Bad Blood (25 page)

“I don’t plan on going off on my own again.” Mal turned to Chrysabelle. “You okay?”

She tossed her empty cup into a trashcan. “A little tired, but good. Thanks.” She gave him a quick smile, trying to hide the pain arcing along her spine. The smile
was
real. He hadn’t had to come on this trip and probably
shouldn’t have, considering the city’s policy on vampires, but she was glad to have him. She wasn’t a hundred percent, but having him at her side meant that didn’t matter. Mal could push her buttons like nobody’s business, but he always put her safety first. Even if that meant solutions she didn’t agree with.

Mal growled at a man who pointed his camera in her direction, causing the human to stumble into a display of T-shirts. Fortunately, the SUV was just ahead of them now. Amery got out as they approached and opened the doors. “I see you made it,” he said to Mal.

Mal said nothing, just climbed in after Chrysabelle and resumed his original seat. When they were all in, Amery steered into traffic and started across town.

“Where are we going?” Chrysabelle asked.

“Garden District,” Mortalis answered. “That’s where most of the fae live now. The Vieux Carré is home to a few of us, but there’s still a lot of iron there.”

“Vieux Carré,” Chrysabelle repeated, practicing her French. “That means ‘old square,’ right? Do the fae speak French, or is that a holdover from the original settlers?”

“Fae were among the original settlers.” Mortalis caught her eye in the visor mirror, pulled down against the sun. “Those of us born here speak a kind of pidgin. A mix of French, English, and fae. Our own version of Creole.”

So Mortalis had been born here. Interesting. “Why did the fae come to New Orleans?”

“It wasn’t just to New Orleans, but to much of the southern United States. Mostly they came to escape the vampire nobility in Europe who were intent on wiping them out.”

The scenery around them changed from office buildings
and hotels to small shops, which then gave way to massive live oaks standing guard alongside block after block of palatial homes. Strands of plastic beads dangled from the higher branches and streetlamps, an odd contrast to the leaded glass, white columns, and stately front porches facing the street. “Why are there beads on the trees?”

“Leftovers from years of Mardi Gras. St. Charles is one of the main parade routes.”

She went back to studying the houses. “These homes are breathtaking.”

Mal snorted softly. “You don’t exactly live in a tent.”

“No, but these homes have character. Charm. There’s more to them than just their size.”

“Charisma spells,” Amery interjected.

“That’s a little strange, wanting someone to like your house that much,” Mal said.

“It’s more than that,” Amery continued. “The spell prevents vandalism by creating in the viewer a desire to protect. In this neighborhood, even small things like littering have been virtually wiped out.”

“Leave it to the fae,” Mal said, shaking his head.

Mortalis shot a smile back at Chrysabelle. “We always have been the brains of the othernatural realm.”

Amery turned down a side street off of St. Charles and drove another block or two, then turned again and parked. “We’re here.”

“Which house?” Chrysabelle asked.

“This one.” He jerked a thumb toward the house on the driver’s side.

For a house painted entirely in shades of gray and black, the ornate Victorian should have seemed dull, but there was something both welcoming and serious about it.
As if you’d better have business when you stepped onto its front porch, but so long as you did, come on in.

Mal leaned across to look out her window. “A high-ranking fae lives in a house with this much ironwork?”

Amery shook his head. “It’s not iron—it’s painted aluminum. Maintains the historical integrity without the nasty itch.” He pointed to a few houses across the street. “They’re almost all aluminum these days.”

Mortalis shifted to look at Mal and Chrysabelle. “The chances that Hugo will invite you in, Mal, are nil. He’s one of the elektos. Giving a vampire access to his home isn’t even up for debate. You might as well stay in the car.”

“Absolutely not,” Chrysabelle said. “He comes. This Hugo might be one of your leaders, but he’s not mine and he’s got something that belongs to me. Besides, Mal might be the only thing that keeps me from killing this idiot outright.” Her body tensed as her anger grew, sending a quick jolt of pain down her spine. “If Hugo won’t let him in, I’ll burn his house down.”

“Chrysabelle…” Mortalis tipped his head as if he were dealing with an unreasonable child.

“Don’t, Mortalis. You have no place to speak. Mal comes.” She opened her door and got out, tired of waiting, tired of discussing, ready to
do
. She slid her sacres on over her long coat, happy to have their slight weight back on her body.

Except for Amery, the others got out behind her. She stood in front of the chest-high gate, studying the house. A curtain in one of the upstairs windows swayed as though it had been dropped back into place. Being watched was no surprise. Nor was whoever had been at the window feeling no need to hide their inspection.
Clearly, she and her group were to understand that they were no longer on their home turf. What Hugo failed to comprehend was that she hadn’t been on her home turf in a long time. Every day was filled with lessons in adaptation, and if this Hugo thought he was going to have some sort of advantage because this was his city, his house, his rules… he was wrong.

Mortalis pushed a button concealed in one of the flowers decorating the elaborate metal fence surrounding the property. A buzzer sounded and he pushed through the gate.

She followed with Mal behind her. They waited on the porch while Mortalis rang the bell. The leaded glass on the double doors was mottled in such a way that only shapes were visible through it. The one coming toward them wore black.

The door opened and a doughy butler, who looked very human, addressed them. “Good afternoon.” He stepped aside, holding the door wide. “Do come in. Mr. Loudreux is waiting.”

Mal glanced at Chrysabelle. She understood that the butler wasn’t the home owner, so his invitation meant nothing to Mal. She stayed put, squaring her shoulders in preparation for the anticipated battle. “We need a more personal invitation. From Hugo himself.”

The butler lowered his hairy brows and squinted at her. His gaze moved to Mal, where it stopped, and his brows resumed their normal height. “Ah, yes, I suppose you would.” He frowned and shook his head at Mal. “I should call the guardian, but what good would that do? Mr. Loudreux is not going to be happy about this.”

