Kiss Noir (BookStrand Publishing Romance)

by Robynn Clairday

  Miraculously, he received it within a week, and had called her. Overcome with nerves and fear, Jen relayed her dream and concerns, deciding to trust that he wouldn't dismiss her as a lovesick nutcase. The conversation had been a harrowing one.

  Calvin had used his synthesized voice device. "I'm all set to fly down to New Orleans, no matter what Dameon says. He's in danger. I won't let him kill himself over that fiend, Tatiana." His artificial voice sounded odd and emotionless.

  "Oh, no," Jen gasped. "We have to stop him."

  "There's no time to lose. He's in the clutches of monsters—vampires a million times more lethal than Tatiana." The mechanical voice only heightened the horror of his words. Jen's entire body had turned to sawdust. "I owe Dameon and I have to help him. If we don't stop him, he'll die," Calvin intoned.

  Jen gasped and grabbed the phone.

  "It's true," Calvin continued. "But I'm going to save him from himself."

  "No, wait," she blurted. "I should go. Dameon might listen to me, if no one else. You know how stubborn he can be. Maybe I can get through to him."

  There had been a long silence on the other end of the phone. "You may be right. No one else has ever meant so much to him as you have. But if you go, you must arm yourself properly." Another brief silence as Calvin appeared to be thinking something through. "I'll send you what you'll need," the strange voice continued. "They'd kill you in seconds without the right protection."

  Protection. Jen shivered and clutched her purse tighter as she flashed back to Calvin's cautionary words. Inside her bag was the custom-made dagger, which was half pure iron and half pure silver, since, as Calvin reminded her, there was more than one type of vampire to contend with. This way, they were covering all bases. Calvin had shipped the weapon to her overnight along with Dameon's medicine.

  Jen was a nervous wreck through the entire trip. How would she explain to the police her reasons for carrying needles, drug paraphernalia and a bizarre double-edged dagger? She wondered how he'd come up with the customized weapon in such a short amount of time. If he didn't hear from Jen by a certain time, Calvin himself would fly down, he'd assured her. Calvin kept reiterating that the vampires down in New Orleans with Dameon were of the worst kind.

  Jen could only keep seeing Tatiana's visage as she tried to destroy Jen and Dameon on separate occasions. A face without mercy or conscience. Tatiana's bloody mouth, her insanely hating eyes. And her formidable strength and powers, how she had tormented Jen's mind and almost overwhelmed even Dameon.

  And these vampires that held Dameon captive were worse, more deadly than Tatiana.

  Oh God, Jen had prayed, give me the courage to do this.

  Later, as she raced to make plans, acutely aware of the ticking of the clock, of time speeding by, she was almost angry with Dameon. Why had he chosen to self-destruct and punish himself? His self-hatred had sent him to this terrible place. He had to be alive, she'd reassured herself. She would know if he wasn't. Jen remembered her brave posturing for Calvin, how she would rescue Dameon, and save them both from any danger. Fine words, but could she live up to them?

  Entering a nest of unknown, malevolent vampires with nothing but her dagger and Dameon's ring was nothing short of crazy. But Tara had reassured her that she was doing the right thing. Tara had squeezed Jen in for a reading on short notice, and had been surprisingly accurate, giving many details. She had even hinted about vampires. Jen had been comforted by Tara's confidence, but now, she was shaky and scared. Tara, a Tarot card reader, was her only confidante. Jen had made up a story for Nancy, and had decided against telling anyone but the neighbor who was baby-sitting Cobbs about her trip to New Orleans.

  Luckily, she had enough money to pay for the train, her rent and a few other incidentals, but her pitiful little account was getting drastically low. She had been forced to economize, which meant riding the entire two days down to New Orleans coach rather than paying for her own room.

  At least she was on her last leg of the trip, and by late afternoon, she would be in New Orleans. She was feeling grungy from spending a day and night on the train without benefit of a shower, and hated that Dameon would be seeing her like this. This was her first time in New Orleans, and she had travel guide tucked in her purse. Not that it gave any helpful hints on dealing with hostile vampires.

  She missed Cobbs, and felt lonely.

