ma belle femme, my beautiful woman, lady. Can mean wife or significant other.
Madre de Dios (Spanish), Mother of God.
mambo, an initiated priestess in the religion of Vodou.
ma mere, my mother.
ma naturalmente. Ti prego di perdonarmi (Italian), but of course. Please forgive me.
marmot (m), brat.
menteur (m); menteuse (f), liar.
merci, thank you; merci beaucoup, thanks a lot; merci bien, thanks very much.
merde, shit.
mere de sang (f), blood-mother; female vampire who has turned another and become their “parent.”
mia bella assassina (f) (Italian), my beautiful assassin.
mi hija (Spanish), my daughter.
mio amico (m) (Italian), my friend.
Mon Dieu, my God.
m’selle (f), abbreviated spoken form of mademoiselle, Miss, young lady.
m’sieu (m), abbreviated spoken form of monsieur, Mr., sir, gentleman.
nephilim, the offspring resulting from Fallen and mortal unions.
Nightbringer, a name/title given to Lucien De Noir.
nightkind (s and pl), vampire; Dante’s term for vampires.
nomad, name for the pagan, gypsy-style clans who ride across the land.
numero un, number one.
oui, yes.
oui sur, Yeah, sure; yeah, right.
padnat, partner, buddy, chum; close friend.
pardonne-moi, forgive me.
pas encore, not yet.
pas ici, not here.
pas possible, not possible.
pere (m), father; mon pere, my father.
pere de sang (m), blood-father; male vampire who has turned another and become their “parent.”
peut-etre, maybe, perhaps.
peut-etre que oui, peut-etre que non, maybe, maybe not.
p’tit, mon (m); p’tite, ma (f), my little one (generally affectionate).
puttana (Italian), bitch.
quitte-moi tranquille, leave me alone.
shuvano, a nomad healer and shaman.
si (Italian), yes.
tais-toi, shut up.
t’es sur de sa? are you sure about that? t’es sur? you sure?
toujours, always.
tres, very.
True Blood, born vampire, rare and powerful.
tu sei un bastardo mentendo (Italian), you’re a lying bastard.
vite-vite, fast, hurry, quickly, shoo.
wybrcathl (OOEEBR-cathl), sky-song. Fallen/Elohim word.
Caterina’s lullaby (traditional Italian lullaby in an old dialect):
Hush-a-bye, my lovely child/ Hush-a-bye, my lovely child/ Hush, hush and go to sleep/ Hush, hush and go to sleep/ Sleep well, my lovely child/ Sleep well, my lovely child . . .
1
DARK AND BITTER PEARLS
SLIDELL, LOUISIANA
JACK CHERAMIE’S HOUSE
MARCH 30
LUCIEN DE NOIR SAT beside the unconscious girl curled on the bed, box springs creaking beneath him. Mid-afternoon sunlight filtered through the golden, gauzy curtains covering the window, bathing the room in a tranquil glow. An illusion—no, worse, a lie—given the day’s dark, violent, and unimaginable events.
Lucien’s deltoid muscles flexed, restless, but he suppressed the urge to unfurl his wings and take to the sky in search of Dante and Heather; he feared that they had been spirited off in two very different directions. And he had no idea where to look, which path to follow, or even who was responsible.
Not yet, anyway.
Lucien focused his attention on Heather Wallace’s drugged sister. A light sheen of sweat glistened on Annie’s forehead. Tears wet the ends of her lashes. And her blood-speckled face looked light-years away from peaceful.
Guessing why wasn’t difficult.
The blood freckling her face and throat was Dante’s. Lucien knew by the scent alone—copper, a hint of adrenaline, a moonlight-silver tang—and had known from the moment he’d scooped her unconscious body up from the sidewalk in front of the club.
She must’ve been standing beside Dante when he’d been shot. Or damned close, anyway. A muscle flexed in Lucien’s jaw. Shot repeatedly and without mercy. Dante’s blood had saturated the Oriental carpet in front of the bedroom he shared with Heather.
So much blood when Dante should’ve healed. Too much blood. And the odd scent clinging to the shell casings Lucien had picked up from the hallway carpet had left him wondering. A troubling scent. Familiar.
Lucien studied Annie’s pale face, pushed sweat-damp tendrils of her punk-style blue/purple/black hair back from her face. She shivered inside her fuzzy purple bathrobe as though it was woven from ice, instead of plush terry cloth.
With a soft chirp, Heather’s orange tabby jumped up onto the bed and sniffed Annie for several moments before curling up beside her. Eerie blinked golden eyes at Lucien, then began licking the undersides of his paws, his tongue scraping delicately across the scorched pads.
Like the cat, Lucien also smelled the drugs on Annie’s skin, in her sweat—a cold, chemical taint. He had no idea what drugs flowed through her veins, or how long she’d remain unconscious, but he had no intention of waiting for her to wake up. Not when answers rested like pearls in her mind. Not when he could play thief.
Too much time had passed already. Hours lost to the police and their investigation of the shoot-out outside the club and the fire inside; a loss he’d finally cut short with a touch of a blue-sparked finger to the lead detective’s forehead and a whispered suggestion:
