Читать книгу The Keepers - Heather Graham, Heather Graham - Страница 9

New Orleans was her city, and Fiona MacDonald loved it with a passion.

She tried to remember that as she walked away from Jagger DeFarge’s car.

The parking area was new and paved, and sat on an embankment right at the edge of the river.

She paused to look down at the Mississippi. It really was a mighty river. The currents could be vicious; storms could make it toss and churn, and yet it could also be beautiful and glorious, the vein of life for so many people who had settled along its banks.

The great river had allowed for the magnificent plantations whose owners had built an amazing society of grace and custom—and slavery. But even in the antebellum days before the Civil War, New Orleans had offered a home for “free men of color.” Ironically, black men had owned black men, and quadroons had been the mistresses of choice. In Fiona’s mind, the city was home to some of the most beautiful people in the world even now, people who came in all shades. God, yes, she loved her city. It was far from perfect. The economy was still suffering, and, as ever, the South still struggled to gain educational parity with the North.

But everyone lived in this city: black, white, yellow, red, brown, and every shade in between. Young and old, men and women.

And the denizens of the underworld, of course.

She took a deep breath as she stared at the river. She was furious, yes. She was afraid, yes. And what might have been bothering her most was the fact that she didn’t think Jagger DeFarge had actually intended to wound her with his words.

God, yes! Her parents would have handled this much better. But they were dead. They had known what they were doing would cost them their last strength, their last breaths. But they had believed in a beautiful world, where peace could exist, where everyone could accept everyone else.

She walked down to Decatur Street and paused.

St. Louis Cathedral stood behind Jackson Square, its steeple towering over the scene before it, including the garden with its magnificent equestrian statue of Andrew Jackson. Café du Monde was to her right—filled with tourists, naturally. It was a “must see” for visitors, perhaps something like the Eiffel Tower in Paris, even if it wasn’t nearly so grand. It was a true part of New Orleans, and she decided to brave the crowd of the tourists and pick up a nice café au lait for the three block walk back to the shop on Royal Street.

Though an actual drink might be better at this moment. A Hand Grenade or a Hurricane, or any one of the other alcoholic libations so enjoyed on Bourbon Street.

But she couldn’t have a drink. She couldn’t drink away what had happened—or everything she feared might be about to happen next.

She made her way through the open air patio to the take-away window, ordered a large café au lait to go, then headed on up toward Chartres Street and then Royal. Her love for the city returned to her like a massive wave as she walked. She returned a greeting to a friend who gave tours in one of the mule-drawn carriages, and headed on past the red brick Pontalba Building. She passed shops selling T-shirts, masks, the ever-present Mardi Gras beads, postcards and sometimes, true relics, along with hand-crafted art and apparel.

Some of the buildings along her path were in good repair, while others still needed a great deal of help. Construction was constant in a city that was hundreds of years old, where the charming balconies often sagged, and where, even before Hurricane Katrina, many had struggled through economic difficulties to do what was needed piecemeal.

But there was something she loved even about the buildings that were still in dire need of tender care.

The French Quarter’s buildings were an architectural wonderland. The area had passed through many hands—French, Spanish, British and American—but it had been during the Spanish period in 1788 that the Great Fire of New Orleans had swept away more than eight hundred of the original buildings. And then, in 1794, a second fire had taken another two hundred plus. The current St. Louis Cathedral had been built in 1789, so it, like much of the “French Quarter,” had actually been built in the Spanish style.

She reached her destination, a corner on Royal, and paused, looking at the facade of their shop and their livelihood.

A Little Bit of Magic was on the ground floor of a truly charming building that dated back to 1823. She ran the shop with Caitlin and Shauna, her sisters, and she supposed, in their way, they were as much a part of the tourist scene as any other business. When you got right down to it, they sold fantasy, fun, belief and, she supposed, to some, religion. She remembered that, although they attended St. Louis Cathedral regularly, her mother had once told her, “All paths lead to God, and it doesn’t matter if you call him Jehovah, Allah, Buddha, or even if you believe that he is a she.”

She knew that her parents had always believed in two basic tenets: that there was a supreme being, and that all creatures, including human beings, came in varying shades of good and evil. The world was not black and white. Like New Orleans, it was all shades in between.

And so, in A Little Bit of Magic, they sold just about everything. They had expansive shelves on Wiccan beliefs, voodoo history and rights, myths and legends, spiritualism, Native American cultures, Buddhism, Hinduism, Christianity and Judaism and more. She ordered the books for the shop, and she loved reading about different beliefs and cultures.

Caitlin, however, was their reigning mystic. She was brilliant with a tarot deck. Shauna was the palm reader, while she herself specialized in tea leaves—easily accessible, since they had a little coffee and tea bar of their own.

They also sold beautiful hand-crafted capes, apparel, masks—this was New Orleans, after all—jewelry, wands, statues, dolls, voodoo paraphernalia and, sometimes, relics and antiques. The shop had always done a good business, and despite occasional disagreements, the sisters got along extremely well.

She sipped her café au lait, hoping it would give her what she needed: patience, wisdom and strength.

In a way, at the beginning, it had been easier. She’d been nineteen, an adult. Caitlin had been right behind her at seventeen, but Shauna had been only fifteen. It had been quite a fight to get the family courts to allow her to “raise” her sisters, but she had managed. She’d had help from a dear old friend, August Gaudin—a werewolf, of all things—but he had a fine reputation in the city, and he’d been her strength. At first, her sisters had been young, lost, so what she said was the law. But she had never wanted to hold them down, and now they were women in their own right, with valid thoughts and opinions.

And they were both going to be in a state of extreme anxiety now!

Squaring her shoulders both physically and mentally, Fiona entered the store. Caitlin was behind the counter, chatting with a woman who was selecting tea. She eyed Fiona sharply as she entered, but continued her explanation of the different leaves.

Fiona saw that Shauna was helping a young couple pick out masks.

She nodded to both her sisters and walked through the store to the office in the rear, where she pulled up the chair behind her desk.

First things first. Then, tonight, a trip to the morgue.

A minute later, Caitlin burst in on her.

“Is it true? A dead woman in the cemetery, drained of blood?”

Fiona nodded. “I saw Jagger DeFarge. He’s lead detective on the case. Naturally I told him that he has to find the killer right away, and obviously we don’t care if it’s one of his own, the murderer must be destroyed.”

Caitlin sank into the chair on the other side of the desk. Fiona knew that the three of them resembled one another, and yet there were also noticeable differences. Her sister had the most beautiful silver eyes she had ever seen, while Shauna’s had a touch of green and hers were blue. Her own hair was very light, Caitlin’s a shade darker and Shauna’s had a touch of red. Their heights were just a shade different, too. She was shortest at five-seven, while Caitlin had a half an inch on her, and Shauna was five-eight.

Right now, Caitlin’s eyes were darkening like clouds on a stormy day.

“He admits the killer has to be a vampire?”

“No, of course not. He didn’t admit anything.”

“But we all know it has to have been a vampire.”

Fiona hesitated. The last thing she wanted to do was defend Jagger DeFarge.

She had kept her distance from him, for the most part. Keepers were not supposed to interfere with everyday life. They did have their councils—kind of like a paranormal Elks Club, she thought with a smile—but as long as the status quo stayed the status quo, each society dealt with their own.

She knew, however, that Jagger did well in life passing as a normal citizen of the city. He was a highly respected police detective and had been decorated by the department.

She’d seen him a few times on television when he’d been interviewed after solving a high profile case. She remembered one interview in particular, when Jagger and his squad had brought in a killer who had scratched out a brutal path of murder from Oregon to Louisiana.

“Frankly, most of the time, what appears on the surface is what a perpetrator wants us to see. Any good officer has to look below the surface. In our city, sadly, we have a high crime rate much of it due to greed, passion or envy, not to mention drugs and domestic violence. But in searching for those who murder because of mental derangement or more devious desires, we can never accept anything at face value,” he had said.

Before she could reply to Caitlin’s question, Shauna came rushing into the office breathlessly. “Well?”

Her youngest sister’s hair was practically flying. She was wearing a soft silk halter dress that swirled around her as she ran, and even when she stopped in front of the desk, she still seemed to be in motion.

“Jagger won’t admit that it was a vampire. Maybe I’m phrasing that wrong. He said that he has to investigate. He reminded me that this is New Orleans—that we attract human wackos just the same as we attract those of us who just want to live normal lives. He didn’t insist that it wasn’t a vampire, he just said that he needs to investigate.”

