“I’mma go now, but if you got something for me, gimme a call,” the detective blustered.”
Margo narrowed her eyes and frowned like she did so many times when dealing with certain white folk in the south. The look was familiar to Enola.
“Did you hear me, gal?”
Margo rolled her eyes, ready to make the man chew off his own finger.
“Look here, I’m not you’re fucking gal! Now, you can get your racist ass the fuck out of this big, beautiful mansion, owned by rich, black people and go back to your trailer!”
The detective grimaced and closed the gap between him and Margo. He moved his face, seditiously close to her cousin’s.
“Listen here-.”
“Get out!” Margo interrupted through a hiss.
Beads of sweat peppered his forehead. Enola could see the rebellion in his eyes, but he could do nothing but obey. With noticeable reluctance, he shuffled out of the front door.
Enola’s shoulders dropped. With the detective gone, she could finally exhale. The witches had declared war. They fired the first shot by killing Madame LaRue and posing her in their home. It was time to go to work.
Enola stood and walked into the foyer. Without Ruby’s guidance, she didn’t quite know where to start. Thankfully, she’d already taught her how to whip up a locator’s spell. She was headed to her workshop when Madame Belfour blew through the front door.
“Did you find her yet?”
“No, not yet, madame,” Gideon responded before she could.
He turned to Enola and urged her along with a nod.
“What do you mean you haven’t found her?” the older woman shrieked. “What on earth have you been doing all this time? Your grandmother would’ve-.”
“Madame!” Margo cut in.
She walked over to the older woman just as Boone entered the room with more of their tribe.
“We just got the police out of the house. We couldn’t very well conjure any spells in front of them.”
Margo waved toward Enola. “She’s going to get started now. I’m sure she’s going to need your help.”
Margo acting as the voice of reason was a first for Enola. She was usually the one who cracked jokes at the most inappropriate times. Madame Belfour closed her eyes and dropped her head. Seconds later, she took a deep breath. When she opened her eyes, Enola could see tears. The sadness of losing her friend emanated from the older woman. She swiped a tear and walked over to Enola.
“Let’s get started.” Her voice was hoarse and filled with emotion.
Madame Belfour’s sadness provoked Enola’s tears. When she first entered the house and found Madame LaRue, she felt fear. After that, it was rage. Now, sadness overwhelmed her.
Madame LaRue had a family, and she was Madame Belfour and her grandmother’s closest friend. Because of her summer visits, Enola had known the woman her entire life. She took a chance and pulled Madame Belfour into a hug. Holding her tight, she whispered, “I’m so very sorry.”
Madame Belfour wrapped her arms around her. Enola felt a warmth that could only come from the hug of a grandmother. As she held Madame Belfour, she realized that she was the only elder left. And then it hit her. That’s the plan. Take out their source of wisdom and experience, leaving their tribe in Enola’s inexperienced hands. The thought was terrifying. Enola didn’t have half the experience of the elder voodoo practitioners, but somehow, they looked to her for resolution.
“HELLO!” Margo shouted, tearing into Enola’s thoughts. “My mother?”
MARGO
“Yeah, I believe we can save these tender moments until after we kill your evil kin.”
The voice came from the doorway. Margo turned to a pretty young woman with fair skin and striking green eyes.
“And, you are?” Margo asked the woman.
“Elmira... Elmira LaRue.”
Margo was sympathetic to the sadness in her response.
“Oh,” she responded softly. “I’m so sorry. You have my condolences.”
When Elmire pushed several strands of straight, honey-blonde hair out of her face, Margo noted that she could pass for white. When looking at her, Margo thought of plaçage, a Creole custom in which white men entered civil unions with black or mixed-race women. Since Madame LaRue was also fair-skinned, she wondered if that was part of the ancestry.
The Moreau/Roux line was like an assorted box of chocolates. But Margo was pretty sure that it wasn’t the result of matchmaking white men to light-skinned, free women of color. It was Gabriel. He was walking, talking proof of the European blood that flowed through their veins.
“Thank you, but I don’t want your condolences. I want vengeance.”
“I understand,” Margo told her.
She did understand. Margo was feeling pretty vengeful herself.
“They have my mother.”
Margo turned, speaking to the rest of them.
“We will get my mother. And once we do, we are going to destroy them.”
“Yes,” most agreed in unison.
“Let’s get started,” Madame Belfour repeated.
Enola and Madame Belfour entered the hall and headed for the workshop. Margo waved her hand toward the parlor.
“We can wait in here until they’re done.”
One by one, grieving relatives arrived and moved into the parlor. The wolves eventually disappeared. Probably to meet up with their pack. Bishop, alone, remained.
“I want you to call me when you’ve found her. Until then, my coven will join the search.”
He walked over to her and placed his rough palm to her cheek.
“Your mother is going to be fine. If they wanted her dead, she would have been the one hanging from the staircase.”
Margo recoiled at the thought. Bishop wasn’t particularly tactful, definitely not gentle with words. But she believed he was right. The witches had a reason for taking her mother, and they’d keep her alive until they didn’t.
“With a spell, your cousin and the old lady will locate her without difficulty.”
