Bite Me: Big Easy Nights

by Marion G. Harmon

  He got out without many more words, leaving the car keys in exchange for a promise from me that I’d call if I needed him. He promised to fix Gram’s security situation; I didn’t know much about post-Event magic, but, even if Grams had the real mojo, how reliable could it be? I couldn’t count on every hitter who went after Grams getting terminally clumsy.

  I listened until I heard the garage door close. Would he call a cab? I realized I didn’t know where he lived; was it in the Quarter? Dragging one of the steel shelves from the storeroom back into the security room, I lay out and inventoried my gear, trying not to think about it. Alone was how I worked, and Paul was a big boy.

  And however willing Paul was, I couldn’t make him part of what I was going to have to do. As strangely nice as he was being, there was no way he would help me pull off an abduction right under Detective Emerson’s nose.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I laugh in the face of danger. Laugh my ass off, usually. A good fight lets me work out my issues.

  Jacky Bouchard, The Artemis Files.

  * * *

  I needed a supplier. Big Brother wasn’t always watching but he could always listen, so I’d made sure my emergency kit included a burner phone. As Artemis, they were all I’d ever used, and since I needed the information anyway… I placed a phone call to Leroy for some clarification, an address, and Darren’s number. MC had given permission after all, and even if I couldn’t trust him or Leroy with my safety there were some things I desperately needed.

  When I called Darren to give him the list and find out what happened to Acacia’s kinfolk after he bailed them out, I half expected to hear they’d “disappeared.” Instead he gave me the address of a cheap hotel in the Warehouse District; one of them was still in traction at Tulane University Hospital and the other three weren’t leaving town until he was out. Cheerful as before, Darren was happy to do some shopping for me with an arranged drop. Something wasn’t right with that boy; how could a lawyer smile all the time? I could hear his shit-eating grin over the phone.

  Making Masson Guns and Ammo my first stop, I picked up my first modified Desert Eagle and gave Bobby a few more anti-vampire tips to calm him down. The man was seriously thinking about getting his family out of town. Firing two boxes of rounds downrange to get the feel, I decided Bobby didn’t charge enough; the grip fit like an extension of my hand. The big gun felt awkward in its new shoulder-holster, but the heavy knife and spare clips counterbalanced it a bit. Most important, nothing looked too obvious under my leather jacket; just a little influence would keep people from noticing. After making sure Bobby knew how much I appreciated his work (really, the man was an artist), I headed out again.

  Back in Chicago, I’d learned to never make a move unless I knew the ground, knew who I was dealing with. I’d picked the fights and the battlefield. Here I was the hunted, didn’t know the hunter, and didn’t know what he knew. Which meant, even ignoring a looming DSA decision, I couldn’t wait, had to push, had to find him before he found me. To do that I had to pull on the only string I had—and it was attached to a serious police investigation.

  I was going to need help. Fortunately I knew where to find it.

  The Hearst Hotel had seen better days. In fact any day must have been better—it had the look of a property where the owner had stopped paying for maintenance and was milking it for what he could get before the place got condemned; most of its business was probably hourly now, but even the hookers and their clients disappeared by witching hour.

  Simple was best, and I’d planned on getting Dupree’s room number from the night desk guy, then knocking. Except that someone beat me to it; nobody answered when I rang the bell on the counter. The cage closing off the counter didn’t let me lean over, but standing higher and looking down, I saw a shoe on the floor, twisted in the overturned chair. Smelling blood, I was suddenly glad I’d fed last night. Oh shit.

  Going still and listening didn’t tell me anything. Finally risking the mist, I passed through the cage grill.

  Shit shit shit! Dead night-guy lay on the floor, throat ripped out, still warm, not nearly enough blood outside of him. I turned to the counter, found Dupree’s information and room number already up on the screen, grabbed the desk phone and dialed 9-1-1.

  “Calling for Detective Emerson, French Quarter Precinct!” I shouted as soon as a cool, professional voice answered. “Vampire homicide, desk clerk at the Hearst Hotel, unknown vamps still present!”