“Vampires!” Caitlin said, her tone aggravated, as if vampires were the cause of everything that ever went wrong.

“What are you going to do?” Shauna asked.

Fiona frowned. “I don’t know. But look, we can’t all be back here. We can’t leave the shop unattended.”

“I put the Out for Lunch sign up in the window,” Shauna said.

“Out for lunch? It’s ten-thirty in the morning!” Fiona protested.

“Okay, so we’re having an early lunch,” Shauna said with a shrug.

“What do you intend to do?” Caitlin asked. “And don’t say you don’t know, because I know that’s not true.”

“Investigate myself,” Fiona said with a shrug. “Vampires. It’s my duty. I will find out the truth, and I will fix the situation.” She sighed. “Obviously I’ll be out most of the day. Oh, and even if we have to have ‘lunch’ several times in one day, never leave the shop unattended with the door open. We need to be especially careful now, all right?”

Her sisters nodded gravely.

Fiona rose. She had to get started. The situation demanded immediate action.

“Where are you going first?” Caitlin asked her.

“To see August Gaudin,” Fiona said grimly.

Usually werewolves were not her favorite beings, though she tried very hard not to be prejudiced and stereotype them. It was the whole transformation thing that seemed so strange to her—so painful. And the baying at the moon.

Vampires were capable of certain transformations, as well, it was far more a matter of astral projection and hypnotism. A vampire could take on a few legendary forms, such as a wolf and a bat, but they were weakened in such states, and since no vampire wanted to go up against an angry werewolf, for example, in the creature’s own shape, the legendary transformation seldom happened.

Like vampires and shapeshifters, werewolves lived among the human population of the city, controlling themselves—with Shauna as their Keeper. But August Gaudin had fought alongside her parents, and in his human shape he was a dignified older man with silver hair, a broad chest and broad shoulders, and benign and gentle powder-blue eyes. He was an attorney by trade, and he had been elected to the city commission, and also worked with the tourism board. He had been genuinely wonderful to Fiona and her sisters, helping them when they truly needed a friend.

His offices were on Canal Street, and she walked there as quickly as she could, not wanting to call ahead, because trying to explain on the phone or, worse, leave a message would be too difficult.

August would see her. He always did.

The office manager stopped her when she would have absently burst right through to see him, but they had met before, and the woman knew that August wouldn’t turn Fiona down. Still, the woman pursed her lips and said, “Please, sit, and I will let Mr. Gaudin know that you’re here.”

“I’ll stand, thank you,” Fiona said. Silly. The woman was just wielding her power.

August Gaudin came out to greet her, reaching out to take her hands. “Fiona! Dear child, come on in, come on in. Margaret, hold my calls, please.”

Gaudin’s office was a comfortable place. He had a large mahogany desk, and leather chairs that were both comfortable and somehow strong. The office conveyed the personality of the man.

He sat behind his desk as Fiona fell into a chair before it.

“I was expecting you,” he told her.

“I suppose the entire city has heard by now,” she said. She leaned forward. “August, the girl was murdered by a vampire. I’m sure of it. She was drained of blood. Completely. The wretched creatures are at it again!”

“Now, Fiona, that’s not necessarily true,” August told her. “First, we all know that—”

“Yes, yes, there are ridiculous human beings out there who think they’re vampires, who even cut each other and drink each other’s blood.”

“It is possible that such a lunatic killed the woman,” August said.

“Possible, but not likely.”

“I take it that Jagger DeFarge is the investigating officer?”

“Yes. Imagine,” she said dryly.

“That’s good, cher. He’ll know how to investigate properly, and he won’t get himself killed in the process,” he told her.

“August, this is my fault,” she whispered.

“Now, stop. It’s not your fault. It’s your duty to see that the perpetrator is caught and punished. But it’s not your fault any more than it’s your fault when some crackhead falls on top of his own infant and kills him, or when drug slayings occur on the street. Crime exists. And it’s unreasonable to expect that crime will never exist in—our world just as it does in the human world,” he said softly.

She stood and began pacing the room. “Yes, but … if the vampires respected me as their Keeper, they wouldn’t have dared attempt such a thing.”

