Bite Me: Big Easy Nights

by Marion G. Harmon

  “Here’s what you’re going to do. Listening?” He nodded loosely and I held his chin, keeping our gazes locked.

  “You’re going to sit here thinking about how nice it is to be going home. Okay? You’re going to decide you’re too drunk, you’re going to go back inside, and you’re going to call a cab. You’re not going to remember anything about tonight, and tomorrow you’re going to check out Alcoholics Anonymous. Got it?”

  He nodded again, like a tired but happy puppy, and I patted him on the shoulder. Opening the passenger window a crack, I lifted into mist and away. He would blank on the night—I was confident of that. My final suggestion might stick, and was the most I could give for what I took.

  I found two more donors before I felt on top again: the second (a cabby) took me to my third (a tourist bar and a player looking for a hookup). From there I walked back to St. Augustine, achingly alert for shadowers on the wind. Paul waited for me in the dark carriageway, leaning against the van, hands in his pockets.

  “Now are we going to talk?” he asked, straightening.

  “I haven’t got a new place, yet. I had to top up.”

  He scowled darkly. “What did you do, chèr?”

  “A drunk, a cabbie, and a player,” I said tonelessly. “The drunk got home safe, the cabbie got a big tip, and the player thinks he got lucky. And I’m as full as a happy tick.”

  “Jacky—”

  “I can’t hit the regular clubs, Paul. Or Sable’s. I don’t want to see another vamp except on my terms until I know who wants me permanently dead.” Which gives me just until the Midnight Ball to figure out what’s going on. Crap. “Help me pack? And I need you to take me shopping. I’ve got to accessorize.”

  “Jacky, what is going on?”

  “Please.”

  He stood there for a long moment, then slumped, defeated.

  “I’ll help you tonight, me. But then, chèr, we’re done unless you can tell me you’re still on the side of the angels.”

  “I want to know, as well,” Leroy said behind me.

  “Jesus H. Christ!” Paul’s gun was in his hand—a 9mm SIG-Sauer that wouldn’t do much against a charging vampire.

  “You may relax, Detective Negri. I only seek information.” Leroy stepped out of the shadows behind the van. He wore a grey-black suit and shirt, black tie, no jewelry or bright buttons anywhere—talk about GQ-camouflage.

  Realizing I’d drawn my own useless Kel-Tec, I put it away and swallowed a How did you find me? He hadn’t; he’d found Paul.

  “I believe we should go somewhere less exposed to talk,” he said.

  “Inside will be fine, Herr Leroy.”

  Father Graff stepped around the side of a beat-up pickup truck I’d seen earlier tonight. The shotgun he carried looked much more effective.

  “Is anybody else out there?” I said loudly. “ ‘cause now would be a good time.”

  Chapter Nine

  Never argue with a priest with a gun; he’s protecting someone or he’s on a mission from God—either way he won’t hesitate to send you to Jesus.

  Jacky Bouchard, The Artemis Files

  * * *

  A vampire, a werewolf, and a priest walk into a bar. What a perfect joke, spoiled only by the extra vampire (me), and the fact that we were walking into a church. Well, the Archive Building. I shook my head; my homogoblin—hemoglobin—high hadn’t passed yet. Le-roy was the odd vamp out tonight. What the hell did he want?

  Father Graff went in ahead, taking a moment before formally inviting us (Leroy, really) inside. I saw that he had covered the section of wall holding the iron cross with a light screen, one he could pull down quick if necessary.

  So, he didn’t trust Leroy either. I hid a smirk, blood-infused mood swinging up; Father Graff seemed more likely to use the shotgun than a cross. What does he load it with? Must ask later.

  The priest set his weapon down on the document-viewing table in the center of the room, facing us across it.

  “Ms. Bouchard,” he said with European formality. “Before we go any further together, I need to hear about Andy.”

  Andy? Andy was handy. Stop that. Even Leroy was viewing me with alarm. I crossed my arms, tried to look as serious as the situation was. I was never doing three in one night again.

  “Andy is the owner of the truck outside, father?”

  He nodded.

