Dead But Not Forgotten (24 page)

“We can't give them anyone,” Father Bryan said, before I could stop him. Of course the vamps heard.

“Now, that would be unfortunate,” said the fat vamp. “Because I'd hate to have Chip back there hurt your friend. Shifter blood is strong, though, so he'd not require too much encouragement.” Fatty laughed and Chip grinned, pulling Lupe's head back by her hair to trail a finger down the girl's throat.

My eyes narrowed. “Unbunch your panties and don't touch her, ya hear? Now, you're telling me that all y'all want is your merch back, and a promise that we'll back off, and y'all will give us Lupe
and
leave both Lupe and Ricky alone?”

“Sure,” Fatty said magnanimously. “It's a win/win situation I'm offering, girl.”

“And how can I believe you?”

Fatty threw back his head and laughed. “You can't! But like I said—this is just a job. I ain't gonna risk my neck for a job.”

Funny, that's the realization I'd had all that time ago at the Bat's Wing. And “risking my neck” had been just as literal then as it was now.

Father Bryan fidgeted beside me and I glanced at him. “Calm down, Father. And don't you dare go out there.”

“But we can't give those people to them,” he said. “They need to understand that. They need to listen. We're not . . .”

Chip's fingernails dug into Lupe's neck and she came around enough to let out a low whine. My grip on Lolita tightened and Father Bryan gasped. Then he handed the shotgun to Sister Kate and moved forward before I could stop him.

“Now, son,” said the priest, stepping out of the Mission and into the moonlit courtyard.

“No,” I howled, but it was too late. Fatty had Father Bryan by the throat, grinning at him with those horrible fangs gleaming.

“It seems you're not taking negotiations seriously,” said Fatty. “But, despite my appearance, I am a serious person. Maybe you need a reminder of that?”

Father Bryan's shrill scream of pain was cut short by the fangs in his throat. Blood gushed red down his neck, soaking the white of his priest's collar. His eyes rolled in their sockets, wild with fear, finally settling on me, begging.

I heard my daddy's voice again that night, telling me just what I had to do. Raising the crossbow on my forearm, I sighted and fired.

Chip, having stepped away from Lupe just a fraction in anticipation of Fatty's strike, crumbled into dust. Before I could get another bolt loaded, the other vamp was holding Lupe, using her as a shield but otherwise unsure of what to do as I trained the reloaded crossbow on Fatty. He hissed at me over Father Bryan's bloody neck.

“You're going to stop drinking and put that priest down, you hear me?” I said. “Then you're going to heal his wounds, take your remaining minion, and get the fuck off my lawn.”

Lawn
was hardly an appropriate term for the patch of desert that was the Mission's courtyard, but it worked. Fatty raised his mouth from Father Bryan's neck, keeping the priest in front of him to fuck up my aim.

“And why would we do that?” Fatty asked. “Especially now that you've killed Chip. I think that means we should commence raping the shit out of you, until we decide to kill you.”

I shook my head. “That's no way for a gentleman to behave, first of all. But you're not going to rape or kill me. Wanna hear why?”

Fatty cocked his head, as if indulging a slow child.

“Because if you make a move toward us, Lolita here'll kill at least one of you. Either you or your little cockroach over there. And Sister Kate here might not have wood in her gun, but she has silver, and anybody can hit the broad side of a barn with a shotgun. Since you're about as big as a barn, that much silver is gonna hurt mighty bad. Who knows, it might even kill you.

“So one of you is gonna die tonight, maybe both of you. And I believe you when you said y'all were just hired guns. Are you really gonna die for a job?”

“It's about more than money now, honey,” said Fatty, licking obscenely at Father Bryan's dripping neck. “It's about reputation, and honor. A man has to able to look himself in the mirror when he shaves, you know?”

“Vampires don't shave,” I clarified primly. “And even if you're not scared of me, I'm thinking that the Bureau of Vampire Affairs won't be happy y'all are hiring yourselves out to human traffickers when they're trying to make themselves look good for the upcoming elections.”

Fatty laughed. “And who the fuck are you that the Bureau will know about our little operation?”

My daddy always taught me that if you played the ace in your sleeve and you got caught, then you only had one other option. Flip the fucking table over and start punching.

I flipped my fucking table over, knowing that by doing so, I'd be revealing my sordid, fangbanger past to all and sundry in attendance. But it couldn't be helped.