“Not true. There will always be rogues in any society.”

“August, you’ve always helped me. What should I do?” she asked.

He leaned back. “You tell me.”

“All right. Tonight, I make sure that the victim isn’t coming back, that … that she rests in peace. I’ll go as soon as the morgue is closed, and hopefully before … well, before. Then I’ll go to see David Du Lac at the club and make sure he’s ready to deal with what’s happened.”

“The perfect plan. Here’s another,” August told her.

“What?”

“Trust in Jagger DeFarge. He’s a good cop. He became a cop to make sure he regulated things that happened among our kind. He’s thorough in every investigation. He’ll be especially vigilant on this one.”

“He’s a vampire.”

“He’s proven that he has integrity and honor.”

“He won’t want to destroy another vampire.”

“He’ll do what is right. You have to trust in that.”

“I’d like to,” she said.

“But?”

“He’s a vampire,” she repeated.

Jagger headed straight to Underworld, the club owned by David Du Lac, the head of the vampire population of the City of New Orleans. His rule stretched farther, but the city was his domain. He was essentially considered the vampire mayor.

And he did a better job than some of the human beings who had been entrusted with the city’s human citizens, Jagger thought.

Naturally Underworld was frequented by vampires. But David Du Lac prided himself on running an establishment where everyone was welcome. He brought in the best bands and kept the place eclectic, and the human clientele never had any idea just who they were rubbing shoulders with.

Underworld was located just off Esplanade, on Frenchman Street. The edifice was a deconsecrated church. Beautiful stained-glass windows remained, along with a cavernous main section, balconies and private rooms. The old rectory, David’s home as well as a venue for jazz bands and private parties, was right behind the old church. There was a patio, too, open during the day, and a jazz trio played there from 11:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m. every day, while the clientele enjoyed muffalettas, crawfish étouffée, gumbo and other Louisiana specialties—along with the customary colorful drinks served in New Orleans and a few designer specials, dryly named the Bloodsucker, Bite Me, the Transformer and the Fang.

Jagger paused for a minute after he parked just down the street from the club. David took good care of the place. The white paint sparkled in the sunlight. The umbrellas in the courtyard were decorated with pretty fleur-de-lis patterns—naturally boasting the black and gold colors of the home football team, the Saints.

He got out of his car and walked through the wrought-iron gate to the courtyard, where a crowd had already gathered, and where the jazz trio was playing softly pleasant tunes.

“Detective Jagger!”

He was greeted by Valentina DeVante, David’s hostess. She worked all hours, although she was almost always at the club at night. She was a voluptuous woman, with a way of walking that was pure sensuality. She had the kind of eyes that devoured a man.

He didn’t actually like being devoured, so he’d always kept his distance.

“Valentina, is David up and about?”

“Actually, he’s over there in the courtyard, toward the back. Tommy, the sax player, is sick, so the guys brought in a substitute. You know how David loves his jazz. He’s making sure he likes the new guy so he can fill in again if he’s needed. Come on. I’ll take you to him.”

She turned. She walked. She swished and swayed. Half the men in town, especially the inebriated ones, would trip over their tongues watching this woman. He was surprised to find himself analyzing his feelings toward her. Too overt. He liked subtlety. Sensuality over in-your-face sexuality. He liked a woman’s smile, a flash in her eyes when she was touched, amused, or when she flirted. He liked honesty, an addiction to decency …

Fiona MacDonald.

God, no.

Yes. She was sleek and smooth, and she never teased or taunted; she was simply beautiful, and even when she was angry, there was something in the sound of her voice that seemed to slip beneath his skin. Her hair was like the sunlight, and her eyes …

“David, Jagger is here,” Valentina said, leading him to David’s table and pulling out one of the plastic-cushioned patio chairs. As he took the seat and thanked her, she leaned low. Her black dress was cut nearly to her navel, displaying her ample cleavage right in front of his face.

But then, since Valentina was a shapeshifter, she could shift a little more of her to any part of her body she desired.

“Hey, Jagger, I was expecting to see you,” David said. He had half risen to greet Jagger, but Jagger lifted a hand, silently acknowledging the courtesy and assuring him that he was welcome to keep his seat.

“David …” Jagger said in greeting.

