Spellcasters (78 page)

“Oh.”

Aaron grinned. “That explains everything, doesn’t it? John’s got this burr about Cabals. It goes with the whole mentality of those guys. They’re vampires, so they’re ‘special’ and they should rule the frigging supernatural world. If it wasn’t for that damned writer … It’s gone straight to their heads. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were behind this.”

“Any idea where we can find them?” I asked.

“I can get John’s address but it might take a day or two. He’s not exactly on my Christmas card list. But if you’re in a hurry, his posse hangs out at the Rampart in New Orleans.” He looked at Cassandra. “But you check it out for her, Cass. Don’t be taking Paige in there.”

“Vamps only?” I said.

“Nah, just not a very nice place. I’ll put out some feelers, too, see if I can pick up any rumors.”

I pulled out my notepad to give him my number.

“Hold on,” he said, and took out his cell phone. “Safer this way. Every damned piece of paper I stuff into my pockets winds up in the washing machine. I can tell you where I was when I heard Lincoln had been shot, but do you think I can ever remember to empty my pockets before doing laundry? Not a chance.”

I dictated my phone number and Lucas’s, and Aaron entered them into his cell directory. Then he returned the phone to his jacket, lounged back in his seat, and cracked his knuckles.

Cassandra sighed. “What is it, Aaron?”

“Hmmm?”

“Whenever you do that”—she waved at his hands—“it means there’s something on your mind. What is it?”

He paused, then looked over at me. “The Rampart. It’s a problem, and it’s been a problem for a while, which brings up something else. The interracial council. I know you have Cass, but maybe you’d consider taking another vamp—”

“Excuse me?” Cassandra said.

“Oh, get your back down. I mean a second vampire, someone who’ll bring forward vampire concerns, like the Rampart. I’ll do it, but if you
know of someone better, that’s cool. There aren’t enough vamps to have our own governing body, and the council used to perform that role—”

“Used to?” Cassandra said. “If anyone has concerns, I’ll take them to the council.”

Aaron turned and met her gaze. “Cass, you stopped doing that years ago. Decades. You’re not … You’re not part of anything anymore. You’re disconnected.”

“Disconnected?”

“I’m not trying to give you a hard time. There have always been two vampire delegates for a reason, one as a resource and one as an ombudsman. Now that Lawrence is gone, you’ve taken over his old role and, well, someone needs to do yours.”

When she didn’t respond, he touched her elbow, but she yanked her arm back.

“I am
not
disconnected,” she said.

Aaron sighed, and looked at me. “Think about it.”

I nodded. We finished up and left.

I
switched the cell phone to my other ear and walked into a quieter corner of the airport. “We have a flight for New Orleans leaving in an hour, so I’ll be stuck there overnight.”

“Perhaps I should have come along,” Lucas said. “I haven’t accomplished much here. My father convened an intra-Cabal meeting this afternoon, and he says that no one recalls any dealings with vampires. That, of course, is preposterous. Even if no vampires have approached them, they must have encountered one or two in the course of business. Either they think I’m stupid or they just can’t be bothered to lie more creatively.”

I let out an oath.

“My sentiments exactly. Now, my father
has
admitted to one recent Cortez Cabal encounter with a vampire. Apparently one tried to arrange a private meeting with him in July. The request was denied, of course, and the matter ended there.”

“What did this vampire want to speak to him about?”

“No one bothered to ask. As soon as they found out he was a vampire, they didn’t care to hear anything else. Not a reason, not a name, nothing. And as much as I’m predisposed to think my father is withholding information, I must admit that this is exactly how Cabal employees are trained to deal with vampires.”

“Can I just say ‘arghh!’ When this is over, we don’t ever have to work with these nice people again, right?”

“You have my word on that. Perhaps then, one good thing will come of this. It might persuade you to join me in future
anti-Cabal
work.”

“Hey, no one needed to convince me. I was always willing to help. You just had to ask.”

Silence buzzed down the line. Cassandra appeared at my shoulder to say that the plane was boarding. I motioned that I’d be right there.

“I have to go,” I said to Lucas.

“I heard. About working together, I was always under the impression—that is to say—” He paused. “You need to run, but I’d like to discuss this later. And don’t forget to call me when you get to New Orleans.”

“I won’t.”

Cassandra had said little since we’d left Aaron. Again, she bought me a first-class ticket. I knew Cassandra had money, lots of it, and I doubted she ever flew coach, but it was still a nice gesture. She also offered me her in-flight meal, which I refused, though I did accept her package of cocktail nuts. By the time I finished dinner, she was on her second wine, which told me something was wrong. I’d never seen Cassandra drink more than half a glass at a sitting.

When the flight attendant came by with dessert, I looked at the gelatinous square they called lemon meringue pie, and opted for a tea instead. Cassandra motioned to her wineglass for a refill.

“How long have you been attending council meetings, Paige?” Cassandra asked as the attendant left. “Five, six years?”

“Almost twelve.”

“Twelve years, then.” She fingered the stem of her glass. “You’ve always had a good memory, so perhaps you’ll remember better than I can. When’s the last time we investigated a vampire concern?”

“In ‘98. Dallas, Texas. We had a report of a killer draining his victims’ blood. Turned out it was a human killer, though, so I suppose that doesn’t really count as a vampire concern.” I paused. “Let’s see, before that it would have been ‘96. A vacationing Russian vampire was raising a ruckus—”

“Yes, yes, I remember that. I meant when did I last bring a
concern
before the council?”

“Like what Aaron was talking about? A situation that’s worrying vampires in general?”

“Exactly.”

I took my tea from the attendant and pulled out the bag. “You’ve never done that.”

