On Midnight Wings

13 THE FIRST BREATH OF WINTER NEW ORLEANS THE WINTER ROSE

THE FALLEN ANGEL WAS gone.

Guy Mauvais stood in the doorway of the riverboat’s workroom, his fingers clenched around the crystal goblet of stove-warmed blood he held—never microwaved, since the damned contraption destroyed what little flavor and nutritional value bagged blood possessed—as he stared in disbelief at the wooden table.

Empty—save for bits of white stone scattered across its surface and the melted stubs of candles left by the hoodoo woman, hardened tendrils of wax hanging like pale icicles from the table’s edge.

The smoky aroma of incense and wax mingled with the fading scent of the hoodoo woman’s hex-removal potion—mint and wintergreen, salt, and the lavender-clove-citrus spice of Florida Water.

“Mon Dieu,” Mauvais breathed. “It actually worked.” Excitement tingled electric along his spine. He entered the room, powdered stone gritting beneath the soles of his dress shoes as he hurried over to the table. “It actually worked,” he repeated.

It’d been nearly three nights since Mauvais had chiseled the stone from the fallen angel’s nude body, revealing black leathery wings, waist-length red hair, and taloned fingers and toes. Celtic designs—concentric circles, triskelions, delicate loops—were silver-inked along the motionless figure’s right side from torc-collared throat to hand.

Freed of stone, then, but not the spell that had trapped him within it, the fallen angel’s mouth had remained frozen in a silent scream, the moss-green eyes unseeing, the tight-muscled body locked in a crouch.

So, last night, refusing to give up or admit defeat, but lacking any magic useful to the situation, Mauvais had ordered the riverboat’s return to New Orleans. Once the Winter Rose had docked at the Esplanade Avenue wharf, he’d sent his mortal servants into the Quarter and out into the bayous to find someone—be it hoodoo conjurer, Vodou mambo, or nomad shuvano—possessing the necessary magical skills to shatter the thrice-damned spell.

Mauvais’s servants had returned first with a Vodou houngan who’d taken one look at the Winter Rose, then declared it and its master cursed. Refusing to step on board for any amount of money, the houngan had shouted his sincere condolences up to Mauvais, then turned and walked away without another word.

From where he stood against the wood railing, Mauvais regarded his chagrined servants with thin-lipped displeasure as they scurried away to resume their search.

They returned a few hours later with Clèmentine, a slender hoodoo dressed in chocolate brown cords and a mustard-yellow sweater. In her mid-thirties with a wild mass of auburn curls and sky-blue eyes, she seemed to have no qualms about working for a man rumored to be a vampire or about breaking a hex on what appeared to be a fallen angel.

She’d studied Mauvais for a long moment, her blue gaze taking in the wheat-blond hair tied back at the nape of his neck with a black satin ribbon, the aristocratic features, his elegant, if old-fashioned suit, the pale skin and lambent eyes.

“Well, madame?” he’d finally inquired. “Do you also believe I am cursed?”

“Oh, without a doubt, M’sieu Mauvais. You got an angry loa on dis here boat, one I want nuthin’ to do wit’, but I’ll take the job.”

Mauvais had arched a skeptical eyebrow. “Even with an angry loa on board?”

“Got a mortgage, me,” Clèmentine had replied with a philosophical shrug of her shoulder.

Mauvais had chuckled. “I appreciate your forthright and practical nature.”

Clèmentine’s lips had curled into a smile. She’d extended her hand, palm up. “And I appreciate cash, m’sieu.”

Once she’d been paid, and paid well, she’d immediately gone to work with her potions and powders and gris-gris, her juju bags and holy water and oil-anointed candles, promising Mauvais that his fallen angel would rise once again.

But when the conjurer had finally left shortly before dawn after murmuring one last Psalm over the angel’s utterly unchanged form, Mauvais had been disappointed, and believed himself duped perhaps.

The empty table was proof that he’d been wrong.

Which begged the question—where had the angel gone?