Since they were both wearing dark glasses, there was nothing to be gleaned by seeking out honesty in David’s eyes, though Jagger knew from past encounters that they were fascinating eyes, almost gold in color. David was Creole, mainly, with additional ancestors who had been French and Italian, so his skin was almost as golden as his eyes, complemented by dark lashes and dark hair. He was a striking man and had always been a friend.

He couldn’t tell what his friend was thinking right now but.

David tended to be a straight shooter.

“Obviously, yes, I’ve heard about the body,” David said quietly.

“Any suspects?”

“You think it was one of us?” David asked. He didn’t have to keep his voice low; the music was just right, and the courtyard was alive with the low drone of conversation. They wouldn’t be heard beyond the table, even if Jagger did note that customers—most of them women—did glance in their direction now and then.

“David, the body was bone-dry. Not a drop of blood.”

David nodded, looking toward the band. “They’re good, don’t you think?”

“Yes, very good. Your taste in music is legendary. Listen, right now the investigation is wide-open. Obviously no one but me suspects anything … out of the ordinary. But we’ve got a serious problem, because it certainly looks to be the work of a vampire. And pretty soon it’s not going to be just me hanging around here and questioning people.”

David groaned.

“The Keeper?” he said quietly. “Oh, Lordy.”

“She found me right after I made it to the crime scene.”

“That one has some attitude, too,” David said with a sigh, then shrugged. “Oh well, comes with the territory, I guess. She had a hell of a lot to contend with at a very young age, and so far, we’ve all kept the peace. She hasn’t had the time—or the need—to acquire the wisdom of her parents. And she’s got that strict code of ethics thing going on, too. Guess it comes with being the oldest.” David grinned suddenly. “Beautiful little thing, though, huh? If we were back in the old days … yum. And I wouldn’t have let anyone interfere with her birth into a new existence, either. Hell, she’s the kind who might have made me monogamous. For a century or so, anyway.”

Jagger wasn’t at all sure why he immediately felt protective. Fiona MacDonald certainly wouldn’t expect or even want him to defend her.

Maybe David’s words irritated him because they had touched a little too close to home.

“Well, she is nice eye candy,” David continued. “And everyone is welcome at my club. She has to do her job, right, Jagger?”

“No, I have to do my job. I have to find a murderer. I hope that it doesn’t prove to be a vampire, but if it does … well, we have to handle it as a community.”

David looked away. “It’s against nature,” he said softly.

“Our lives are against nature. We drink blood that’s inferior to what our ancestors craved, but we’ve evolved, we’ve adapted to it. Louisiana has the death penalty. And since we don’t have any vampire prisons, we have no choice. Rogues die, and it’s a community affair.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Call a meeting.”

“All right. And I’ll make it known that everyone’s presence is required, though I can’t guarantee that we’ll get everyone.”

“I think most of our kind will be extremely concerned, since they know the other races will be breathing down our necks. This is frightening, David. Frightening for everyone. A young woman was killed, drained of blood. The whole city will be up in arms. And you can guarantee our friends in the underworld of New Orleans society will all be staring at us.”

“I’ll call the meeting,” David assured him. “You’ll be presiding?”

“You bet.”

“I think I can manage it by late—late—tomorrow—the following morning, really. Make it 3:00 a.m. Those who are still hanging out here will probably be three sheets to the wind, not likely to interrupt. The rectory, 3:00 a.m.”

“That will work. Thanks, David.”

“So, will you have some lunch? As my guest, of course.”

“I appreciate the offer, but it’s going to be a long day.”

“Where are you off to now?”

“The morgue,” Jagger told him.

Fiona arrived at Underworld while lunch was still being served. She walked up to the hostess stand, and the woman standing there looked up at her with patronizing patience. She looked Fiona up and down, and would have sniffed audibly if it weren’t against all sense of Southern courtesy. She was dressed in black, and had long black hair, black eyes and enormous breasts.

“Yes? A table for … one? I’m afraid there’s a wait,” the woman said.

Shapeshifter, Fiona thought.

And she probably knew damned well who she was, and what she wanted.

“I’m sorry, I’m not here for lunch at all. I need to see Mr. Du Lac,” Fiona said.

“Ah,” the woman said, just looking at her.