  Sighing to herself, she reluctantly stood and headed toward the dining car. If she didn't, Mr. Bufford would no doubt come looking for her. Her stomach was a seething knot, and food was the last thing she wanted to face. She longed to speed time up, and push her way to New Orleans. What had the guide book said was the motto of the city? "Laissezles bon temps rouler." Let the good times roll. Jen crossed fingers and tried to still her wildly beating heart. Let my luck be good, and let Dameon and I roll the hell out of there.

  * * * *

  Shrieks and hysterical squawks of laughter again. And, of course, the usual thumping and grinding of Ingo's stereo system. Dameon groaned and turned over, pressing his face into the pillow. Would they never stop? The party went on and on. Evelese and Hollingsworth seemed to never tire of imbibing and playing their silly games with their willing human victims. He wondered if Ingo's house would ever recover. If only he was in better shape, he might be able to connect with Ingo's mind and alert him that there was trouble.

  As it was, the twins were only getting worse and worse. And, as was typical in the Quarter, neighbors simply ignored any odd noises or sights overflowing from Belle Mansion. What did they care as long as it didn't spill into their yards?

  Dameon desperately wanted to regurgitate, to purge his body of the illness and decay running rampant through it. If only he could leave this shattered fleshly vessel behind. If he was another kind of vampire, he could choose another host and vacate his present self.

  His guts twisted and seethed. Sweating heavily, he tried to sit up, but his legs were jelly. No, he wouldn't take another's body even if he could. It was good to know that his soul was still his and that he hadn't lost the essence of who he was. It was tempting to turn cruel and savage, but he fought against such impulses. He would not turn into an Evelese or Hollingsworth.

  As if through a fever, he hazily remembered a conversation he had once had with Claudia. "A vampire has two paths he can take, Dameon," she had instructed, early in their acquaintance. "He can let the lust for power and sensual gratification dominate his life and, in the process, sacrifice his dignity and self-control, or he can reign in his powers and only take what he needs, thus maintaining his self-discipline and innate superiority. The second path promises a long, prosperous life, the first, a short, violent, ugly existence."

  Dameon rubbed his brow, wishing the pounding pain would cease. Claudia would be severely disappointed in him. Suddenly, mercifully, the loud laughter and music dimmed. Relief seeped through his tattered, exhausted soul. As he closed his eyes, he caught the most delicate whiff of something clean and fresh. Jen. Without being fully conscious of it, he always identified her with that sensation of something blooming and honey-sweet. He was hallucinating, longing for Jen, yet knowing he would hate her seeing him like this. He would rather die than have her find him in this devil's hive.

  A voice shook him from his fantasies. "Mister, are you all right?"

  He opened his eyes to see an absurdly young and rosy-cheeked girl peering down at him.

  In a skirt and blouse with the pink ribbon in her hair matching her cheeks, she looked almost obscenely incongruous in this house of carnality. Her blue eyes were round with concern. She looked all of seventeen.

  "What are you doing here?" he demanded, his eyes flashing.

  The girl shrank back. "Why, I was invited. Miss Evelese was judging at the Corn Festival, and she helped vote me in as Corn Queen. She called me up and invited me to her party. I'm the guest of honor." The last was said with excited pride and a touch of youthful arrogance.

  Dameon groaned and eyed the sturdy, slightly plump for
m of the girl. Corn Queen. Evelese was sinking to a new low. How could she prey on such defenseless baby lambs?

  "Are you sick? Should I go get Miss Evelese?" The girl was anxious and took a step closer, her hands fluttering around him.

  "No!" At the frightened look on her face, he softened his tone. "Where are you from, ma petite? Let me guess, somewhere near Catahoula, or Henderson?"

  She nodded, surprise widening her wide eyes even more.

  "You don't often come in the city by yourself, do you?" he continued, his expression shrewd. She gave an embarrassed shake of her head.

  "Go home, ma petite. Go home to your mama and daddy. You don't belong here."

  She jutted her chin, youthful outrage in her face. "I was invited. You can't tell me..."

  "Be quiet and leave now," he growled, and dropped the gentle mask from his face. "Don't you know what this house is, what these people are?" He snarled at her and revealed fully his sharp fangs, watching as her face drained of color. Her mouth fell open in horror, and she started to cry.