Mauvais drained his cooling breakfast, grimacing at the blood’s flat, lifeless taste, then set the goblet down on the table as he glanced around the room. Faint glimmers of light from the wharf filtered in through the porthole—more than enough to see that he was alone in the room. The taste of blood turned bitter on his tongue.

He picked up the chisel. Particles of pale stone still dusted its end. If, after everything, the damned angel had simply flown away without even a word. . . .

Mauvais hurled the chisel across the room. It struck the wood paneling at the far wall, driving in deep, handle quivering.

From the corner of his eye, Mauvais caught a flicker of blue light and spun to face it. He saw only the stone-littered table, the goblet glinting with ruby light from the porthole, and shadowed shelves filled with boxes and coils of rope and tools.

No blue flickers. No ghostly movement. Nothing.

He was merely jumping at shadows—or, more accurately, blue light. Again.

Ever since they’d docked in New Orleans last night, he’d been catching odd glimpses of blue light in his peripheral vision, along with disturbing whiffs of ozone and heated metal. On a couple of occasions, his skin had prickled as though lightning crackled in the air right above him, filling him with an odd and inexplicable dread.

You got an angry loa on dis here boat . . .

“Non,” Mauvais refused with a shake of his head. “Pas ici. Pas possible.”

He marched over to the light switch and slapped it on. Nothing. He uselessly hit the switch a few more times, as if that would make a difference. Annoyed with himself, he dropped his hand and blew out a long, frustrated breath.

Yet another thing that had happened ever since they’d docked at the Esplanade Avenue wharf—lights blew out, equipment short-circuited, and computers—navigational and otherwise—glitched.

And now the fallen angel, the one he’d rescued from being a good-luck charm for tourists, drunks, and the desperate visiting St. Louis Cemetery No. 3, the one whose mere presence (grateful, of course) at his side could’ve elevated Mauvais in status far beyond Lord of New Orleans, was just . . . gone.

This riverboat and its master are cursed. My sincere apologies . . .

No damned curse—not unless the houngan or conjurer had hexed him in hopes of making more money, which seemed unlikely, since the problems had begun before either one had arrived. And no angry loa. Just a run of mechanical problems and bad luck.

Closing his eyes, Mauvais rubbed his temples, forcing his body to relax, coaxing the tension from knotted muscles. Like it or not, the angel was gone, and there was nothing he could do about it.

He needed a good stiff drink of fine bourbon, then he would go into the Quarter and dine. Perhaps a naïve tourist as an appetizer, followed by a full-course meal, in the form of the hunt, chasing down a more canny New Orleans native, and feasting on their fear and adrenaline-simmered blood.

Feeling the tension drain from his muscles as he pondered his meal options, Mauvais gave his temples one final circular rub before ending the massage. Eyes open once more, he left the workroom and climbed the stairs to the deck, his shoes soundless against the iron. He breathed in the river’s cool, muddy scent.

Perhaps Laurent and Rafe would finally track down that betraying bâtard Vincent, and bring him home as a flesh-and-blood gift, one offering superior tension-releasing opportunities. Perhaps Vincent could even be the dessert capping a night of fine dining. Mauvais smiled at the thought.

Lanterns hung from hooks spaced evenly along the riverboat’s length, casting wavering pools of pale yellow light across the teak deck and infusing the air with the pungent aroma of kerosene. Even though it meant the generators still weren’t working, Mauvais felt nostalgic at the sight of the lanterns, the sound of their steady hiss, remembering a time when there were no such things as electricity or GPS or computers.

Once we relied on only the moon and stars to guide us.

On our instincts. Our hunger. Our blood.

We’ve become lazy. Complacent. Stagnant.

An image flashed through his mind, one nearly four nights old: Dante Baptiste on his knees, held in place by Mauvais’s vampires, his pale face defiant, a smirk on his bloodied lips as he jerks his chin free of Mauvais’s grasp and meets his gaze.

Dante, Dante, Dante . . . You refuse to recognize my authority.

Authority over what? Wharf rats? Ass kissers?

You’re disrespectful. Defiant, and rude. You even break our laws.