“Oh, come now, Paige. Of course I have.” She leaned back in her seat. “Never mind. You were only a child, and you were always goofing off with Adam—”

“Hey, I never goofed off in a meeting. Don’t you remember all those times Robert gave Adam shit for not paying attention like I did? Drove Adam crazy. Then he’d take it out on me afterward, teasing me about
brownnosing—” I stopped, noticing Cassandra’s attention had wandered to her wineglass. “Point is, I paid attention. I took notes. Quiz me if you like. Dates, places, I can name them. In twelve years, you’ve never brought a vampire concern to the council.”

“That didn’t strike you as odd?”

I shrugged. “Numbers-wise, vampires are rare, and you’re all pretty self-sufficient, so I figured you didn’t have concerns. It never bothered anyone else, so it didn’t bother me. Lawrence didn’t bring up concerns when he was your codelegate.”

“That’s because Lawrence was so old, he didn’t care about anyone but himself.” She fluttered her hands over her table. “Took off to Europe and never even bothered to tell us he wasn’t coming back. I may be self-centered, but I’d never do that.”

I sipped my tea.

Cassandra looked at me sharply. “Well, I wouldn’t.”

“Okay. Sure. Now about this bar, the Rampart—”

“I must have brought a concern to the council in the past twelve years. What about the Gulf War draft? Several vampires had taken on the identity of American citizens and they were worried about being called for the draft—”

“There was no draft for the Gulf War. That must have been Vietnam.”

She frowned. “When was Vietnam?”

“Before I was born.”

Cassandra snatched up her napkin and folded it precisely. “Well, there’s been something since then. I only remember
that
one because it was historically significant.”

“Probably.”

By the time we reached New Orleans, it wasn’t yet eleven, still too early for bar-hopping. As I phoned Elena for my nightly check on Savannah, Cassandra directed the taxi to the Empire Hotel, her local favorite. After we checked in, I called Lucas, letting him know I’d arrived safely, then showered and got ready.

When we went downstairs, Cassandra had the doorman hail us a cab.

“This bar,” I said. “The Rampart. Aaron has a problem with it?”

Cassandra sighed. “That’s just Aaron. For a man who looks like he doesn’t spend much time thinking, Aaron spends far too much time at it. Thinking and worrying. He can be the worst mother hen you can imagine.”

“So he’s overreacting about the Rampart? About it not being safe for me?”

“The Rampart is safe insofar as any bar is safe these days. It’s a favored hangout for local vampires, nothing more.”

“No offense, but if vamps like hanging out there, it doesn’t sound like the safest place for anyone with a pulse.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Paige. Dogs don’t piss in their beds and vampires don’t hunt where they live.”

Cassandra strode toward a cab pulling to the curbside. I hurried after her.

Cassandra explained more about the Rampart on the drive. This might seem dangerous, having such conversations within earshot of humans, but supernaturals haven’t needed to rabidly monitor their discussions since the nineteenth century. These days, we keep our voices down and watch what we say, but if the odd “demon” or “vampire” escapes, people jump to one of three logical conclusions. One, they misheard. Two, we’re discussing a movie or book plot. Three, we’re nuts. If our taxi driver overheard any of our conversation, the biggest danger we faced was that he’d ask where this “vampire bar” was located, not so he could alert the proper authorities to a nest of bloodsucking murderers, but so he’d have another destination to add to his list of recommendations for visiting Goths and Anne Rice fans. After all, this was New Orleans.

Speaking of Anne Rice, while I’m sure she’s a lovely woman, there are many in the supernatural world who blame her for the New Orleans vampire situation. Roughly coinciding with the popularity of Ms. Rice’s novels, the influx of vamps to the city rose astronomically. At one point in the late eighties there had been nine vampires in New Orleans … in a country that historically sees a national average of fewer than two dozen. Some had emigrated from Europe just to move to New Orleans. Fortunately, three or four have since left, and the population has averaged five or six over the past decade.

The problem with the New Orleans vamps isn’t overpopulation. It’s that they all share a similar mind-set, the same mind-set that drew them to the city in the first place. For these vampires, seeing their cultural popularity skyrocket with Ms. Rice’s books was like a rock singer seeing his face on the cover of
Rolling Stone
, the ultimate moment of self-affirmation, when they could say “See, I’m just as cool as I always thought I was.” And for the vampires of New Orleans, life has never been the same since.

The Rampart wasn’t just a vampire bar in the sense that it attracted vampires. It was actually owned by vampires. As Cassandra explained: John/Hans and two others had bought the place years ago. They’d kept it small and exclusive, a place they could make their own and amuse themselves playing bar owners.

The taxi driver stopped in an industrial district. Security lights dotted every building except the one beside us, which was swathed in a blackness that seemed almost artificial. As I opened the door, I saw that it was indeed artificial. The brickwork and the windows had been painted black. Even the lone street lamp had been wrapped in black crepe paper and the bulb broken or removed.

“Early Gothic Nightmare. How original,” Cassandra said as she climbed from the car. “Last time I was here it looked like a perfectly normal bar. No wonder Aaron is getting his shorts in a twist. He can’t stand this sort of thing.”

“Well, their taste in decor may be criminal, but unfortunately they aren’t violating any council statutes. At least they’re keeping it low profile. I don’t even see a sign.”

“I don’t even see a door,” Cassandra muttered. “They’ve probably painted it black like everything else. Now where was it the last time …?”

As her gaze traveled along the building, a limo pulled up and belched three giggle-wracked young women onto the curb. Two wore black leather miniskirts. The third was dressed in a long white dress that looked more suited for a wedding than girls’ night out. A beefy bodyguard grabbed the bride’s elbow to steady her and led the trio toward the building. As the limo reversed, its headlights illuminated the four. The “bride” turned into the lights and squinted.