On Midnight Wings

35 ANGRY LOA NEW ORLEANS THE WINTER ROSE

“WELL? IS THE DAMNED device working?” Mauvais demanded as he strode into the dimly lit wheelhouse. “Do you have Loki’s location?”

Phaedra looked up from her instruments, her beautiful and ageless cafè au lait face awash in the pale green light emanating from the navigation instruments, her lambent eyes glowing in the gloom.

Before she could reply, Mauvais observed with more than a little relief as he drew to a stop beside her, “The power is working again.”

Phaedra nodded. “For now.” She rapped her knuckles for luck against the cedar-planked wall before returning her attention to the GPS screen. “Looks like your Fallen guest is headed north. Maybe Baton Rouge. Maybe not. Too early to know.”

“North,” Mauvais mused, studying the moving blip on the green-lit GPS and the ever-shifting topography surrounding it. So many mysteries contained in one simple action—a fallen angel’s sudden and swift flight through the waning night.

So many mysteries.

Loki and his deadly feud with the Nightbringer.

Dante’s disappearance on the heels of his stunning revelation.

The shootout and fire at Club Hell.

Someone who didn’t know Dante would think he’d simply gone into hiding following the violence at the club, but Mauvais had never known the irritating and stubborn marmot to run from a fight.

No. And he would never leave members of his small household behind if—for whatever unimaginable reason—he had decided to hightail it from New Orleans.

Silver had played it smart by playing dumb. And it might’ve worked too, but for his reaction to Loki’s presence.

Mauvais had no doubt that Loki had plucked Dante’s location from Silver’s mind, along with anything else he desired to know. The young, purple-maned vampire’s defenses would’ve amounted to no more than an apple’s easily peeled skin beneath the sharp blade of the fallen angel’s power.

No, Silver had never stood a chance.

Not once Loki had shifted, his body shimmering, rippling, transforming, into Dante’s pale and lean-muscled form. Silver had been lost the moment Loki-as-Dante’s white hands had cupped his face and brushed heated lips against his mouth.

Let me in, mon ami. Let me in.

Shape-shifter.

Mauvais was more than a little grateful that he’d witnessed that seductive bit of metamorphosis; he’d had no idea Loki possessed that particular talent. Forewarned is forearmed. Such clichès, though trite, were nonetheless true and worth more than a tanker load of hot, fresh blood.

“Are we to follow, my lord?” Phaedra asked.

Just as Mauvais opened his mouth to reply in the affirmative, blue light danced from one navigation screen to the next in a shower of sparks, leaving each screen dark in its wake. The sharp scent of ozone filled the air as the dim overheads winked out.

“Here we go again, goddammit,” Phaedra muttered, scowling, and slapping cut-off switches. “Looks like we ain’t following shit tonight. Almost enough to make me think there really is an angry loa on board.”

“If by angry loa you mean ancient wiring, then yes,” Mauvais said, voice level despite the frustration curdling his belly, “I believe you might be right. In which case, an electrician should be able to ameliorate it.”

“True that, my lord. I’ll make it happen—if Edmond hasn’t already done so. In the meantime, you can track Loki from your car with this.” Phaedra handed Mauvais a small smartphone-size tracker. “Just plug it in, synch it, and go.”

“Ah, très bien,” Mauvais said, offering his navigator a genuine smile, relieved that he wouldn’t be delayed after all. Slipping the portable receiver into a pocket of his frock coat, he turned and exited the wheelhouse.

The pungent odor of kerosene mingled with the cool, fishy aroma of the Mississippi as Edmond and a young male apprenti relit the lanterns along the deck, moving with smooth and silent efficiency from one to the next.

Standing in a pool of light spilling out across the deck from one of the hissing lanterns, Mauvais tugged at the lacy cuffs of his sleeves, saying, “Edmond, have the driver bring my car around at once. I’ll wait on the wharf.”

“Oui, my lord.”

“Oh, and Edmond?”

“My lord?”

“Rafe and Nikolai will be accompanying me.”

“Very good, my lord. I shall so inform them.”

Edmond motioned for the apprenti to continue with the lanterns, then swiveled around with a smooth, precise, almost military grace and headed for the stairs leading belowdecks.

As Mauvais started for the gangplank leading down to the wharf, he remembered the guest he’d abandoned in the French Quarter in his eagerness to return to the Winter Rose to see if his James Bond efforts had paid off or not.

A high-ranking and hot-tempered guest.

Mauvais came to an abrupt halt. “Merde,” he said with a soft groan. Half turning, he called to his majordomo once more.

The soft sound of Edmond’s descending footsteps stopped. “Oui, my lord?”

“If Signor Toscanini should return, please offer him every courtesy, including the finest from my wine cellar and the choicest mortals from my personal menagerie. Inform him that I have gone to rescue that defiant prick Dante Baptiste from the Fallen and shall return shortly.”

The slightest pause, then, “Of course, my lord. I shall so inform Signor Toscanini.”

Mauvais frowned, considering. “Perhaps we should leave out ‘defiant prick,’ oui?”

“Oui. Wise decision, my lord.” Edmond’s quiet footfalls resumed.

Mauvais’s heart slammed into his throat as he swiveled around to find himself facing an inexplicable figure, a flickering, shifting male shape composed of blue neon ones and zeroes.

“You ain’t going nowhere, you.” The figure’s voice sounded utterly human, dancing with Cajun rhythm. Waist-length dreads of gleaming and twisted bundles of wire undulated in the air, electric snakes curling around a neon Medusa.

Mauvais sucked in a shocked breath. The hoodoo conjurer had been right, after all.

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

And exactly how does one placate an angry loa? Mauvais wondered, mouth dry. Had it been sent, a nasty trick set into motion by a rival or enemy? Or had it chosen him because of something he’d inadvertently done—or not done?

Mauvais lifted his hands slowly, palms out. Took one prudent step back. “If I have offended you, it was unintentional, and I apologize. What would you have me do to free myself and my boat?”

The figure stared at Mauvais with eyes like endless black ice. “I want you to burn like she did, motherfucker. She screamed in agony until the flames she breathed in burned away her larynx and ashed her lungs. My sister, my mère de sang, my Simone.”

Mauvais froze, remembering words Silver had spat at him in the Quarter not even an hour ago: Simone. Her name was Simone, you jackass. She died because of you.

Not a curse, no. Revenge.

Mauvais caught a blur of flickering blue-edged movement, then felt something shatter against him. He smelled kerosene—and much worse. Flames swept over him eagerly, devouring his clothing, the flesh beneath. The stench of burning hair filled his nostrils.

“Burn, you motherfucking fi’ de garce.”

A high-pitched wailing pierced the night, a siren of agony vibrating from his own throat. Choking on the acrid reek of his own roasting flesh, Mauvais raced, flailing, across the deck to the railing and hurtled overboard

He plummeted, blazing, an April bonfire, into the cold, night-black waters of the Mississippi.