  "Run, little girl, as fast as you can." He sat up as if to make a move toward her. She let out a little shriek of terror and flew out of the room.

  With satisfaction, he heard the mad scramble of her footsteps and the front door slam. The mobiles rattled and clinked. Good, one less little human toy for Evelese to cut her teeth on. The insane bitch. She would bring the wrath of the community down on Ingo's house. Didn't she realize that? Or was she too far gone to care?

  The bitter, yet overly perfumed scent announced her arrival. Evelese weaved slightly as she slithered to his side. In a tube-like dress of black leather and elbow-long, fingerless black leather gloves, her skin looked whiter than death. Her hair skimmed back in a chignon made her face sharper and more feral.

  "That was unkind, Mr. LaFaim." She smiled softly at him and put her hands on her hips. "You deprived me of my rightful entertainment. I was all ready for a little sweetmeat—sweet meat fresh from the farm." A greedy expression crossed her face as she licked her lips with a long, red tongue. She sighed heavily with the realization that the luscious tidbit was now out of reach. "Now, what am I to do?" She cocked her head to one side, pale blue eyes like glittering glass. Silence hung heavily for a long, tense minute.

  "You've been so mean, a real old meany-meany." She put her long, white hand over his.

  The urge to vomit returned, but he stared back at her, aloof and expressionless.

  "What are we going to do about this, eh, my handsome little boy? How will you make this up to me?"

  He refused to answer her, refused to play her game.

  The white hand glided up to his face and squeezed. Hard. "We'll find a way, I promise you."

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  She couldn't believe she was finally here. The train had taken forever to pull in to the city, inching so slowly that Jen had bitten her lip to stop from screaming. The second she stepped out of the train, the humid heat slapped her like a wet blanket.

  Jen fanned herself with the guide book and gazed around the bus station. It smelled like disinfectant and mildew, and the overhead lighting was brassy and harsh. Most of the people drifting around the station were in shorts and sandals. Jen wore slacks, a long shirt and loafers, and was already steaming hot and sweating But she had no time to change. Besides, anxiety was driving all other sensation from her brain. She wouldn't waste time checking in a hotel, either. Stuffing her bags into a locker, she slammed it shut and rushed out to the curb to hail a taxi.

  Her heart fluttered madly in her chest as she squinted in the fierce sun. She would go insane soon if a cab didn't pull up in the next minute. People began to line up beside her and she grew frantic. What if they jumped in before her?

  A yellow taxi seemed to crawl around the bend and inch itself up to the curb. Jen plunged forward and grabbed the door handle as the cab rolled to a stop. The handle was so hot it nearly scorched her hand. She could feel the people behind her staring, and was sure they were cursing her for being a pushy Yankee, but she didn't care. Time was running out. She was losing Dameon. She could feel it. She was sensing more of the poisonous red and less of Dameon's aura each hour.

  The driver was Middle Eastern and spoke little English, which she was grateful for. She was in no mood for polite chit-chat. He apologized that the air conditioning was broken in his cab and rolled down the window, letting the hot, dusty air pour in. He drove at an insane clip, careening around corners, zooming through red lights and bouncing up and down curbs. Jen didn't care. She only hoped he would find the right address.

  One of the most exotic, exciting cities in the country whirled by her, and Jen could scarcely take it in. Biting her lip and tapping her fingers on her leg, she barely registered the flamboyant architecture of the buildings, the old world charm, the distinct Spanish and French style that set New Orleans apart from every other city in the United States. Her eyes skimmed the package-laden tourists, the gaudy signs touting erotica shows, the horse and buggies clip-clopping by and the street artists displaying their wares. The sultry tunes of Jazz and Blues music rolled up and down the streets, but Jen, who normally would have lapped it all up, couldn't stop herself from watching the digital clock on the driver's dashboard.

  Finally, the taxi rounded a corner and squealed to a stop, parking in the center of the narrow, cobbled street. She was here. The driver stared for a moment at the house and reached for the cross hanging around his neck. He hesitated and then shrugged as if to say, "What can you expect—this is New Orleans."

  "Good luck," he said somberly as Jen shut car door shut.

  She smiled weakly and nodded.

