On Midnight Wings

“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.”