Even Vampires Get the Blues: A Deadly Angels Book (11 page)

Both of those wounds would cause the demon vampire to die, eventually, but that would only send it back to Jasper’s lair. The weapon had to pierce the heart in order to destroy the Lucie for good, condemning it to hell for all eternity.

He did not want this Lucie dead yet, thus his well-aimed hits. He needed to know why Camille’s father was in the demon’s crosshairs.

“Are you here alone?” he asked the dying demon as it writhed on the floor, its blood seeping from both wounds, especially the neck.

The demon refused to answer.

So Harek stepped on the star in her thigh, causing the sharp edges to go deeper.

The demon screamed.

“Tell me, are you here alone?”

She nodded. “My partner . . . killed in Angola last year . . . I . . . I have been wandering.”

“Why are you following Dr. Dumaine?”

The Lucie blinked at him, surprised that he knew the target.

“What great sin has he committed?” When the Lucie didn’t immediately reply, he added, “Or is he about to commit?”

Blood oozed out of the demon’s mouth and nose. It would not be long now. Harek had to act quickly. “Tell me,” he demanded, “and I will make your passage quicker.”

“Murder. His wife. Has mistress. Money.” On those words, the demon’s eyes began to close and a gurgling sound came from its open mouth, the death rattle. Even so, it rose to its knees.

Harek could have poured a jar of holy water over the demon, but that would only cause its skin to burn off. An ugly sight, but not fatal. No, Harek needed to do more. Without delay, he drew a long switchblade from an interior pocket of his jacket, popped it open, and swiped wide, catching the Lucie’s arm through flesh and bone, above the elbow. The demon looked with horror at the severed arm, which hung by a scrap of skin. Given an opening, Harek thrust the blade through the beast’s heart. Immediately, the Lucie fell backward again and began to dissolve into a puddle of odorsome slime.

Harek went over to one of the wide, narrow-depth drawers in the built-in storage units and took out what appeared to be linen napkins. He used one to wipe the blade of his knife and return it to his jacket. Another he used to pick up the hatpin, which he in turn used to lift the throwing stars from the slimy, disintegrating mass on the floor. He placed those in a third clean napkin, which he wrapped tightly and placed with the knife in the interior pocket. He would clean them all later.

“What are you doing?” he heard behind him.

Camille.

Without turning, he said, “I was looking for a men’s room. That was a bloody long service, and I had to piss.”

“I saw you follow a woman in here. Where is she?”

“Uh. I didn’t see any woman,” he lied, already having kicked aside her dress, shoes, and feathered hat so they were under the garment rack. “Shouldn’t you be in the limo, on the way to the reception?”

“I decided to go with you. What is that mess on the floor?”

“What? Oh? One of the bottles of holy oils must have spilled.”

“It stinks. I’ve never known church oils to smell like that.”

“Maybe it was spoiled.” He turned then.

And she gasped, clapping both hands to her face in horror.

Realizing that his fangs were still extended, he ran his tongue over his front teeth, and the fangs retracted, but it was too late. She’d seen.

“Who are you?” she asked then. “
What
are you?”

“The better question is,” he said, with weary resignation, “why would your father want to kill your mother?”

Chapter 9

She was all shook up, but not by Elvis . . .

A
n hour later, sitting at the head table with the rest of the bridal party in the Garden Room of General’s Palace, Camille was still shaken. And scared.

Camille had grown up in a city known for its bizarre people and happenings. Think voodoo. A creepy wax museum. Ghost sightings. Mardi Gras excesses. Sex out the wazoo, some of it weird, to say the least. Anne Rice, with her
Interview with the Vampire
nonsense, had lived in this very Garden District at one time. But Camille had never been afraid. Instead, she was mostly amused.

Besides, danger was a fact of her life in the WEALS. Face it, the terrorists she was committed to destroying were some of the scariest folks on earth.

But this was different.

Who was this man she’d brought with her to New Orleans? She was almost positive that she’d seen fangs on him. Real, honest-to-goodness fangs, not fake French Quarter plastic trinkets. Forget Tom Cruise as Lestat. Harek had seemed to be the real deal, handsome-as-hell, sexy-as-sin vampire. If one had a thing for vampires, that was. She didn’t. Not before, anyhow.

And a woman had gone into the cathedral storeroom ahead of him, no matter what Harek said. In fact, Camille had seen a lady’s feathered hat peeping out from under the hanging church vestments. The slime, or oil, or whatever it was on the floor, had evaporated before her very eyes, like magic. And what had Harek meant about her father murdering her mother?

What did it all mean?

“I can explain,” he’d assured her.

“I doubt it,” she’d said.

His shoulders had sunk as he’d exhaled with disgust, and the oh-fuck! expression on his face belied any confidence he’d proclaimed of being able to explain diddly-squat. Before he could try, she’d backed up toward the still-open doorway of the storeroom. “I’m going to the reception in one of the limos, after all,” she said. “You can go in my car, and we’ll talk later. Or maybe it would be better if you didn’t come at all.”

“Oh, I’ll be there. Count on it. And we will talk.”

“Whatever. I can’t deal with this now.”