  “What is your—” I hung up, checked the back office, misted back through the grill and raced for the stairs.

  Jumping into an unknown situation sucked, but if I had to do it the best way was to jump in fast and hard. If they didn’t see me coming, at least I’d have achieved mutual confusion. I passed one messy drunk on the way to the third floor but no more bodies, a good sign, and heard the first shots before I hit the third floor landing. I went through the door into the hallway, Desert Eagle in one hand and Arkansas toothpick in the other.

  The black-hooded vamps standing in the hall turned my way as the shattered door hit the opposite wall: two of them, teeth red, with familiar machetes.

  Looking for me and just got here early? I laughed, blood rising. My turn.

  Loadouts of frangible rounds meant I didn’t have to worry about missing my targets, blowing through a wall and killing someone I wasn’t trying to, and I dialed in while they were still reacting to my entrance. Boom boom, boom boom!

  Contrary to the movies, bullets don’t throw people around. I walked the shots from Target One’s chest up to his neck and head as thunder slammed the air of the close hallway. His head flopped grotesquely as he staggered, dropped his machete, went to mist and faded. Target Two made it to mist before I serviced him more than twice, lasersight leading my shots, and he attacked. Feeling him swirl past me, I laughed as I swept into mist and pushed.

  I’d had plenty of time to think about the rooftop fight and figure out what had happened. Riding the mist felt like running on a tightrope—balanced, in motion, never quite falling—and a hard jab of influence could push me right off that rope to fall back into flesh like it had repeatedly that night. But two could play and Target Two stumbled in flight as I followed him down, going solid behind him, pistol to the base of his skull before he could recover.

  Boom.

  The shot half-decapitated him, and I finished the job with a backswing slice of the thirteen-inch knife. Target One was nowhere, and there were no other shots. With only one round left in the magazine and one in the chamber, I swapped in a reload as I moved sideways down the hallway, back to the wall.

  “Hello?” I called, keeping my gun up as I closed on the open hotel room door. They might not be able to hear me; gunfire in close quarters hammered living ears pretty badly. For a moment I thought my hearing had been impaired, then realized I was hearing sirens.

  “Hello?” I called again. “The police are on their way.”

  “Who is that?” someone shouted from the room.

  “Are you all right?” I tried.

  “Rick’s—God, he’s dead! He’s—”

  “Shut up!” A different, steady voice. “Ma’am, I don’t want to be rude, but you should stay away.” Even half-yelling, he had the same soft Cajun accent as Paul and Acacia.

  “Why?” I called back. “This is where the fun is. You bayou-boys have already met me, so I’ll just stay right here until the cops arrive.” Gee, coming on too strong? I forced my voice lower. “Mr. Dupree?”

  Someone in the room sobbed, choked it off.

  “Miss Bouchard?” Mister Steady Voice said carefully. “Were you the one shooting out there?”

  “Yep. The police will be coming up the stairs in a few minutes, and we have to talk.”

  “Don’t go out there—” A slap, heavy and backhanded, cut the screamer off and a piece of me winced; someone wasn’t having a good night. He was going to need serious therapy. And drugs. I could have used some…

  “Miss Bouchard?” Du
pree called. “I’m coming out.”

  I holstered the gun and dropped the knife, checked myself for blood, and tried to look harmless. Well, less scary. I’d come to ask for help, and that hadn’t changed.

  Robert Dupree was a bigger, harder version of his sister and I recognized him as the guy who’d put a stake in me three nights ago. He looked down at the body, at the head bumped up against the wall trim and leaking blood into the carpet. The guy’s mask had managed to stay on, but it couldn’t make him look any better.

  “Jesus.”

  “He’ll get better,” I said.

  “Rick won’t.”

  “I don’t suppose he will. The police will be coming up the stairs soon, Mr. Dupree, and I need to ask you a question.”

  “Owe you that, I guess,” he said roughly.

  Oh, you think? I kept that inside-voice, putting influence behind my words. “Are you certain that Acacia didn’t recognize you? The police didn’t believe your story.”

