Bite Me: Big Easy Nights

by Marion G. Harmon

“What the hell is going on?”

  * * *

  I managed to get Acacia cleaned and re-dressed before Paul arrived; Father Graff stepped out to give us privacy and meet Paul when he came in through the garage. It helped that she looked like an anemic narcoleptic instead of a murder victim, but not much.

  “What the hell are you doing?” were the first words out of his mouth.

  Okay, she looked like a fresh and well-dressed corpse. Her blonde locks were a rat’s nest, and plastic sheets on a concrete floor didn’t make a convincing bed.

  “She’s sleeping. I wish I was. How did you know?”

  His eyes burned and his fists visibly twitched. He looked mad enough to forget his upbringing and take a swing at me. I wanted him to; after this morning, a fight would be fun.

  My provoking smile didn’t help; he almost growled. “When Emerson wakes me up and asks where the girl they were watching and I went home with is, I know where to look.”

  “Woke you up?”

  “In my skin in Acacia’s bed. Personally.”

  I let my smile widen. “You woke up with Emerson in Acacia’s bed?”

  “Don’t—” He clawed his hair, visibly took hold of his temper.

  “Surveillance saw me go home with Acacia. Then they saw Acacia leave with her brother. Since he and his cousins are out on bail, they had to get permission to go back to Marksville until the trial if there ever is one. Emerson had the state police out there verify Dupree’s arrival, but he couldn’t produce Acacia and a traffic camera near city limits showed he left town without a passenger.”

  I had to ask. “Did you go home with Acacia—you know—voluntarily?”

  “No.” He was almost growling again. “Didn’t think she could vamp me, bought her a drink, was telling how you and I weren’t together anymore. Covering for you. Then I woke up. Naked. With my boss poking me.”

  “Really? I didn’t think he swung that way.”

  “Dammit Jacky!”

  “What did you tell Emerson?”

  “What I knew, which was jack crap.”

  “Then how did you—oh. You changed, didn’t you?” I mimed claws. All that trouble to dress the scene…

  “In the bathroom. Your smell was all over my boxers, Jacky! And the towels. And on me. What the hell?”

  “And you didn’t—”

  “Emerson thinks Acacia’s on the run, but he’s not stupid. He hasn’t forgotten about the hotel, and he’s coming to check the safe house he approved—doesn’t even need a warrant.”

  Oh shit. I froze.

  At least I’d had the sense to take the blood soaked sheets with me… Which Emerson would find if he searched the Cadi. Dammit. The fun of a pissed-off Paul was gone, and rising panic burned around the edges of my creeping daylight lethargy. Emerson could be here any minute and if I was still awake I would find out how truly pissed off he could get. With bloody sheets and plastic, stakes that would shine bright blue in the forensics lab (you can’t get all blood-trace out of wood)…

  And yet here was Paul, one step ahead of his own team. Why? Think about that later, girl.

  I looked down at Acacia, laid out like Sleeping Beauty where anyone could do anything. No way Emerson was finding me like that. Okay. Okay. Be elsewhere. But where was safe? When in doubt, simplify the situation.

  “Father?” I called. Father Graff had hung back by the door, wisely not wanting to get in the way if shots were fired. “Would you accept a request for sanctuary?” I turned to Paul. “Acacia hasn’t been charged with anything. Right?” He shook his head.

  “She hasn’t done anything wrong that we know of yet. Not like interfering in a police investigation.”

  “If the Church can keep her safe for now, Father, I can take care of myself.”

  He nodded understanding. “It would be our duty, given what she has been through.” He smiled grimly. “A duty we can fulfill easily. Her needs—”

  I kept my eyes on Paul. “I can send you someone who can see her needs looked after.”

  He nodded again. “Then we should go.”

  “Jacky. Chèr …”

  I looked away. “I’ll explain later, Paul. Please. I’m not sleeping here, and right now there’s nobody else I trust to take us through sunlight.”

  Chapter Twenty One

  Blood strengthens vampires, and with enough blood in them they can easily stay awake past dawn. But a vampire’s sleep is the sleep of the dead; until they wake at or close to sundown, they are as unresponsive as a corpse—and as helpless. This is why most vampires prefer that their resting places be either secret or very secure, and prefer to sleep alone.

  Dr. Mendel, The Psychology of Supernaturals.

  * * *

  I left most of my gear, everything except the forensic evidence and of course my guns and pointy things, since I didn’t want to give Emerson the idea that I was running, too. Looking at the walls, I decided Casper’s smeared graffiti would give the detective enough to think about. Wrestling with my growing panic at Emerson’s expected arrival, I took a moment to find the smashed camera and pull its memory chip. If Casper had “said” anything before throwing his tantrum, the boys in the University of New Orleans’ supernatural studies department might be able to learn more about him. I didn’t have time for it.

  Paul and I rolled Acacia up in more plastic and stowed her in the Cadi’s trunk. I wrapped myself in the emergency blanket before climbing in and spooning up behind her.