  “I lost a lot of blood last night—you saw me wearing most of it.”

  He nodded again.

  “I—and Mr. Leroy—were attacked by vampires. One of them killed me; if not for Leroy I would be ashes on a Bourbon Street rooftop now and tonight I needed to feed, badly. I can’t go near my normal territory until I know who attacked us and why.”

  “So you attacked a member of my parish after receiving sanctuary—”

  “Father, please.” My mood had absolutely bottomed, and I carefully kept my eyes off him. I would not influence him, or give him reason to think I was. “There are two ways for me to get what I need—force or consent. I couldn’t get consent tonight, not anywhere safe. Andy is alright?”

  “Yes.” I could feel Father Graff’s gaze on me.

  “He shouldn’t have remembered anything, father. How did he…”

  “He walked back into the bar waving a fifty and asking for a cab. Johnny Good knew something had happened when he started going on about an angel and finding an AA meeting. When he passed out, Johnny found the bite marks and brought him to me.”

  I closed my eyes. “I should have told him to sleep it off in the truck.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  Why didn’t I? “Tremé can be a little rough at night.” I winced when Paul choked, remembering his attitude towards my hobby of making things less predictable for New Orleans’ human predators. In the silence, I risked a glance at Father Graff. He looked…like he didn’t know what he was looking at.

  “So you stalked a member of my flock,” he said slowly. “You enslaved his will, drank his blood, then gave him fifty dollars and commanded him to take a cab home and go to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting?”

  Now Leroy was trying very hard not to laugh. With all the blood I’d taken in, I felt a blush climbing my face.

  “Yes, father,” I managed.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I am grateful you are not Catholic, mein kinde,” he said with a groan. “I would need a Jesuit to decide on your penance.”

  “Why a fifty?” Paul asked. “That’s more than a local cab.”

  I sighed. “It’s the going rate for a blood-bank donation.”

  Leroy completely lost it.

  * * *

  I promised Father Graff I’d be gone before morning. Since I wasn’t actually asking for the protection of the church this was all just a sideline to him, and, really I could understand why he didn’t want us around; vampires might not be a problem to church doctrine, but the fantasy and addiction we created and fed from had to represent a danger to his flock. Beati mortus or not, this wasn’t the place for me.

  Whatever his feelings, he accepted my apology for Andy, and departed after getting my promise to lock up as we left. It was all very civilized.

  “A most interesting clergyman,” Leroy commented as the door closed behind him.

  “I think he has a secret lair somewhere,” I said. “Or at least a ring of informants. He knew all about—” I shut up.

  “All about Paul?” Leroy supplied. “Or what the two of you really do together?”

  Paul growled, and he held up a hand. In the light reflecting from the historical displays, he was all shadows, dark, dangerous, and amused.

  “Be calm, Detective Negri,” he said. “After Jacqueline informed me that she didn’t belong to Sable’s court, I had Darren look around a little. He is well connected, very useful, and since I do not drink from children I can hardly object to your activities. I merely came here tonight to ensure that Jacqueline was unharmed after her…adventures. And to learn what she wished to speak to me about last n
ight.”

  He looked completely calm himself, despite the fact that his sword-cane probably wasn’t silver and in his wolfman form Paul could probably rip his head off. I had a sudden vision of Paul doing just that to make sure Leroy came along quietly. He could always put him back together at the precinct…

  If Leroy thought he was a suspect in any way, he didn’t show it. I bought time by filling Paul in on the details of last night’s attack, relieved that he understood why I wasn’t reporting it; cop or not, Paul was still a bayou boy from Church Pointe, and he knew all about taking care of trouble inside the family.

  He did demand that Leroy send him the “head shots” he’d taken of two of our attackers.

  “That will not be a problem, detective,” Leroy said, neglecting to mention he’d planned on having Darren call in a favor to do just that. “In return, I would appreciate it if you would tell me what Jacqueline hasn’t. What did she want to speak to me about?”

  “She was looking for a date?” Paul shot back and I sputtered. “I just watch her back while we do our thing.”

  “You don’t watch it well, Detective Negri. Darren informed me of the hunters.”