Fiona wasn’t in the mood for a staring contest.

“If you would be so kind, I would deeply appreciate it if you would tell Mr. Du Lac that I’m here.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“I’m quite certain that he’s expecting me,” Fiona said.

“He’s a very busy man. Perhaps you could leave your card.”

“Perhaps you could inform him that Fiona MacDonald is here. In fact, I strongly suggest that you do so right now.”

The woman lifted her chin. Fiona could tell that she was about to stall again.

Fiona hated changing. She seldom had to do so, but she was adept at the art that was her birthright. She could do so in an instant, and change back so quickly that anyone seeing her who didn’t know would assume it had been a trick of the light. So …

She changed. She gave something that was a warning growl, fangs dripping and bared.

And then she changed back instantly.

“You don’t need to get huffy,” the woman told her. “Right this way.”

She led Fiona past the scattered tables in the courtyard. Beneath one of the lovely umbrellas with its fleur-de-lis in black and gold, she saw David Du Lac comfortably seated.

He had been leaning back, eyes shaded by his dark glasses, hands folded, toes tapping to the sounds of the jazz band.

His pose was casual, but he had seen her coming. He rose, extending his hands to her, a broad smile stretching out across his features.

“Fiona, my dear, welcome, welcome to my club.”

She accepted his hands, along with the kiss he gave her on each cheek. “Valentina, be a dear and see that Miss MacDonald receives a libation right away. What will it be, my dear? A Bloody Mary is always a lovely concoction for lunchtime.”

“I’m fine, really.”

“You must accept my hospitality,” David insisted.

“Iced tea, please,” Fiona said.

She noticed that Valentina, the bitchy shapeshifter, as she would always think of the woman from this moment forth, did sniff audibly then.

“Certainly, David,” the woman crooned.

“David, you know why I’m here,” Fiona said, watching the bitchy shapeshifter swish away.

“Don’t mind her. She’s a jealous vixen if ever I’ve seen one.”

“She’s a triple D with feet,” Fiona said. “Hardly likely to be jealous of me.”

“Ah, my sweet child, what you don’t know about your own sex!” David said, then grew serious. “But never mind. I do know why you’re here.”

“David, this wasn’t just someone who went insane and attacked a woman, then tried to hide her body. It wasn’t someone trying to create his eternal love. This was an act of … war, really. She was left where some city guide with tourists in tow would find her. She was put on display, stretched out … David, this is extremely serious.”

“I do know that, my child,” he said.

“I’m not a child, David,” she reminded him quietly. “I’m the Keeper.”

“Fiona, no offense meant. But you’re supposed to step in when we can’t police our own.”

“This was the action of a rogue, David.”

“Yes, yes, of course. And I promise you, if we’d known he—or she—was out there, we would never have let it happen. But have some faith, Fiona. Please. Jagger DeFarge is working the case and—”

“He’s a vampire, David. He doesn’t want to believe that he’s hunting down one of his own.”

David leaned back, stretching his arms out as if to encompass not only his club but the entire city. “Fiona, I love my life. Or death. Or afterlife. However one chooses to refer to this existence, I’m a good man.”

“David, I wasn’t accusing you of anything.”

“My point is that I don’t want anyone taking this away from me. I enjoy the money, frankly, not to mention the beautiful creatures of all kinds who cross my threshold. I revel in the music. Would I risk losing this? If I knew who had done this, I promise you, I would see to it that Jagger DeFarge knew, and that our own council handled the matter immediately. You must believe me.”

A friendly ash blond waiter with a broad smile delivered her ice tea and asked if she wanted anything else.

“The crawfish étouffée is to die for today,” David told her.

“Thank you, but—”

“Please,” David said.

She was hungry, and she had to have lunch somewhere. “Fine, thank you,” she said.

David grinned broadly, delighted, as the waiter moved on to place her order.

“David, you know that I will follow this all the way through, that I’ll be in everyone’s face everywhere,” Fiona said.

“It will be charming to have you here,” he assured her. “Fiona, I swear, I will do my utmost to help you in any way that I can. But I am asking you something, too. Give Jagger DeFarge a chance.”

