On Midnight Wings

of rope and tools.

No blue flickers. No ghostly movement. Nothing.

He was merely jumping at shadows—or, more accurately, blue light. Again.

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 naive 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 batard 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.”

“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.”