  “Hey—” I started, wondering just how deep the leaks in Paul’s department ran.

  “Considering she got beheaded out with you—”

  “Paul! Stop! You guys are fighting over keeping me safe? Seriously?” More blood inside me meant more “living” reactions, and I was so mad my hands shook. “I swear to God I’ll shoot the next one who acts like I’m some freaking damsel in distress!”

  Paul and Leroy shared a look and I almost screamed.

  “What did you come to see me about?” Leroy asked. To shut him up, I told him about Acacia and what the hunters had been trying to accomplish.

  He was silent when I finished.

  “Acacia.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “And your lieutenant thinks that she was unintentionally turned?”

  Paul nodded and I kept my mouth shut. Sometimes I wondered if vamps were mildly psychic as well; Leroy’s eyes said he knew I wasn’t sharing everything.

  “This may explain a great deal,” he said finally. “Detective Negri, what do you know about V-Juice?”

  “What?” Paul said, and I echoed him.

  “Your department really should widen its focus, detective. V-Juice is ‘vampire blood.’ There are many aspiring vampires, and few vampires willing to risk the sire scam for any amount of money.”

  “Okay.”

  “So there is a market for V-Juice. It is pig’s blood—I’ve tasted it—laced with a methamphetamine that makes its users feel strong, powerful. They take it believing it is vampire blood, that enough doses will turn them. Naturally they become addicted.”

  What?

  I opened my mouth but couldn’t get anything out as my world shifted again, in a direction I didn’t dare trust. Paul swore. “Have there been overdoses?” he asked before I could draw breath to.

  Leroy nodded.

  “A few. I have been quietly trying to find the distributors, but the sellers are being careful and someone is protecting them.”

  “Angels, the other night?” I asked carefully.

  “It is being sold there, yes.”

  “So what does this explain?” Paul asked.

  No master vampire. Enough idiots take a nasty ride with the stuff, somebody trying for it was bound to turn, no sire needed.

  No master vampire. I stood frozen, still as a stone gargoyle.

  “Acacia, Paul,” I said, voice amazingly normal. “She may not have a sire. What’s more likely? That a vamp is playing the con—and how often could he do it without getting caught and could Acacia have ever paid him enough to risk it—or that she got her breakthrough off V-Juice?”

  Paul bit his nail and did the math while I tried to think my way around it. The odds of a normal vamp “siring” another vamp were one in thousands. Which was why I’d been staring at the terrifying possibility of a new master vamp. But if dozens, maybe hundreds of wannabes were taking...

  “So,” I said. “Acacia comes to town looking for a vamp to turn her, chooses me, but loses her nerve? And if she was obviously a wannabe, not just a fan, somebody could have sold V-Juice to her.”

  Paul looked up. “But there still have to be vampires involved. Vamps attacked the two of you.”

  “Yes,” Leroy agreed. “I have been asking around, and I am certain that because of this I was last night’s target.”

  “Was. Now Jacky’s in it too—they have to assume you’ve read her in. Shit.”

  “As you say, merde.”

  * * *

  Leroy had what he wanted to know from me, and with zero desire to stick around a church—even in its one safe room—he didn’t linger. Paul wanted to take me home; he said he was working on an off-the-books safe house, but he figured he could keep me safe at Grams for at least one day. Instead I got him to take me “shopping.” An hour later I stood in a duelist stance, test-firing a .50 caliber Desert Eagle with quick double taps. I’d stretched my senses all the way there, but hadn’t felt any other vamps in the air. Nobody seemed to be following us, either.

  Boom-boom. Boom-boom. Boom-boom.

  “Nice grouping,” Bobby said, taking off his ear protectors. The owner of Masson Guns and Ammo had opened his range for me as a favor to Paul.

  He’d frowned when I ignored the offered ear protectors and snorted when I squared off against the targets with a one-handed grip, arm out sideways like an old time duelist instead of taking up the two-handed forward pointing Weaver stance. Now he shook his head.

  “Damn, but you’ve got the solidest grip I’ve ever seen. Might as well have it clamped to a tripod—I don’t think the barrel moved an inch.”