Fuck your laws.

Another smile curled across Mauvais’s lips. Well, he amended, as he remembered the intoxicating taste of Dante’s blood—copper and pomegranates, heady adrenaline and sun-warmed grapes—and the power that had surged through his veins, courtesy of the True Blood’s unwilling donation. Perhaps not all of us have forgotten our instincts. His smile deepened. Nor our hunger.

As Mauvais strode toward the wheelhouse, he heard the familiar tread of his majordomo hurrying behind him. An acrid tang—concern, unease, perhaps—smudged the man’s scent of cedar and Irish moss.

“What is it, Edmond?” Mauvais called lazily, not bothering to slow his pace for the mortal. “I am not in the mood for any more problems.”

“Not a problem, m’sieu,” Edmond said in hushed, if somewhat breathless, tones as he drew up alongside Mauvais. Tall, lean, and in his early forties, he was impeccably dressed in his usual uniform of black morning coat and vest, sharply creased black trousers, and shoes polished to a mirror-bright gleam. “Well, not exactly, I should say.”

“Then what is it exactly? Spit it out.”

“M’sieu, it’s the tailor—”

“The tailor? Why are you bothering me with the tailor? Has he run off to design his own fashion line? Everyone seems to be doing so these days.”

“No, he has not. But it’s not the tailor, per se, m’sieu, it’s—” Edmond’s words stopped cold at a warning shout from one of the guards at the riverboat’s gangplank, a warning answered with a contemptuous string of fluid and very imaginative Italian.

Giovanni Toscanini.

Mauvais sighed. Whether he was in the mood for it or not, another problem had just arrived in the form of Renata Alessa Cortini’s emissary, her fils de sang; a guest Mauvais had, admittedly, lied to and deceived and had hoped to avoid for a while longer.

Perhaps he was cursed after all, he mused ruefully. Well, nothing for it, but . . .

<Please allow Signor Toscanini onboard,> Mauvais sent to his guards. <And do not insult him with an escort—he is still my guest.>

“M’sieu, the tailor,” Edmond persisted quietly, “he—”

Mauvais flapped a dismissive hand. “Can wait.”

Edmond shot a glance toward the stairs leading belowdecks, then gave a nearly imperceptible shrug. “As you wish, m’sieu. I shall fetch brandy for you and your guest.” Turning, the majordomo left in a brisk stride.

Mauvais crossed to the railing and leaned against it, elbows resting on the gleaming wood, the night-blackened waters of the Mississippi at his back. Giovanni blurred to a stop in front of him a mere moment later, fragrant with the scent of the sea—salt, sand, and deep waters.

Dressed in a black, silver-buttoned short-sleeved shirt, and tight designer jeans, Giovanni folded his arms over his chest, biceps defined against the black material. He looked down his proud Roman nose at Mauvais, his hazel eyes no longer warm or full of playful mischief, but narrowed into an icy glare.

“Tu sei un bastardo mentendo,” he said, voice tight.

Mauvais arched an eyebrow. “And a good evening to you, as well.”

Giovanni snorted. “I don’t want to play the innocence and denials game. I haven’t the patience.”

“Actually, neither do I,” Mauvais said, somewhat relieved. He usually looked forward to the verbal chess playing and mental sparring between vampires, but tonight—between the ungrateful and missing fallen angel, the bizarre electrical mishaps, and claims of curses and angry loas—he just didn’t have it in him.

“You knew I wanted to be notified the moment Dante Baptiste returned to New Orleans,” Giovanni said, dark brows slanting down in a scowl. “Yet you sent me off to the French Quarter like a drunk tourist, knowing that Baptiste was not only in town, but right here”—he stamped one boot against the deck—“right under my feet. And against his will, no less.”

“A necessary deception,” Mauvais replied, “for which I apologize.”

“Playing me for a fool was a necessary deception?”

“Unfortunately. Again, my apologies. I truly had no choice.”

Giovanni laughed, darkly amused. “No choice? How is that possible? You’re the Lord of New Orleans.”