Margo sighed.
“I hope so.”
A quick kiss to her forehead and Bishop was on his way. Margo took a deep breath and turned to Elmira.
“You’ll get your vengeance. That is a promise. So, if you wanna be with your family, I can call you as soon as we find them.”
Elmira’s bright green eyes darkened with what looked like hatred.
“You’re fucking that vampire?” she scoffed.
It was more of an accusation than a question. Her lips curled with disdain as she glared at Margo with displeasure.
A tiny chuckle escaped before Margo could stop it. Amused by the unmitigated gall it took for a perfect stranger to check her about who she slept with. Only because it was none of her business, Margo simply offered a frown and a few seconds of looking at her like she was stupid.
Had the girl not been grieving, Margo would have read her ass like a letter. Instead, she turned to Madame Bennett’s children. Grace and Stephen had arrived around the same time as Boone. They were a well-dressed, good-looking set of twins, probably in their fifties. Margo thought she was meeting them for the first time at Madame Bennett’s funeral. To her surprise, while at the repast, Grace told her she remembered Margo as a little girl.
“Grace, I know a little of our history with the witches. I know the priest hated us, but I thought that was just a personal vendetta against my ancestors. The priest is gone. So, why do they keep this feud going?”
Grace walked over to the sofa.
“Let’s sit.”
Grace sat and Margo took a seat next to her.
“Magic is shared,” Grace began. “There’s only so much magic to go around. In this part of the world, Moreau Voodoo is as strong as it comes. The ancestral power that flows through your bloodline holds dominion over your magical counterparts. Unlike the witches, your line is capable of much more than just conjuring spells. You all have abilities, magical gifts. If they eliminate y
ou... all of you, that magic returns to the earth where they can recover it. And that’s what they’ve been trying to do for generations.”
Margo inhaled a breath and fell back against the cushion. Realization all but smacked her across the face.
“That’s why they took Vivienne,” she whispered.
“That’s why they took Vivienne,” Grace confirmed with a nod.
Margo groaned her frustration. She thought fighting the priest was rough, but Vivienne was a much more worthy adversary. Her mother was an excellent teacher, but what they really needed was the power, wisdom, and experience of her gran.
“She is so strong,” Margo admitted. “She was able to detonate an explosion in our heads and control the vampires with a spell. On top of all that, Enola is supposed to be the strongest among us, and she brought her to her knees.”
Grace placed her hand on top of Margo’s.
“Enola is the strongest among you. Vivienne’s been training for this fight her entire life. But, rest assured, she is not stronger than Enola. Vivienne, and every witch in Louisiana, could never muster enough power to defeat the phoenix that lives inside of your cousin.”
“Well, if Enola’s so strong...” Elmira interjected. “Why in the hell is this bitch able to kill us anytime she gets bored?”
Margo heaved a sigh and looked up at Madame LaRue’s granddaughter.
“I realize you’re grieving, and I am trying to exercise a little patience, but you’re about to get on my got damn nerves. Now, why don’t you go be with the rest of your family? I’m sure they need you at a time like this.”
A frown marred Elmira’s pretty face. She looked at her with eyes filled with despair.
“My grandmother was all I had.” Her voice was cracked.
“I don’t have any other family.”
Tears welled in her eyes. For the first time, Margo saw her youth and vulnerability. Elmira had to be in her twenties, maybe 25 at the most. Her anger and frustration were understandable. Margo was frustrated too, but as far as she knew, her mother was alive. So, she needed to show her some compassion. Margo stood and grabbed her shoulders. She looked Elmira in the eye and made a promise.
“We’re gonna kill ‘em all.”
The tears in Elmira’s eyes trickled down her cheeks. Margo wrapped her arms around her and hugged her. She held the younger woman tight while she sobbed on her shoulder. Feeling Elmira’s pain, tears welled in her own eyes.
Her family had done nothing aside from defending themselves against the witches. To Margo’s knowledge, neither had the LaRue or Bennett families. Frankly, none of them deserved the witch’s scorn.
It had been thirty minutes. So, as soon as Enola entered the parlor, Margo jumped up and ran over to her.
“What happened? Did the spell work? Were you able to find her?”
Enola grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her into the foyer.
“I didn’t need the spell,” she whispered. “I caught her sneaking in the side entrance.”
Margo frowned. “What?”
“I- caught- her- sneaking- in- the- house.” Enola enunciated each word slowly.
Margo squinted with confusion.
“Why would she be sneaking in the house?”
Enola raised a brow and tilted her head toward the hall. Margo’s mouth flew open at the sight of her mother, standing there with disheveled hair and a guilty look on her face. More shockingly, standing next to her, looking just as guilty was Benjamin, the butler.
The butler did it.
Margo stood, staring at her mother with disbelief. She seemed to have no idea what her secret booty-call had put them through.
“My phone died,” she said innocently. “What happened here?”
Margo ran over to her mother and pulled her into a hug. She would give her the horrible news, but she needed to hold her first.
“I’ll go call Gideon and Gabriel,” Enola said before disappearing down the hall.
Her mother tried to pull away, but Margo refused to let go.
