of NOPD and slapped the rain off the bike seat. That was one problem with bikes, even totally cool ones like Bitsa. No protection from the elements. I sat on the wet leather, helmeted up, and started her, heading out into the day. I hadn’t had much sleep and I needed a nap.
Back home, the house smelled divine, the scent of slow-cooking beef permeating the whole place. The smell made Beast even more eager to change and hunt. It had been days and she was getting antsy, which made her more likely to try to take control, to play me as she played with her dinner when it was still alive. “Not yet,” I said to her. She huffed and milked her claws into me. I ignored the discomfort and she rolled over in a snit.
From my closet, I ferreted out a map of the city and surrounding parishes. Louisiana wasn’t divided into counties, but parishes, which amounted to the same thing. With no regard to the smooth purity of the paint job, I tacked it to my bedroom wall. Onto the map, I tacked the young-rogue vamp attacks over the last twenty years. There were three major clusters and, oddly, I had been to two of them. Hot exhilaration shot through me. I downloaded my woo-woo cop photos to my laptop and spent time arranging them into proper files for printing when we had reliable power.
I had cell bars, made a few calls, left messages, and fell into bed as a secondary storm chasing the tail of Ada hit the city. Through half-closed eyes, I watched as the light through the windows darkened and rain lashed the glass like liquid fingers, seeking a way inside. Thunder and lightning rattled through the floor and up through the mattress, sending bright flashes into the room. The lights flickered on and off several times, settling again on off.
Upstairs, I knew Molly was putting the kids down for naps. Nap time in the middle of the day wasn’t something new, as I often slept in the daytime after a night spent prowling in cat form. But this formal napping, of an entire household settling in for a snooze, was new and oddly comforting. I closed my eyes and sleep pulled at me, seductive and peaceful.
Also sleepy, Beast rolled over inside me, the sensation so real I could feel her pelt scraping inside my skin. My last thought was of Beast, curled in the dark, her/my tail wrapped tightly around my body. Small furry forms were curled agai
nst my belly, between my four paws, sleeping. Kits, breathing, snuffling, smelling of milk and exhaustion.
I woke to the smell of sweetgrass smoke, the sound of drums in a slow four beat, and the beeping of my cell. The dream slid away like silk sheets being pulled slowly from my mind. I opened my eyes. The storm was over, rain plinking and gurgling outside, the world brighter than two hours past. I fumbled in my boots beside my bed and answered. “What,” I grated out, my voice full of sleep. Okay, so I wasn’t at my best upon first waking.
“George Dumas here. You left a message”—a trace of humor crept into his tone—“before your . . . nap?”
A curious heat rolled over me, settling in my lower belly. That man had a great voice. Clearing my throat, I rolled to my back and stared at the ceiling twelve feet above me. Well, ten, as I wasn’t lying on the floor. I mentally shook myself. I needed to be sharp when I talked to Bruiser, not a melted puddle of hormones. But I could hear the warmth in my tone when I said, “I’m that transparent?” Crap. I sounded flirty. I did not need to be flirty with this man. I needed to keep it professional. At that thought, I remembered the photo of Leo and Katie. Being professional.
“You sound like a child just waking up,” he said, his voice soft.
I will not flirt with this man. But it seemed I couldn’t help myself. “Yeah, Bruiser. I’m cute that way.” I rolled into a sitting position and dropped my feet to the floor. My braid had come half undone in my sleep and hair cascaded around my thighs. I needed caffeine. A lot of it.
Beast reared up. We need to mate.
That stopped whatever I meant to say. After an awkward pause, I managed to Bruiser, “I need some help.”
Now he hesitated. “My boss may not be interested in my helping you.”
“You said may not. Meaning that he didn’t specifically prohibit you from helping me.”