“Indeed I am.” Mauvais held Giovanni’s gaze. “And part of my responsibilities as lord is to discipline vampires who flout our laws. Dante happens to be one of those.”

“Even though I told you that, as a True Blood, he is to be treated with the utmost respect?” Giovanni’s voice slivered ice into the air. “Even though I told you that his crimes would be taken before the Cercle de Druide for proper consideration?”

“Oui. I’m afraid that wasn’t good enough for my fille de sang. She’d lost so much at Dante’s hands.” Tension crept back into Mauvais’s muscles, his spine, at the thought of Justine. Twin blades of loss and betrayal sank deep into his heart—just before he hardened it once more.

Foolish girl, ungrateful child. I gave you your justice when I ordered Dante’s home burned to the ground. Why couldn’t you let it be enough? “And where is the lovely Justine?” Giovanni asked, lowering his arms to his sides. A breeze from off the river ruffled through his razor-cut burgundy locks. “I haven’t seen her.”

“And you won’t,” Mauvais said coolly, “as she is no longer a member of this household.” Refusing the question in the Italian’s eyes, he pushed away from the railing, and glanced aft. “Ah, here comes Edmond with our drinks.”

And, oddly, not alone. A tall figure walked beside the majordomo, his stride confident and relaxed. The height and waist-length hair along with the glowing golden eyes made Mauvais think of Lucien De Noir. His heart stuttered against his ribs.

Not De Noir, no. His fallen angel had returned.

“Who is that?” Giovanni asked, his tone a verbal frown.

“One of the Elohim,” Mauvais replied with a deliberate nonchalance that suggested he played host to fallen angels all the time and, really, it was becoming a bit of a bore.

“Truly?” Wonder skipped like a child in that single word. “Which is he?”

Mauvais shrugged. “We haven’t yet had an opportunity to speak—not even an exchange of names. But I think that is about to change,” he mused as the pair drew to a halt in front of him.

The angel’s scent—fallow earth and cold stone and thin, crackling ice, the first breath of winter—chilled the air. Tendrils of his red hair lifted on the breeze and moonlight glinted from the torc curving around his throat. He wore a white linen shirt and charcoal-gray trousers, a matching suit jacket draped over one arm.

A wry smile tugged at Mauvais’s lips. So that’s what Edmond was trying to tell me—that my former statue was up and about and getting a fitting from my tailor.

“M’sieu Guy Mauvais, Lord of New Orleans,” Edmond smoothly informed the immortal at his side, “and his guest, Signor Giovanni Toscanini of the Cercle de Druide, arrived from Rome.”

“Welcome aboard the Winter Rose,” Mauvais said, studiously ignoring the I-tried-to-tell-you twitch of the majordomo’s eyebrow. “I’m pleased that my tailor has managed to accommodate you in such fine fashion, m’sieu . . .” He trailed off, giving the angel an opportunity to gracefully supply his name.

An opportunity the fallen angel ignored. Instead he smoothed a hand down the front of his pristine shirt and replied in a deep, musical voice, “Your tailor is quite skilled, yes, and seemed to enjoy the challenge.”

Chuckling, Mauvais accepted a half-filled brandy snifter from the tray Edmond extended with white-gloved hands. “I’m sure he did.”

“Ah, refreshments,” the fallen angel said, golden eyes brightening. Ignoring the snifters arrayed upon Edmond’s tray, he instead plucked the white rose from the pocket of the majordomo’s morning coat and popped one snowy petal into his mouth.

Edmond neither blinked nor frowned, simply inclined his head, as though to say, Excellent choice, m’sieu, then offered his tray to Giovanni. At Mauvais’s nodded dismissal, he quietly withdrew.

Mauvais slid a companionable arm around Giovanni’s shoulders and murmured, “I need to have a private chat with my winged guest. It shouldn’t take long. If you wait for me in the casino belowdecks, perhaps play a few rounds of roulette, we shall resume our conversation once I’m finished here.”