  He shook his head, looking sick. “They told me about the V-Juice, Ma’am, and when they interviewed Steph themselves she knew who she was, recognized my picture. But Ma’am? When I found her at Angels the first night, she had no idea who I was—tried to come on to me!”

  That’ll do. “Then I can help you, Mr. Dupree. What’s your cell number?” He didn’t know what to think, but gave it anyway while I punched it into my burner-phone’s memory. Shouts echoed up the stairwell and I hesitated; time to go, but…

  Sloppy crying leaked from the open hotel room. Dammit, I couldn’t be here!

  “Dupree? Your boy in there is in for a lifetime of screaming nightmares and alcoholic self-medication. I can take it away—make sure what happened never gets written into his long-term memory.”

  “You can do that?”

  A shrug. “He’ll be useless as a witness, but, yeah, if you can buy me a couple of minutes.”

  He hesitated only a second, nodded, and stood aside.

  * * *

  There were nights when I wanted to stake them all.

  The small hotel room dripped red and I ignored the heady, copper reek. Rick, the obvious corpse, sprawled facedown by the bed. It looked like someone had ripped his throat out and splattered it on the walls before throwing him across the room. There’d been no drinking here; all Rick’s blood was present and accounted for. My reason for staying crouched in the corner, the gun in his hands shaking so badly if he managed to fire it he’d probably shoot himself in the head. That might be his plan, and I didn’t want to care.

  He’d held one of my arms while Dupree staked me.

  “Don’t!” he shrieked when I stepped over Rick. Damn it, he’d probably shoot Dupree if I didn’t get the gun away from him.

  “You’re going to be fine…”

  “Marco,” Dupree supplied.

  “You’re going to be fine, Marco,” I whispered, gently extending my influence. “You’re tired, this is a bad dream, if you close your eyes you’ll wake up and know everything’s okay…” I kept talking, moving closer as his shuddering breath smoothed, his frantic blinking slowed, and the gun lowered. Behind me, Dupree closed the door. Good; with no open door and no noise in here, the body in the hall would focus the responders’ attention for at least a few minutes.

  The words gave Marco something to hang on to as my influence washed over him. His eyes fluttered, closed, his grip relaxed and I caught the gun, held it behind me for Dupree to take, lifted his wrist. His hand flopped, boneless.

  I looked back. “I’m going to have to…”

  “Do it,” Dupree said. “Can’t do him worse.”

  Not true but I didn’t say it. Kneeling, I pulled his shirtsleeve down to expose the suicide vein. A gentle bite, barely a touch, blood flowed and Marco was mine.

  I drank shallowly, aware of Dupree behind me, and ended at thirty. Lifting my head to meet Marco’s open and dilated eyes, I moved up and gently kissed his forehead. “Forget, Marco,” I whispered, my breath stirring his damp hair as I poured all my blood-infused influence into him. “Forget your fear, forget the fight, forget the hours of tonight.”

  I’d thought he couldn’t get any looser but he melted, eyes closing again. I pushed him deeper into sleep, then picked him up and lay him on the bed as the police pounded on the hotel room door.

  Dupree stared, eyes wide, like he was seeing...what? “Your eyes,” he said.

  What? Reaching up, I realized my cheeks were wet. Why? I wiped while he shouted out the door, then carefully opened it.

  Two helmeted cops wearing flack-jackets with silver crosses made of duct tape across their chests burst into the room, Kriss Super-V autos ready. They stared at me, at Rick, and almost started shooting. I stayed still, not at all interested in finding out what kind of rounds those guns fired. When Emerson stepped in behind them I didn’t know whether to sigh or swear.

  The night was just never going to end.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Faeces evinio. Shit happens. So true I had it tattooed, but I’ve always preferred to be the shit that happens.

  Jacky Bouchard, The Artemis Files.

  * * *

  I was getting too used to interrogation rooms.

  Contrary to older stories, vampires can see themselves in mirrors just fine—at least I hadn’t met one who couldn’t, which was a good thing considering how vain we all were.