  I laughed. “Strength of the dead has its perks, Mr. Masson. It’s easy to stay on target, and shooting two-handed means I’d have to turn my whole body instead of just my arm and head for offside shooting. Not to mention giving anyone shooting at me a broader silhouette.”

  “I can see that. Good. Desert Eagles are bear-stoppers, but they kick; let it ride back and you can mess up the timing of the slide and stovepipe it. Jams are bad when you’re in a fight. So what bear do you want to stop with this?”

  I ejected and checked the magazine, cleared the barrel. “Bloodsucking ones.”

  Bobby looked back at Paul, chuckled nervously. “Kidding, right?”

  “Nope. Last night I shot one in the head and barely slowed him down. His buddy cut my head off.” I sliced a finger across my throat and gave Bobby a grin, showing fang. “I figure a .50 caliber round to a leg or an arm will shatter bones, slow him down a little. A shot to the neck might decapitate him. I’ll take two of these.”

  Bobby brought out a second Desert Eagle and together we stripped and checked both of them. I’d asked Paul to take me to a gunsmith, and he had; Bobby knew his stuff. He used tape and blue paper to get my hand measurements and promised to have one fitted for my grip by tomorrow night—then I could trade and get the second gun done. He also offered to stiffen the trigger pull to match my strength.

  When I asked for fitted micro laser-sights and beveled magazine wells for smoother reloads and started in on ammunition options, he laughed. “Where did you train? Special Ops?”

  I smiled. “Close,” I said, thinking of Sam, the retired Navy Seal range master who taught me the full tactical shooter course—cold, hot, and dynamic range work.

  “Okay, don’t tell me,” Bobby said when I didn’t elaborate. “So what else do we need?” He fitted me with a shoulder holster stripped for speed drawing and able to carry a couple of spare magazines, threw in a full maintenance kit, and I remembered to ask about knives. He found me a pair of Arkansas toothpicks—thirteen inches of double-edged straight blade goodness. “Should I be concerned?” he asked, ringing everything up.

  I looked at his worried face and gave his question the seriousness it deserved.

  “I don’t think
so,” I said. “Just a little vamp-on-vamp violence. Hopefully it will never hit the news.”

  “Should I stock up on stakes and stuff?”

  “Stakes are Hollywood. You know how hard it is to push a pointed piece of wood through someone’s ribcage? And the heart’s a pretty small target.” Paul coughed behind me. Okay, I was starting to sound like a vampire serial-killer.

  “Seriously Bobby,” he said. My unexpected expertise obviously bugged him, but now he was trying not to laugh. “Crosses, holy water—jus’ make sure it’s the real stuff—but like Jacky said, it’s family business you know? Wouldn’t worry about it, me.”

  Looking at Paul, I realized I was hosed. All we had to worry about was a new drug ring that might be creating accidental vampires, if we were lucky. But only I knew the real nightmare scenario and that wasn’t fair. Ignorance could get him killed. I had to read him in on master vampires and supervamps, everything. And I had to introduce him to Artemis. He wasn’t going to take it well.

  But everyone else was going to meet Artemis, too. They weren’t going to take it any better.

  Chapter Ten

  The thing to remember about a vampire is, it’s a corpse. An animated corpse, you bet. Well preserved? Absolutely. But cadaver-dogs can tell the difference; they can smell that so-subtle tang of cellular necrosis, and it bugs the hell out of them to see a vampire moving. People can tell, too, if they know what to look for: room-temperature handshake, milky complexion, a spooky absence of all the ticks and twitches of a body busy living. So where’s the best place to hide a corpse?

  Jacky Bouchard, The Artemis Tapes

  * * *

  Paul dropped me off on Chartres Street; he didn’t want to, but he knew about my DSA connection and knew he wasn’t going to meet him. Gray preferred meeting at Napoleon House because the old bar on the corner of Chartres and St. Louis was a historical site and tourist hangout—the overworked staff saw lots of new faces every night, making regulars stand out in the crowd. And he wanted to stand out.