On Midnight Wings

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.”