“You’re trembling. What is it, child?”
Her mother pried herself free. She grabbed Margo’s face and looked her in eye. Margo could not suppress the sadness and fear, but she was able to exhale with relief. And her mother must’ve seen it because she pulled her back into a hug.
“Shh... it’s okay, baby,” she comforted, tenderly rubbing her back. “Whatever it is, it’s gonna be okay.”
Sadly, Margo knew all too well that that wasn’t something that her mother could guarantee.
BISHOP
By the time Bishop made it back to the estate, Basile had already assembled essential members of the coven. When he entered the house, Beth was waiting in the foyer. She seemed anxious.
“How is she holding up? Have you found her mother?”
Bishop walked up and placed a hand on her shoulder.
“She’s holding up well. And no, her mother hasn’t been found.”
“So, what-.”
“Let’s get started,” Bishop interrupted.
He had answered all the questions intended to. Bishop wasn’t about to go into council business with the human. He led her to a velvet settee in a corner. She sat, and he took a seat next to her.
“How was your date?” Bishop asked as she unbuttoned her blouse.
“It started great. But by the middle of dinner, he was drunk and obnoxious.”
Bishop pushed his fingers through his beard, considering exactly what “obnoxious” meant. Beth frowned and shook her head. She may have guessed he was contemplating whether or not to visit the man.
“He just started talking really loud in the restaurant and being rude to the wait staff. He didn’t do anything but cause me a bit of embarrassment.”
Beth explained, knowing that he’d be a dead man had he’d hurt, or even disrespected her.
“Alright. Well, that’s too bad. The next date will be better.”
She smiled and pushed her dark hair behind her ear, presenting her petite neck as an offering. Bishop placed his hand on her shoulder.
“I’ll take your wrist,” he told her.
Her brows wrinkled with confusion. He’d never fed from her wrist before. After the night he’d had with Margo, feeding from her neck or thigh was just too intimate.
“Okay.”
She unbuttoned and rolled up her sleeve. Bishop took her hand. He could feel his fangs descending as soon as his eyes landed on her vein. He raised her wrist to his mouth and licked the area he planned to penetrate. When wanted, he could activate an enzyme that had pain relief properties.
Once he was certain she’d feel no pain, Bishop allowed his fangs to puncture the thin skin on her wrist. He pushed through until they pierced the artery. A burst of warm blood coated his tongue.
Bishop moaned with pleasure from the first swallow. Raw power pumped through his veins as Beth provided him with nourishment. A soft sigh escaped her lips, and he thought about Margo. The sweet noise of her orgasm made him want to fuck her all night. And he could have. But she was human, and he needed to proceed with caution. He would gradually test her limits.
Bishop couldn’t wait for the day when Margo would allow him to feed from her. Thankfully, he was a mature vampire, because the willpower that it took not to bite into her while eating her sweet pussy, definitely came with age.
Beth’s arm became heavy. Losing blood had weakened her a bit. So, Bishop withdrew his fangs and licked the tiny puncture wounds on her wrist. He smiled and gave her hand a gentle squeeze.
“Thank you, Beth.”
His smile was reciprocated. “You’re welcome.”
Bishop swiped the corner of his mouth with his thumb and stood.
Beth seemed a bit anemic, resting her head on the settee, not at all looking like she had any intention of moving. As he stood over her, Bishop noted that she seemed tiny and chalky, more than she normally would after he fed from her.
“Are you okay?” Bishop scanned her tiny form, hoping he hadn
’t drained the petite woman.
“Yes, Bishop. I’m okay.”
“Alright. I’ll get you some juice.”
Bishop took a few steps back and monitored her physical condition.
“I’m fine,” Beth assured with a chuckle.
“Okay, okay. I’ll be back.”
Bishop turned and made his way to the kitchen. A young vampire, that the others referred to as Stinger, was stirring something in a large pot. Bishop often wondered why they called him that, but... not enough to bother asking. However, whatever he was concocting smelled delicious.
Stinger turned around. When he noticed he wasn’t alone, he seemed instantly uncomfortable. Most of the coven was uncomfortable in Bishop’s presence. Either that or they’re outright insubordinate. Neither of which was ideal.
“Is there anything I can get for you?” Stinger asked nervously.
“No, thank you.”
In Louisiana, Bishop spoke in English, encouraging the southern vampires to do the same. If not, he’d surely find himself drowning in swamp French. He walked over to the fridge and grabbed the orange juice. In a cabinet, he found a glass.
“Why aren’t you assembled with the rest?” Bishop asked the young vampire.
He filled the glass and walked the juice back to the fridge. He put the container on a shelf closed the door. His question was still unanswered. Bishop moved closer making himself unavoidable.
“I asked you a question. Why aren’t you with the others?”
Stinger raised his head, and for the first time, looked Bishop in the eye.
“I’m not allowed.”
Bishop frowned. He was sure he had banned no vampires from coven gatherings.
“Hold that thought,” he told him.
Bishop grabbed the glass of juice and took it to Beth.
“How are you feeling? Do you need to lie down?”
“I’m good,” she responded with a reassuring grin.
BLOODLUST Page 15