  Paying him and recklessly throwing in a huge tip, she waved good-bye. He zoomed off in a flurry of pebbles and dirt. This was it. Belle Mansion. Calvin had given explicit directions. Jen tugged at her damply clinging shirt. Staring at the romantic old mansion peeking through huge moss-covered trees, she could feel bone-cold fear creep through her hot, flushed body. The windows were dark and shuttered, and there was no sign of life coming from the house.

  But she knew Dameon was in there. She could feel it. The hairs on her neck stood up. There was something evil and dangerous in that house, too. For a panic-stricken minute, she couldn't swallow or breathe. Giving herself a mental shake, she got a firmer grip on her bag, feeling a tiny bit more confident knowing the dagger was in it. She pulled the necklace with Dameon's ring out from under her top and let it rest over her collar. Touching it, some of her courage returned.

  Fragrant, pulpy smells filled the air. The yard in front of the house was bursting with flowers and bushes. Gardenias and camellias were profuse, sprouting colorfully amidst the untrimmed, deep green jungle of bromeliads and jasmine. The sun hung low and swollen, spilling a tarry heat on to the landscape.

  Insects buzzed in a ceaseless stream and mosquitoes whined in a cloud past Jen. A small boy whipped by on a skateboard, kicking up dirt and gravel on the sidewalk. The sight roused her from her stupor and she walked with what she hoped was impressive confidence up the street. Dameon was inside. He needed her. Her heart gave a tremendous thump, and the image of him was all she needed to knock briskly on the door.

  For a very long minute, nothing happened and then, slowly, the door opened and a round face peered around the edge. The face was young and bland and wore an expression of furtive guilt.

  She stared silently at Jen, who marshaled all of her acting ability.

  In her most imperious tone, she asked to see Dameon.

  As the girl hesitated, she took a step forward and put her hand on the door. "He's expecting me. I'm family." Jen frowned at the girl, intuiting that this was a real human and no vampire.

  The girl backed away and pulled open the door. "I guess it's all right to let you in, then..." She spoke in the slurred, swollen accents of the Cajun dialect. Nervously, the girl kept looking over her shoulder. Jen could hear a shrieking electric guitar clashing with a belly-shaking bass in the background. The walls tremb
led and set off the tinkling of the string of mobiles hanging overhead. Someone had their stereo system cranked up to explosive levels.

  Stepping inside, Jen wrinkled her nose. The house was filled with a smell musky and, at the same time, too sweet. There was also the faintest scent of something rotted and sour under the heavier aromas. Some of the odor was coming from the girl.

  The girl brushed stringy, dark hair from her eyes and shifted from foot to foot. In her faded, tattered denim jumper and grubby, bare feet, she didn't look like she belonged to the mansion. Her voluptuous young body poured out of the worn denim. Her face, though, was almost plain. The girl stared at Jen with vague eyes and licked her upper lip, disclosing a set of crooked, widely spaced teeth.

  "I'm thinking I should get Evie or Hollie. They should take you to Dameon—"

  Following a wordless, but strong instinct, Jen shook her head. "There's no need. Just point the way, and I'll surprise him. Believe me, he'll be glad to see me." She met the empty, shifty eyes of the girl with a haughty smile. She straightened her shoulders and pretended she was someone who demanded and always got instant acquiescence. She knew she didn't want to meet the mysterious Evie or Hollie. Her radar sounded alarms as soon as she heard their names. They must be the vampires.

  "Oh, well,"—the girl shrugged—"if he's expecting you..." Her voice trailed off in indifference. She pointed vaguely to the right toward a dark, unlit corridor. "He's in the third door down there." Without another word, the girl padded off into the shadowy hall branching left.

  Jen pulled out the dagger and tucked it in the waistband of her pants. She untucked her top so that it covered the waist. This is it, she coached herself. We'll find out if you have backbone or not. Convulsed with anxiety and excitement, she made her way quietly down the hall the girl had pointed her to. Thank heavens for Calvin, who had warned her to keep the dagger handy. If she was attacked, she would never be able to get the dagger out of her purse in time. Calvin had reminded her how quick vampires could be. And these vampires were extra deadly. They were lamias, like Tatiana,