“I owe you an explanation, Camille,” he’d said, “but more than that, I have to save your father from what he’s planning to do.”

On those ominous words, he’d walked past her, through the doorway. Instead of the stinky slime odor, all she’d noticed then was chocolate.

Talk about bizarre!

She’d managed to avoid talking with Harek during the cocktail hour while a jazz quartet played subdued, traditional blues numbers. Several hundred people had stood about drinking Inez’s signature punch, Mint Buzz, which had miniature heart-shaped ice cubes floating on top.
Gag me with a cocktail stirrer.
Those so inclined got hard liquor, wine, or sodas at the bar. And a few, like Harek, had nursed bottles of beer.

She wasn’t drinking anything at all, except for the occasional sip of Perrier, because she had to stay alert. Harek was watching her. All the time. And if that wasn’t bad enough, Julian kept trying to get her alone. “I never stopped loving you,” Julian whispered in her ear at one point.

Puh-leeze! Talk about tacky. His very pregnant wife was sitting on a chaise in the lounge because her ankles were swollen from standing so long in church. He probably wasn’t getting any at home the past few weeks and figured Camille would be desperate for his touch. The delusional dog! She hadn’t been getting any for a long time, either, but she’d rather crawl, alone, through Lafayette Cemetery on All Souls’ night, than let him touch her again. And, yes, she’d done that once, the woo-woo cemetery visit, but she’d been with a group of friends, and they’d been only twelve years old and fearless at the time.

Camille tried to maintain a bright face, she really did. Inez made a lovely bride in her antique lace gown, and Alain looked so happy. Camille didn’t want to spoil the day for them. And so she made her way through the appetizer stage of dinner, where turtle soup was finished with great flair tableside with aged sherry, not a small feat considering the number of tables in the large room. She barely tasted the main course, even though it was one of her favorites: filet of beef covered with lump Crab Imperial, served over a bed of baby white asparagus, with a side of buttery truffled grits. She noticed that Harek, sitting at one of the front tables with, among others
—could you believe the irony?—
Julian’s wife, Justine, didn’t seem to have any trouble scarfing down the delicious food, in between smiling and talking to Justine.
About what?
she wondered.

Worst of all, or among the worst things, Camille kept finding herself staring at her father and noting his interactions with her mother. It was preposterous to think the thin academic whose head was usually buried in a book could ever think of murdering his wife. But . . . had he always been so cold toward her mother? They were never the perfect couple. How could they be with her father’s double life? Even though they were never openly affectionate, they’d seemed committed to each other at the very least as professional colleagues who lived together. Comfortable with their upscale standard of living among the elite of the Crescent City. They’d been married for more than thirty-five years. There must be some affection between them.

A blip of memory tugged at Camille’s brain. A long time ago, soon after she’d learned about her father’s mistress and other family, she’d overheard some ladies in her mother’s garden club speaking about Sonja Nance, her father’s lover. “She’ll be mistress of Evermore one day, mark my words.”

Which was impossible. Evermore belonged to Camille’s mother, and it had been passed down through two generations of females. In fact, the majority of money in the family belonged to dear old Mom. The house, the antiques, the paintings. Drs. Emile and Jeannette Dumaine had very good jobs at the university, but their salaries combined could never support a house of this size in this location. The taxes alone would . . .

No, it was a ridiculous idea. Damn Harek for even planting these seeds of suspicion in her mind. It must be a warped kind of joke that Harek was playing on her.

For what purpose, though?

And he hadn’t seemed a cruel kind of person.

Still . . .

Her attention was brought back to the present by a new band setting up on the small stage, and the center of the room being cleared for dancing. “Let’s all stand for the bridal dance,” the leader announced as the band segued into that Etta James classic “At Last.” Which caused everyone to laugh because Alain and Inez had had an overlong engagement.

They looked beautiful together, and for the moment, Camille forgot all the worries weighing her down.

Then the band moved slowly into another song, Billie Holiday’s “Our Love Is Here to Stay,” and the bride’s and groom’s parents joined them on the dance floor. Camille studied her parents, who danced well together. Nothing intimate, but then this would not be the place for intimacy. They appeared to be talking intently about something, probably related to the wedding details. Her father’s head was cocked to the side as he listened to something her mother was telling him. Then he frowned.

Hmm.

They switched partners to Adele’s “Make You Feel My Love,” and the bride danced with her father, the groom with his mother, and so on. This particular band was known for its mixture of modern and traditional music, to please both the young and old in the crowd. And then the bridal party joined them on the dance floor to Nat King Cole’s “Unforgettable.” Camille had been partnered with Julian and had to warn him once they started dancing, “Get your hand off my butt, or I’ll cut that silly smirk off your face with my KA-BAR knife.”

“Ooh, I love when you go all tough girl on me.”

“Really? As I recall, you wanted me to quit the teams and go back to school, like my parents wanted.”

“I was just getting on their good side.” He shrugged and flashed her what was, in his own esteemed opinion, a boyish grin.

Where is that KA-BAR knife?

His hands were playing with the buttons on the back of her dress now. He might have even undone one.

She made a hissing sound and tried to knee him in the groin.