“I have to give him a chance, don’t I? He’s with the police—he’ll be front and center in the investigation,” she said dryly. “But here’s what I won’t get from Jagger, David. I don’t believe he’ll tell me when he’s suspicious of someone. He’ll protect his own until the very end—and he may cause more deaths by his unwillingness to believe the killer is a vampire.”

“That’s not true,” David said.

A throat was cleared behind them. “Crawfish étouffée,” the young waiter announced, giving Fiona a fascinated smile. She thanked him as he refilled her tea and handed David another Bloody Mary.

“Who do you suspect?” she demanded, when the waiter had left them at last.

“No one,” David said.

“You’re a liar. But if you point me in a certain direction, I will be discreet as I investigate,” Fiona said.

“No one, really….”

“Liar. Who is the most belligerent? Who wants to go back to the old ways?”

David looked away.

She followed his line of vision toward a tall man across the courtyard, just on the other side of the small stage reserved for the jazz band. He was flirting with a woman seated at his table. She was middle-aged, slim and elegant, with fingers that dripped jewels. She was laughing delightedly at something the man was saying.

“Who is he?” Fiona demanded, staring at David. “He’s a newcomer to the area, but a vampire, I can smell him a mile away.”

David sighed. “Well, of course, you can,” he murmured. “All right, all right. That man is Mateas Grenard, and yes, he’s not been here long. He immediately sought out the council, though, before anyone had to find him and ‘welcome’ him to the city. He has openly disagreed with some of our rules, but isn’t that the American way?”

“There’s not much else I can tell you,” Craig Dewey said. They were in autopsy. The corpse of the beautiful blonde still looked as angelic as when it had first been discovered. “I haven’t opened her up yet—we’ll get to that tomorrow. We’ve done the death photographs and taken what blood we could for tests—which was hard, since she’s been drained almost completely dry. If there’s a quarter of a pint left in her body, I’d be surprised. Cause of death—well, I could be wrong, but it looks pretty obvious that she bled out. It’s as if it was siphoned from her body. We’ve tried to find semen stains, and we ran a rape kit … with intriguing results, particularly given what we just found out in the last few minutes. Determining sexual assault has been almost impossible.”

“What? Why? Was there evidence of semen? Or condoms?”

“At least seven different brands,” Dewey said dryly. “We’re taking it step by step. I’m sorry, but it’s the only way, even though—I know you want to catch this killer before panic fills the city.”

There was something that seemed eternally sad about the snow-white body on the table, though the white gown had been replaced by a morgue sheet.

“You said you found something out in the last few minutes,” Jagger said. “You know who she is?”

“Got a match on her prints. The results posted to your office and mine about five minutes ago,” Dewey told him, an odd look on his face.

“What is it?”

“Snow White here isn’t what she appears to be. Her name is Tina Lawrence. She worked at Barely, Barely, Barely, which is a pretty lowbrow establishment across Rampart from the Quarter,” Dewey said, offering him the report folder.

Jagger scanned it quickly.

The angelic Miss Tina Lawrence had a rap sheet a mile long. Drugs, prostitution and assault and battery.

“Wow,” he said.

“Not a nice young lady,” Dewey said.

Jagger winced. “She knifed a college student for being four dollars short,” he said quietly.

“Keep reading. She tried to cut the balls off another john. Get this, she admitted she wanted to kill him. Amazing she wasn’t in jail,” Dewey said.

“We can pick people up, but we can’t always get them past the legal systems and the pleas and the deals,” Jagger said. “Seems she got off that because she had some drug connections and the D.A. offered her a plea in order to pick up a few of her friends who were higher up in the drug chain.”

“Not a nice girl. Actually a deadly girl—and now a dead one,” Dewey commented. “Well, anyway, there you have it. I guess you’ll be heading off to the strip club,” Dewey said, punching him lightly on the arm. “Have fun.”

“Thanks.”

Jagger walked out of the autopsy room and left the morgue. He called Tony Miro, and told him where to head to start questioning Tina Lawrence’s friends, coworkers and employer, and to pull the credit card receipts and find out who had been in attendance at Tina’s last show. He needed to hang around near the morgue.

Waiting for the sun to fall.

As Dewey had said, Tina Lawrence hadn’t been a nice girl. She’d been a deadly one.

He could only begin to imagine the horror that would be Tina Lawrence as a vampire.