“I don’t care if he cries like a little girl. Go get him,” Mal said. “We need an invite.”

“Hmph.” The butler shut the door as he turned on his heels. His penguin shape disappeared back into the foyer.

Mortalis sighed and stared at the blue painted porch ceiling. “This isn’t going to happen. I’m telling you.”

“So noted.” She gently pushed him aside to stand in front of the door. A minute or two later, two shapes came toward them, the penguin and a tall, slim figure.

Mr. Loudreux opened the door this time. He stood a head taller than any in their party, his slim build, narrow face, and freckles giving him away as a cypher. Nothing about his expression read as kindness. “I understand you expect me to grant a vampire entrance into my home.”

Chrysabelle lifted her chin. “I do.”

“No. If the rest of you want to come in, you may, but I suggest you do so quickly, as my patience tends to be nonexistent.”

She stepped forward, putting herself in his personal space and halfway into his house. “And I understand you wanted to see me before returning my property. Seeing me includes those in my company. If that doesn’t meet with your approval, then give me back
my
ring and we’re gone.”

He smiled. “I accepted the ring for safekeeping. The circumstances for its return were not discussed.”

Meaning Mortalis had handed it over quickly and without properly wording the details of the agreement. She knew how fae could be. Everything was open to interpretation. She narrowed her eyes and lowered her voice, moving quickly to slip one of her wrist blades into her hand. “Then you’ll understand if I use whatever means necessary to recover it.”

His mouth opened and he looked down to where her bone blade pressed against the ivory silk vest covering his belly.

“Try me,” she whispered.

His mouth snapped closed and he shuddered. “You may all enter.”

With a sharp snap of her wrist, the blade retracted. He stepped back, anger flashing in his eyes. Apparently, he wasn’t used to being dealt with in such a manner. She sailed past him into the house. Too bad for him. She was done playing games with beings who felt superior because of the power they wielded. Come tonight at midnight, the balance between those with power and those without was going to shift in a big way.

The butler scurried past her to open a pair of French doors and direct them into the parlor. Mortalis and Mal joined her, with Hugo bringing up the rear. He nodded to the butler, who closed the doors.

From a dim corner of the room, the darkness moved and a petite female shadeux fae emerged. Her charcoal leather pants and half vest, only slightly darker than the rest of her exposed skin, showed off a defined midsection and well-muscled arms that sported a row of barbs. Her black hair was braided down the center of her skull, leaving visible her pointed ears and a slender set of horns that jutted from her forehead, then arched back and around to follow the curve of her jawbone. The needle-fine ends were tipped in silver. She wore a sword strapped to her back, and blades at her wrists and thighs. She could have been Mortalis’s twin. Her presence explained Loudreux’s boldness. Chrysabelle had never known a cypher to be particularly daring without heavy backup.

The bodyguard’s gaze danced over the group, stopping on the other shadeux fae. Still, her face showed zero emotion. “Mortalis.”

His face hardened with displeasure. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I’m Mr. Loudreux’s personal security detail.” She tipped her head to one side. “Is that any way to greet your sister?”

Lola gasped. A baby? “Are you sure of what you’re saying? My daughter had a child?”

The chief nodded. “Yes. The levels return to normal within three to four weeks of a woman giving birth, so it was recent.” He glanced at Creek and John, then back at her. “I know you have questions, but that’s all the information I have. The PCPD is moving forward with every available asset to locate your daughter’s last known residence. If this child is out there, we’ll find it.”

“If?” she asked. Of course the child was out there. Newborns didn’t just disappear.

The chief sighed. “We can’t be sure the child is… alive.”

Lola rubbed her aching brow. The weight of responsibility pressed hard. She had to keep her sanity. Keep her city from crumbling along with her. “I understand. I want to know everything as soon as you do.”

“You have my word.” He nodded a good-bye and was gone.

She pushed a forkful of eggs across the plate without really seeing them. “A child. Can you imagine? What else could happen?”

Creek made a strangled noise. She looked up. He broke eye contact the second she made it, suddenly fixated on his coffee.

“What do you know?”

“Nothing.” He crammed half of a guava pastelito into his mouth.

She glared at him. “Lie to me again and your next meal will be served on a cold metal tray.”

He chewed, finally looking up. A sip of coffee, a swallow, and he spoke. “You really want to know? Even if it will cause you more pain? Even if it might not be true?”

“Either way, yes.” Any iota of information he could give her that would help her find this child—her grand-child—she would take. No matter how awful or heartbreaking it was.

Creek shot a quick look at John, then came back to her. “We—meaning myself, Mal, and Chrysabelle—were told by another person that he’d seen your daughter with a baby and the man believed to have fathered the child in Little Havana.”

She shrugged. “If you think it bothers me that my daughter lived in such a desperate part of town, it does, but not so much. She is Cuban American, after all.” Despite how Julia had taken her father’s side in the divorce, she was still Lola’s daughter. Nothing Julia did could ever erase that.

Creek nodded. “I live there, too. That’s not the point. The man she was with—”

“The baby’s father.”

“The man we suspect fathered the child. He’s… Look, there’s no easy way to say this. He’s a vampire. And not
just an ordinary one. He’s the only one any of us has ever known who can daywalk.”

Her body went hot, then cold, then numb. A vampire. Her grandchild was half monster. “How is it even possible?”

“I’m not really sure. Apparently he wasn’t turned in the usual way—”

She smacked her hand down on the tabletop, making the silverware jump. “I meant, how is it possible that a vampire got my daughter pregnant!”

Creek shrugged one shoulder. “I really don’t know. It shouldn’t be possible, but Preacher’s not your usual vampire.”