On Midnight Wings

“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.”

And, oddly, not alone. A tall figure walked beside the majordomo, his stride confident and relaxed. The height and waist-length hair along with the glowing golden eyes made Mauvais think of Lucien De Noir. His heart stuttered against his ribs.

Not De Noir, no. His fallen angel had returned.

“Who is that?” Giovanni asked, his tone a verbal frown.

“One of the Elohim,” Mauvais replied with a deliberate nonchalance that suggested he played host to fallen angels all the time and, really, it was becoming a bit of a bore.

“Truly?” Wonder skipped like a child in that single word. “Which is he?”

Mauvais shrugged. “We haven’t yet had an opportunity to speak—not even an exchange of names. But I think that is about to change,” he mused as the pair drew to a halt in front of him.

The angel’s scent—fallow earth and cold stone and thin, crackling ice, the first breath of winter—chilled the air. Tendrils of his red hair lifted on the breeze and moonlight glinted from the torc curving around his throat. He wore a white linen shirt and charcoal-gray trousers, a matching suit jacket draped over one arm.

A wry smile tugged at Mauvais’s lips. So that’s what Edmond was trying to tell me—that my former statue was up and about and getting a fitting from my tailor.

“M’sieu Guy Mauvais, Lord of New Orleans,” Edmond smoothly informed the immortal at his side, “and his guest, Signor Giovanni Toscanini of the Cercle de Druide, arrived from Rome.”

“Welcome aboard the Winter Rose,” Mauvais said, studiously ignoring the I-tried-to-tell-you twitch of the majordomo’s eyebrow. “I’m pleased that my tailor has managed to accommodate you in such fine fashion, m’sieu . . .” He trailed off, giving the angel an opportunity to gracefully supply his name.

An opportunity the fallen angel ignored. Instead he smoothed a hand down the front of his pristine shirt and replied in a deep, musical voice, “Your tailor is quite skilled, yes, and seemed to enjoy the challenge.”

Chuckling, Mauvais accepted a half-filled brandy snifter from the tray Edmond extended with white-gloved hands. “I’m sure he did.”

“Ah, refreshments,” the fallen angel said, golden eyes brightening. Ignoring the snifters arrayed upon Edmond’s tray, he instead plucked the white rose from the pocket of the majordomo’s morning coat and popped one snowy petal into his mouth.

Edmond neither blinked nor frowned, simply inclined his head, as though to say, Excellent choice, m’sieu, then offered his tray to Giovanni. At Mauvais’s nodded dismissal, he quietly withdrew.

Mauvais slid a companionable arm around Giovanni’s shoulders and murmured, “I need to have a private chat with my winged guest. It shouldn’t take long. If you wait for me in the casino belowdecks, perhaps play a few rounds of roulette, we shall resume our conversation once I’m finished here.”

While Mauvais felt a deep satisfaction—not to mention a bit of triumph—in knowing that Giovanni would immediately contact Renata and the rest of the Cercle and inform them that Guy Mauvais had found favor among the Fallen, he did not want the details of his upcoming conversation with the angel to be included in the handsome Italian’s report.

A vampire needed secrets, after all.

Giovanni’s muscles tensed beneath Mauvais’s arm. “This had better not be another trick to get rid of me,” he warned in a low voice.

“I’m merely asking you to wait, not leave.”

With a soft, frustrated sigh, Giovanni looked past Mauvais to the fallen angel, then lifted his snifter of brandy to his lips and tossed back its dark amber contents. “Fine, then,” he muttered, resting the empty glass on the railing. “I’ll wait. But don’t make me wait long.”

“Of course not,” Mauvais replied with a warm smile. He gave Giovanni’s shoulder a companionable squeeze before releasing him. “You have my word.”

With a derisive snort—one Mauvais chose to ignore—Giovanni strode away, following after Edmond. Once they were alone and the only sounds Mauvais heard were the hissing kerosene lanterns, the creak of the wood beneath his feet, and the Mississippi’s wet kisses against the riverboat, he gave his attention to the immortal standing silently beside him.

“For a guest, he seems somewhat cranky and demanding,” the fallen angel commented. “Although, given that he’s a vampire, I suppose that’s to be expected.”

Mauvais pursed his lips, considering, then admitted, “True.”

The angel laughed, the sound of it like the joyous pealing of wedding bells. “I understand that I have you to thank for my freedom,” he said, once his mirth had passed. He drew in a deep breath of air, seeming to savor the simple action of breathing. “I truly appreciate it.”

“I’m glad I could help,” Mauvais replied with an elegant half-shrug, knowing the gesture would suggest a careless modesty and an altruistic nature that he didn’t possess. “We’re fortunate that my people stumbled across you while chasing down a rude marmot in desperate need of a lesson in manners. How did you end up as a stone statue guarding a tomb, anyway?”

“The usual way. Treachery. Betrayal by a brother.” A smile—dark and somehow eager—curved the fallen angel’s lips, revealing sharp white teeth. “But I intend to pay back in kind.”

“I am willing to help in any way possible,” Mauvais said, then took a sip of the brandy, savoring its smooth oak-and-rose flavor.

“Wonderful.” The angel pulled several more petals from the rose and ate them, chewing thoughtfully. Swallowing, he said, “Perhaps you can help me find the guilty party since I believe he resides in the area—or did, before he tricked me with lies and a blood spell.”

“Of course. What’s his name?”

“He’s known as the Nightbringer, but it’s his son I’m most interested in.”

“Son?” Mauvais stared at the fallen angel, startled. “Lucien De Noir—the Nightbringer—doesn’t have a son. At least, not that I’m aware of.”

But even as the words left his mouth, a dark suspicion snaked through Mauvais’s mind as he remembered how De Noir had always guarded Dante Baptiste, remembered how he used to wonder why one of the Fallen had chosen to stand beside the beautiful and dangerous True Blood—or any vampire for that matter. He’d often wondered if Dante had pulled a thorn from the lion’s paw.

Mon Dieu. Is it possible?

“Oh, but he does,” the fallen angel said. “A very special child, he called this son. Unique. And one I’m most eager to meet.” His smile darkened even more, became an abyss. “I have plans for the boy.”