Forgive me my sins, Ricky,
I thought. I knew at least Father Bryan and the nuns would have to, as forgiveness was part of their job description. But what would Ricky think of me when all this was over?

“Oh,” I said, “I am
totally
nobody . . . except for one thing. I'm the favorite pet of Nicholas Le Grange, le Comte du Rhône. Nicholas
is
someone, I'm afraid. And he's real close to Stan Davis. You know Stan Davis?”

Fatty's pudgy face managed to get even whiter, a feat I appreciated. He did know Stan Davis, it seemed, and I was glad of that. Because I sure as hell didn't know Stan Davis well enough to call on him, and neither did Nick, not really. I'd been a mere human servant at Stan's bar, and Nick a problematic vampire nestmate with a penchant for turning underage high school quarterbacks. Also, I think the “Comte du Rhône” thing was something I read on a wine bottle.

But Fatty didn't have to know that.

“So, just to clarify, all I have to do is pull my phone out and make a call. Then this
nobody
will tell the BVA exactly what you fuckers are doing. I've heard vampire justice is swift and thorough. I'm sure y'all will enjoy it immensely.”

Fatty glared at me. I never lowered my crossbow.

“Phone's in my back pocket, Sister Kate,” I lied. It was in my truck, or what was left of it.

The nun's hand snaked toward my hip, keeping her eyes carefully on the ground to avoid Fatty's.

“Stop! Fine,” he shouted. “This ain't fucking worth it.” With a savage movement, he bit into his own wrist, rubbing it roughly over Father Bryan's throat. Then he dropped the priest, signaling the other vampire to do the same to Lupe. The girl fell to her knees, catching herself as her shifter blood finally began to metabolize the tranquilizer.

“Watch your back, girlie,” said Fatty to me. “Because one night . . .”

“One night, if I disappear, y'all will find your name and description delivered directly to the bureau and to the human media, along with a thorough recounting of tonight's events. So I suggest y'all forget about me, forget about this Mission, and find a new line of work. Maybe in a new state, in case I decide to send those descriptions anyway, just to be on the safe side.”

Fatty swore, spitting again. Then the two bloodsuckers were gone, ducking out with vampire speed.

I pulled Sister Kate back before she could run to Father Bryan.

“Go get us stools from the kitchen,” I said to the nun. “He'll be fine. And we're going to sit here till sunrise, or until either Lupe or the good Father can drag the other's ass inside. In the meantime, we shoot anything that gets close to 'em, you hear me?”

Sister Kate nodded, wide-eyed. She'd obviously been surprised to hit the violent layer of my onion.

A lot of people were.

After Sister got me a chair, I risked a glimpse back at Ricky. He was slumped against the wall, asleep, his face ashen but peaceful.

Turning to guard my friends, I pulled his jacket close around me. I could smell him in the collar—soap and cologne and man—and it sure was cozy.

It was true that I didn't need it, I realized, keeping my crossbow trained into the darkness as Lupe and Father Bryan finally pulled themselves, together, over the Mission house's threshold.

But it was nice to have something keeping me warm on a cold desert night.

Creeping through darkened corridors, I bit back a squeal when a heavy hand fell on my shoulder.

“Taking advantage of a wounded man,” said Father Bryan. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“Don't sneak up on me like that!” I hissed.

“You owe me a confession or two, it seems. As does Ricky.”

I blushed hotly, grateful the priest couldn't see me in the dark. “We're adults,” I began, but he cut me off.

“And if you choose to spend the night playing Scrabble, it's none of my business. But maybe you can move your game-playing to your apartment when Ricky recovers fully.”

“Got it,” I said, wondering how a priest still had the power to make even a lapsed Catholic die of shame.

“I heard your truck's fixed,” the priest said, backing up toward the window so I could see him in the moonlight. He was physically healed from the vampire attack, only a lot more silver hairs indicating his recent adventure.

“Yep,” I said.

“Will you be moving on?”

I shrugged. “The truck was expensive, even with your help. I'll need to earn some more money.”

“So you're just waiting on money?”

“Yes. Although maybe Milagro ain't so bad . . .”

Father Bryan smiled. “I thought it might be growing on you. Well, I'll leave you to the patient. Don't overtire him . . . playing chess, or whatever.”