While Mauvais felt a deep satisfaction—not to mention a bit of triumph—in knowing that Giovanni would immediately contact Renata and the rest of the Cercle and inform them that Guy Mauvais had found favor among the Fallen, he did not want the details of his upcoming conversation with the angel to be included in the handsome Italian’s report.

A vampire needed secrets, after all.

Giovanni’s muscles tensed beneath Mauvais’s arm. “This had better not be another trick to get rid of me,” he warned in a low voice.

“I’m merely asking you to wait, not leave.”

With a soft, frustrated sigh, Giovanni looked past Mauvais to the fallen angel, then lifted his snifter of brandy to his lips and tossed back its dark amber contents. “Fine, then,” he muttered, resting the empty glass on the railing. “I’ll wait. But don’t make me wait long.”

“Of course not,” Mauvais replied with a warm smile. He gave Giovanni’s shoulder a companionable squeeze before releasing him. “You have my word.”

With a derisive snort—one Mauvais chose to ignore—Giovanni strode away, following after Edmond. Once they were alone and the only sounds Mauvais heard were the hissing kerosene lanterns, the creak of the wood beneath his feet, and the Mississippi’s wet kisses against the riverboat, he gave his attention to the immortal standing silently beside him.

“For a guest, he seems somewhat cranky and demanding,” the fallen angel commented. “Although, given that he’s a vampire, I suppose that’s to be expected.”

Mauvais pursed his lips, considering, then admitted, “True.”

The angel laughed, the sound of it like the joyous pealing of wedding bells. “I understand that I have you to thank for my freedom,” he said, once his mirth had passed. He drew in a deep breath of air, seeming to savor the simple action of breathing. “I truly appreciate it.”

“I’m glad I could help,” Mauvais replied with an elegant half-shrug, knowing the gesture would suggest a careless modesty and an altruistic nature that he didn’t possess. “We’re fortunate that my people stumbled across you while chasing down a rude marmot in desperate need of a lesson in manners. How did you end up as a stone statue guarding a tomb, anyway?”

“The usual way. Treachery. Betrayal by a brother.” A smile—dark and somehow eager—curved the fallen angel’s lips, revealing sharp white teeth. “But I intend to pay back in kind.”

“I am willing to help in any way possible,” Mauvais said, then took a sip of the brandy, savoring its smooth oak-and-rose flavor.

“Wonderful.” The angel pulled several more petals from the rose and ate them, chewing thoughtfully. Swallowing, he said, “Perhaps you can help me find the guilty party since I believe he resides in the area—or did, before he tricked me with lies and a blood spell.”

“Of course. What’s his name?”

“He’s known as the Nightbringer, but it’s his son I’m most interested in.”

“Son?” Mauvais stared at the fallen angel, startled. “Lucien De Noir—the Nightbringer—doesn’t have a son. At least, not that I’m aware of.”

But even as the words left his mouth, a dark suspicion snaked through Mauvais’s mind as he remembered how De Noir had always guarded Dante Baptiste, remembered how he used to wonder why one of the Fallen had chosen to stand beside the beautiful and dangerous True Blood—or any vampire for that matter. He’d often wondered if Dante had pulled a thorn from the lion’s paw.

Mon Dieu. Is it possible?

“Oh, but he does,” the fallen angel said. “A very special child, he called this son. Unique. And one I’m most eager to meet.” His smile darkened even more, became an abyss. “I have plans for the boy.”

Apprehension iced Mauvais’s blood. He had a feeling neither Lucien De Noir nor his son would enjoy that meeting very much. But he reminded himself that he owed nothing to either De Noir or—if his suspicion proved correct—Dante. Their fates were their own. Still. . . .

“As I said,” Mauvais murmured. “I know nothing about a son, but I can tell you where to find De Noir.”

“Lucien De Noir,” the fallen angel mused, shaking his head. “Where does he come up with these names?”

“And your name, m’sieu?” Mauvais prodded gently. “What shall I call you?”

“Loki,” the immortal replied. “Call me Loki.”

Mauvais drained his brandy in one swallow.