  I used the room’s one-way mirror to retie my hair; a bunch of it had half escaped its tail sometime tonight. I’d been two nights now without a proper shower so it was a good thing that, being dead, I didn’t get oily or flaky skin or otherwise have to worry about body odor, but I was getting a bit dirty here and there and I smelled someone’s blood on me somewhere.

  Putting my hands down I smiled for the benefit of whomever was watching, just to bug them. Someone had turned the air-conditioning off, but they could fry an egg on the table and I wouldn’t care.

  The door opened and Emerson half stepped in, then stopped. “What is this crap?” he yelled behind him. Someone muttered something defensive, and the A/C kicked back on.

  He closed the door behind him, loosened his collar, and eyed my manacles; they’d attached my handcuffs to the table by a long chain. I agreed with that bit; since the room wasn’t airtight the only way to keep me there was to lock me to something solid and big enough I couldn’t take it into mist with me.

  “Would you like to take your jacket off?” he asked sarcastically, rolling his eyes at the mirror.

  “I’m good.”

  He laughed sharply. “Hardly. What am I going to tell your grandmother?”

  “How are Dupree and Marco?” Emerson had had me cuffed and hustled out of there before some trigger-happy officer shot me.

  “Marco,” he said, “hasn’t woken up to tell us. Would you mind telling me why?”

  “He’s narcoleptic?”

  “Jacky...”

  “I went to the hotel to talk, Emerson. I wanted to make sure they weren’t planning on hunting me again. The other vamps got there first—but you were expecting someone, weren’t you? ‘Cause you had to be on top of the freaking hotel. You were in the lobby what, a minute after my call? It looks like live bait is your style after all.”

  “Jacky—”

  “I went to talk, found the night clerk, made the call, then rendered assistance—which I can do as a private citizen. If you want more, talk to my lawyer—Darren, I’m sure you’ve met—or cut me loose.”

  I leaned back, closed my eyes. “Sun’s up soon. You really going to waste time with me when you could be interrogating Mister Headless Hood?”

  He didn’t react to my suggestion, which meant he already knew how impermanent decapitation was for vamps. Damn it, I was the only one who’d been operating without an instruction manual.

  When he didn’t say anything I opened my eyes. He sat patiently, hands folded on the table, armpits getting dark.

  “Are you done?”

  “Depends. Give me a phone or a key.”
<
br />   He looked like he’d bitten into something foul. Bringing in Darren, helpful, hot Darren, the world’s happiest mob lawyer, obviously didn’t appeal. I didn’t want Darren here either, but Emerson didn’t know that.

  “Why wasn’t Paul in this one?” I pushed.

  “He’s off the bloodsucker beat. You’ll cooperate?”

  “I’ll tell you everything I know about tonight.”

  “Sergeant,” he raised his voice. One of the cross-wearing officers opened the door. I watched Emerson watch me as the officer produced a key and opened the cuffs, unlocked the table-chain, and left with the clinking armful.

  “The night clerk was drained,” I said as soon as the door closed. “And not the usual neat way—more like an animal attack. We’re talking sicko here, even for a vamp.” I didn’t ask him if there’d been other attacks like that; if there had been, he wouldn’t tell me. “Good luck keeping a mad vampire attack quiet.”

  “The hotel will cooperate. So much goes on there we could shut them down with a single warrant. Go on.”

  “I made the call and headed upstairs—”

  The interrogation room door opened again, the same officer standing aside to let Darren step in. He nodded to Emerson, smiled at me.

  “Don’t say anything more, Jacky.”

  Emerson looked ready to explode.

  “Ms. Bouchard is not your client, counselor!” So he hadn’t believed me.

  Darren winked at me. “On the contrary, Lieutenant, we have a professional relationship. I’m sure she would have called as soon as you let her have a phone.”

  Emerson turned to me, eyes hard. I shrugged helplessly, and Darren helped himself to the metal chair beside me.

  “Is my client being charged with anything, Lieutenant?”

  Emerson gave him a look. “She is helping us with our inquiries,” he ground out.

  “Jacky?”

  I smiled at Darren just to bug Emerson. “He needs to know what happened.”