“Roger that,” I said, pushing Ricky's door open.

I could hear his quiet breathing, deep and slow. He was asleep.

Stripping silently in the dark, I took my now-familiar place at his side. Without fully waking, he curled protectively around me. I sighed at the heat of his skin, so delightfully warm.

After a few very long talks, in which he told me the truth about himself, and I told him the truth about me, we'd forgiven each other. And then we'd made out like teenagers in a dark closet playing Seven Minutes in Heaven, but for, like, forever.

I hadn't spent a night alone in a few days now, which I appreciated.

“Desiree Dumas,” he murmured in my ear, apparently more awake than I'd thought. Much more awake, I realized, as something extra hot and hard prodded at my hip. He snuffled at my hair, a shifter ritual I enjoyed now that I'd gotten used to it.

“Desiree Dumas,” I affirmed, enjoying the roll of my name on my own tongue.

For at some point in the last week, helping Ricky, Lupe, and Father Bryan recover from the attacks and guarding them in case the vamps returned, I'd learned a good lesson.

That if anything came after me—say a beautiful French vampire who'd discovered where his pet had got off to—I knew I needn't run.

After all, I had the fixin's of a truly Cajun happy endin': a good man, a crossbow named Lolita, and enough wooden bolts to protect myself and the people I loved.

Daddy would be proud.

LEIGH EVANS

Leigh Evans's fancy was caught by Todd Seabrook and Bev Leveto, the vampire hosts of a reality show mentioned in
Dead and Gone
. The two fashionistas have never met their makeover match, until the night Eric Northman sends them to deal with the recluse of Vicksburg. Best friends Todd and Bev have their work cut out for them.

—

“You lead.” Bev's gaze traveled over the outline of the old two-story house, taking in the broken slats of the shutters, the buildup of brush around the foundation.

Todd extended his hand to test the light Louisiana rain. “Why do I always have to go first?”

“Sweetie, what have I always told you?”

“Always moisturize before dawn?”

“Not that.”

“Never have a midnight snack who's eaten lasagna?”

“No, silly.” She gave him a hearty shove out of their custom-painted RV in the general direction of the front door. “Always lead with your best asset.”

Todd streaked across the weed-choked yard at full speed—a long blur of dark hair and cream cashmere. Once he'd gained the relative shelter of the leaking porch, he twisted himself to stare at her. “Now what?”

Five years ago, maybe even three, she would have shaken her head in irritation at his constant need for direction. Now she simply mimed knocking.

“I wish we'd brought the camera crew,” he said, after giving the warped wooden door an enthusiastic pounding. “I know this makeover is pro-boner but I don't see why we couldn't have brought them.”

“Pro bono,” Bev corrected. “And a vamp marriage ceremony is not for public consumption.”
Though we would have killed in the ratings. The living love schmaltz.
She extended a manicured nail toward the gray hive hanging from the corner of the porch's roof. “Besides, there
are
cameras, Toddy. There's a small one hidden inside that wasp's nest.”

She'd noticed the first one when they turned onto the dirt road. Admittedly, her powers of observation had been dulled by the languor of her self-induced starvation (a short-term deprivation due to the fact that they'd just finished a shoot and she'd met her mortal end smack-dab in the middle of her monthly period bloat). Malnourished or not, Bev's survival instincts had kicked in once she'd noticed the presence of a surveillance camera in the fork of the old oak tree. As a rule, a derelict house and a few acres of scrub didn't warrant the cost of security cameras. She'd quietly searched for others as her co-host painstakingly steered their RV around the worst of the driveway's potholes. By her count, the camera in the wasp's nest made four.

“It's a camera? Really?” Todd spun around, completely intrigued.

That was both the downside and joy of Toddy. Since he had the attention span of a teenager with a remote control and a thousand channels, he greeted each new experience without the been-there, done-that ennui of most vamps his age. Agreed, it was a virtue set by default. His long-term memory was full of holes; thus most things
were
new to Toddy.

His maker had never bothered to perform an intelligence test before he turned the handsome farm boy with the dimples and flashing teeth into an immortal.

“See the red recording light?” Bev asked.