He was quicker, anticipating her move, and he twirled her in an intricate dance step under his arm, then back in his embrace, tighter now.

“You are a flaming asshole, Julian.”

“And you are flaming beautiful.” He laughed. “I can’t help myself, darlin’,” he said against her ear. “You are irresistible in that gown.”

“I was pretty resistible about nine months ago.” Enough was enough! She stepped deliberately on his foot so that she could get some space between them.

“Now, sweetheart, I’ve explained how that happened.”

“Um, I think this is my dance,” Harek said, tapping Julian on the shoulder and literally shoving him aside.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she said once Julian stalked off and Harek took her into his arms.

“You wanted him pawing you in front of his wife?”

“Of course not.”

“Just say, ‘Thank you, Harek.’ ”

“Thank you,” she said grudgingly, “even though I could have handled the shithead myself.”

“M’lady, chivalry is not dead in some quarters. Betimes, a damsel must let her knight do his knightly things for her.” Laughing, he drew her tightly against him, his hard parts pressed into her softer ones, her face resting on his wide shoulder.

“Do all knights smell like the richest warm chocolate?” Ironically, the band was playing that old James Taylor song, “How Sweet It Is.” For sure!

“Only the best ones. Truth to tell, only me. Leastways, I’ve never heard of any other sweet knights.” She could tell he was smiling against her hair.

“Lucky me!” she muttered, and nuzzled his neck, barely restraining herself from taking a lick, just to see how he tasted. “You should know I’m a chocoholic,” she confessed.

“Lucky me!” he muttered back, and tugged her even closer. “Have I told you how much I like your gown? Especially the back.”

She refused to ask what he meant by that. She suspected she knew, having caught several men checking out her backside when she’d been walking down the aisle, especially The Louse.

“Are you wearing undergarments?”

“Of course!” she said indignantly.

His palm swept over her bottom, so quickly she was probably the only one who noticed. “Are you sure?” he asked, then guessed, correctly, “A thong, then,” and he groaned.

Before she could protest, he said, “I’m going to explain everything to you, Camille, about me and what you think you saw at the church.”

She was trying to concentrate on what he said, but his chocolate scent was enveloping her, and she felt all warm and gooey, like his hot chocolate was melting her ice cream. Oh, that was bad! She couldn’t explain it, but without him doing anything overt, there was this melting sensation passing over her. Like a warm, streaming fondue fountain.

“You won’t like what I have to tell you, of course, but I will tell you the truth.”

Huh? Her mind was still back on chocolate fondue, or was it chocolate body paint?

“But for now, let’s just dance a little and enjoy the party.”

And they did. Harek was a good dancer. She was, too. They moved together like a couple accustomed to each other’s moves. She wondered . . . No, she was not going to wonder.

When the band played the Frank Sinatra song “The Best Is Yet to Come,” she sincerely hoped that was true, because right now she was feeling damn good. And she hadn’t even had a drink yet, except for short sips of champagne during the toasts to the wedding couple. She felt surprisingly dazed as Harek led her into an anteroom during an intermission, almost like she was buzzed with booze, though it had to be passion. Drunk on love, she almost giggled aloud. He encouraged her to sit on a plush velvet chair and went down on one knee beside her so that he was eye level with her.

“What? You going to propose or something?” she joked, suddenly uncomfortable.

“Hardly.” He shook his head and took one of her hands in his. He was looking so serious that any further jokes she might have been considering faded away.

“Who are you, really, Harek?”

“There is no way to ease into telling you who I am, Camille.”

Uh-oh!

“I am a Viking vampire angel,” he told her.

Camille burst out laughing. So much that people kept poking their heads into the anteroom to see what was going on.

“You’re making a scene,” Harek said with disgust. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Sure thing, angel baby.” She pressed her lips together and almost choked on a giggle.

“Very funny. I am not an angel. I am a
vampire
angel.” He elongated his fangs slightly.

Instead of being frightened, she remarked, “Cute!”

Cute? Cute! Fangs are not cute.
If he didn’t know better, he would think Camille was drunk. She was probably in shock. Poor thing!

Then she added, “Don’t forget Viking.” At his puzzled frown, she explained, “Viking vampire angel, that’s what you said. Ha, ha, ha. ‘I am Thor, hear me roar.’ ” The last she said in a fake male voice that sounded a little like Arnold Schwarzenegger in
The Terminator
.

Poor thing, my ass!

“Are you going to bite me?” she asked.

“Only if you ask.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I don’t like blood.”

“I do.”

“Are you trying to scare me?”

“Yes. No. C’mon, let’s go.” He stood and held out a hand to help her rise from her chair. “Do you have any more bridesmaid duties?”

“Not that I know of. Not that I care.” Ignoring his hand, she stood on her own. Then she tilted her head to the side, staring at him. “Where do you fang people? In the neck?”

“Usually. But, in that gown, I am much more tempted by your ass.”

“You don’t have to be crude.”

He shrugged. “It is what it is. In that clingy fabric, your bottom is like a blinking neon sign of temptation.”

She made a tsking sound of disapproval . . . at his continuing crudity, he supposed. Then she asked, laughing again, “Do you sleep in a coffin or on a cloud?”