Todd strained on his toes to get a better look. “Peaches, it
is
a camera!” he said with delight. For the benefit of the device—Toddy loved
any
camera—he bestowed upon it one of his widest smiles. “Hello, Liara Giacona! I'm Todd Seabrook and this is Bev Leveto.” Then he paused (because she'd drilled into him that timing was everything) before delivering what they called the “Come to Vlad” kicker. “And we're from the hit show
The Best Dressed Vamp
. We're here to uncover your true beauty!”

Dead silence from the house.

“I don't think she's home,” Todd whispered.

“Oh, she's home.”

“How do you know?”

“Our bride-to-be is a recluse.” Bev crossed her arms, mentally recalculating their timetable. “Where else would she be but inside? Reclusing?”

For the seventh time since they'd left Shreveport, Todd said, “I wonder who the groom is. It has to be someone well connected for Eric to call in such a big favor.”

Bev set her expression to “squash”—dark eyes narrowed until her thick lashes almost tangled, thin cheeks sucked in until the soft inside brushed against the hard plastic of her flipper. It was askew again. She willed her left fang to retract, then nudged her dental device back in its proper place with the tip of her tongue. Hunger and flippers, two things that constantly worked against each other.

Beauty never came cheap.

“Toddy,” she said for the eighth time since they left Shreveport, “remember that nothing matters beyond the makeover. That's what we do. We make ugly people beautiful. Everything else is a detail. And we don't—”

“Like details,” finished Toddy.

She was giving him the atta-boy nod when something fluttered in her peripheral vision.

“Toddy,” she whispered. “There's something behind you. Don't kill it, okay?”

Ever since “the incident”—or as Toddy called it, “when that psycho bitch tried to kill me”—her co-host had been a trifle twitchy.

Three things happened next. Toddy spun around, the porch lights flickered on and off, and Bev felt the first stirring of real curiosity since the moment Eric had summoned them to Louisiana to perform a hasty makeover on the recluse of Vicksburg.

Showmanship. Now, that was something Bev admired.

A semitransparent figure was doing the dance of the seven veils in one of the downstairs dark windows. As visions of Gothic horror go, it was a humdinger: female, Medusa hair, wearing what looked like a cat-shredded muumuu.

“Goooooo awaaaaaaay,” the thing moaned. “Gooooooo now!”

Todd's eyes bugged. “Our makeover's a ghost?”

“Now, what would be the point of that?” Bev reached for her box of tricks. “Sweetie, the woman lives alone and has no one to watch her back. She has to have some sort of alarm system to keep the squatters out of her place during the daylight hours. It's nothing more than an illusion, probably done with mirrors.”

“Go awaaaaay!” howled the apparition.

“Not going to happen, Liara!” Careful of her heels, Bev picked her way across the soggy ground.

“I already don't like her,” Todd muttered when she joined him on the porch.

“Eyes on the prize, Toddy.” Bev set her case down. She'd come loaded for bear, filling her sturdy tool kit with fourteen shades of blush, two dozen bottles of thick foundation, every conceivable shade of eye shadow, superglue, latex, and several types of tape. You never knew who needed a rib or two broken to fit into the perfect dress.

“Liara Giacona,” she said, in a clear, firm—
always be firm
—voice. “Before sunrise, you will be brought to Fangtasia. You will arrive there begowned and bedazzled. Your makeup will be divine, your imperfections well camouflaged, and your booty—should it require help—will be as high and round as the best shapewear can make it. When you meet your groom, I can promise you that you will look absolutely radiant, even if we need to glue a smile to your lips.”

“Leaaaaave here,” intoned the apparition.

“You wish.” Bev unzipped her shoulder purse to extract a sealed envelope. “Since you've chosen to ignore his e-mails, Eric has directed me to hand you this communiqué reminding you of your debt to him.”

“All debts are paaaaaid.”

“Well, brace yourself, cookie. Now that Felipe de Castro's made his move, old debts are being shifted between vamps faster than a Vegas cardsharp shuffling aces into the pack. Eric's called in all of our markers and here we are.”

“Told you we shouldn't have taken his money for the flipper start-up,” said Todd.

“Not in front of the makeover candidate,” she murmured, her lips barely moving. Though now that the question was raised, Bev found herself briefly wondering what possible political benefit Eric could earn by connecting a Louisiana recluse to one of Felipe's new boys.

A moth fluttered toward the wasp's nest, drawn to the camera's red eye.

Details.
Bev gave herself an internal shake and went back to business. “Liara, we're here to make you pretty.”

“Go awaa—”

“Oh, for Pete's sake.” Bev passed the envelope to Todd. “Open it and hold the letter up to the camera so she can read it.”

“I wish you'd let me kill the spook,” said Todd, removing the sheet of paper. Lips set in a snarl that in no way diminished his beauty, he held Eric's missive up to the wasp's nest.

The window's ghostly apparition winked out.

And stayed out. Bev checked her watch. Eight hours until dawn. “Heads will roll if we don't get this done in time,” she muttered.

Either Liara was an achingly slow reader, or she was choking over the contents of Eric's missive. Curiosity tugging again, Bev edged sideways to read the letter over Todd's shoulder.
Dear Liara
, it began, prosaically enough. It wasn't until paragraph two that Bev's gut plummeted.

Him? Liara was to be Anton Van D.'s consort? Bev's brain—the one part of her that was demonstrably still alive—hiccupped.
Not him.
She read it again. Yes. There it was in black and white. Anton Van D. was to wed the recluse of Vicksburg.

Bev's path hadn't crossed his since Hoover's party. When was that? Before or after Kennedy? She couldn't remember but it didn't matter. She could recall the room, the dresses, the pool of people circulating the room—minnows unaware of the very hungry shark. She'd been leaning against the wall, debating the wisdom of informing J. Edgar that the rigid girdle under that sateen horror of a dress had been a terrible mistake, when she'd heard Anton's laugh.

Light. Mocking.

She'd left right away. True, she'd stopped to snag a diplomat as a consolation prize before she sailed through J. Edgar's door, but still—she'd left without pausing to acknowledge Van D.'s existence with so much as a polite nod.

And now, Eric had tasked her with prettying
his
bride.

Oh, the irony.

Todd glanced at the paper, then asked casually, “Whose head will roll?”

“Ours,” she said faintly.

“Oh hell no.” The paper fluttered to the porch as Todd spun on his heel. One hard kick and the rickety door was reduced to splinters. He skipped over the debris littering the threshold while Bev bent to retrieve Eric's note.

The moth followed, fluttering into the hallway to strike up a flirtation with the single, bare lightbulb.

“You listen here, missy!” Todd put his hands on his hips. “I have not lived through five centuries of war, plagues, and stake-happy villagers just to lose it all over a vamp who's too dumb to take advantage of my fashion sense! We can transform you! We
will
transform you!”

Her co-host's spiel was delivered to the moth, a mouse quivering under the floorboard, and not a great deal more. The living room appeared deserted, as was the attached dining room and Formica-proud kitchen. All three rooms were fastidiously clean.

And empty of one Liara Giacona.

“I'll find her,” Todd promised.

Bev's nod was at best abstract. She smoothed Eric's letter carefully before folding it into a precise square. Maybe she'd use it for target practice later. After she'd made a fashion-backward recluse into a bride worthy of Anton Van D.'s appreciation.

Toddy did his best. No cupboard was left unopened, no bed left unturned. Shoulders slumped, he descended the stairs. “Well, I got nothing. I can't find her anywhere.”

Reminding herself that
everything else was a detail
, Bev stepped into the hall and inhaled. The stale air carried the faintly dry smell of an old female vampire, but it was missing one vital tooth-taunting scent.

Her co-host sampled the air, too, his brow crumpled. “What's wrong?”

“I can't smell any fresh blood,” she said. Old vamps usually preferred their meals warm and organic. But the only scent of nourishment present in this house was the chemical hint of TrueBlood. The aroma was the most pungent in the old-fashioned parlor, over by the back wall, near the easy chair that sulked under the flimsy weight of a truly ugly antimacassar.

Bev removed the crocheted dust catcher with a grimace.

This was where Liara spent her nights? This lumpy chair positioned to face an old portable TV? How did she stand the quiet? The lack of lights and company? The set was on, its screen streaming a surveillance video feed of the backyard. A remote rested on the side table beside a deck of cards.

“This place reminds me of somewhere.” Bev turned to reexamine the fireplace mantel with its matching brass candlesticks, the standing lamp with its bobble-trimmed shade, the spindle-legged dining table. Incongruous were the other, far less obvious details—the little pinhole projector over the window, the motion detector alarm, the water sprinklers in all of the rooms.