  Unlike the last daytime drive, now I had to fight to stay awake; I couldn’t sleep ‘til I was safe. Finally I felt us bump up onto the driveway back to the Archives Building. Paul called “Cover!” before opening the trunk to heft Acacia out and shut it again. A couple of minutes later we were back on the street. I tried to count the stops and corners, but lost track and his quick park surprised me out of my half-daze.

  I pulled the blanket’s edges in around me, heard Paul’s knock before the trunk opened and jerked reflexively as he felt around my feet and up my legs, tucking everything tighter.

  “Are you ready, chèr?”

  I nodded inside my cover, cleared my throat. “If you drop me I’ll kill you.”

  “You’re welcome. One. Two. Three.” He lifted me out, the front gate clanked as he pushed it out of the way, up the steps, thumping on the wood porch, then the door closed behind us. I panicked for no reason at all when he lowered me, got hold of myself when I felt the overstuffed cushions of Grams’ couch. I pulled the blanket back before he could, and found myself looking up at a frowning Grams.

  “You have been a great deal of trouble, Jacqueline.”

  * * *

  Grams had set out the good china, with tea for her but with a full pot of coffee brewed from my stash. The heavenly smell competed with the essence of candles and oils and herbs imprinted on the room by her years of client sessions. Grams poured while I got out of the blanket, got my hair out of my face, got my face straight so I could accept a cup with a smile. Sitting on the loveseat by the sofa, Paul accepted his own cup. Pouring a cup of English tea for herself, she sat back in the matching chair and looked at us.

  “Are you finished running around?”

  Paul looked at me, but I wasn’t any help—the taste of roasted Ethiopian shade bean had me blinking desperately, close to tears. It was the coffee, not the cinnamon-lacquered and brocade covered old furniture, or the faded Wedgewood patterned wallpaper, or the mantle full of pictures, or the sight of Grams. Really.

  “Jacqueline?”

  I swallowed. “Yes, Grams.”

  “Good. And Detective Negri, you can prevent a repeat of the other day’s unpleasantness?” Paul nodded.

  “Excellent. I have made up the old servants’ quarters behind the kitchen. You can remain and supervise the… protection detail? you have inflicted on my house. With Wesley’s blessing, I am sure.”

  Now Paul blinked. “Wesley?”

  “Lieutenant Emerson, young man. I have had quite enough of all this unnecessary per
ambulation. ”

  I choked into my cup. Wesley? Paul was turning red.

  “If the boy wishes to speak to Jacqueline, he may come by after sunset,” Grams instructed, then turned to me. “You will be here?”

  “I—I will have to go out,” I said weakly. “But I can call a cab and be back quickly enough.” My tired mind raced. Wesley? The boy? There was a story here; too bad I was about to face-plant into Grams’ serving set.

  She gave me a sharp look and took my cup away.

  “Then you had best get to bed.”

  “Yes Grams,” I said meekly. Bed, the most beautiful word in the world; just thinking about it half-hypnotized me. Leaving Paul to his fate, I climbed the stairs to my room.

  But I didn’t crawl into my coffin; instead I fired up my laptop and went through the tedious password process, then transferred the sound file of Acacia’s story and my questions. Painfully slow thought added a sketchy assessment with a search and background-check request, and a note to call Father Graff and assist if needed. I clicked the “send” button feeling like I’d lit a fuse. From my desk to my coffin took less than thirty seconds, most of that to lock up my crypt and turn on its alarms. Closing and latching the lid, I exhaled and was gone.

  * * *

  Normally I rose with the sun still on the horizon, on the edge of twilight, but this time Beethoven’s ode to night’s silver orb serenely marked the sunset as I opened my eyes. One night remained until the dark moon and the Midnight Ball.

  So why did I feel so good?

  I was home.

  Dammit. When did that happen? Less than two months living in an uneasy truce with a prickly Grams as surprised to meet me as I’d been to meet her, and suddenly it was home. I groaned, covering my eyes. There’s no place like home. Great. New Orleans was supposed to be a side trip—a few months paying my debt to the DSA, firmly establishing my new identity, and getting to know family I hadn’t known I’d had.

  I opened the coffin lid and sat up, ran my fingers through my hair. I was even getting used to the damned box. Sure, the fact that it was basically a custom-made safe covered in wood paneling had something to do with it, but still. Once upon a time I’d slept in a bed.

  And when did I start calling a cab to order takeout?

  I called anyway, then showered and changed like I was late for school, motivated by a text-message left on my phone; Gray wanted to meet me at our usual spot. Feeling like a delinquent teen, I left a text and slipped out through my bedroom window to avoid seeing Grams or Paul. Checker Cabs answered fast and got me to Napoleon House. Ang, my Tibetan driver, was courteous and filling—and my moral slide continued. I doubled the fare.

  Gray wore a clean shirt, but there was no other evidence he’d moved between my visits. He looked at me over his paper when I pushed through the crowd and sat down. “Kimie left her boyfriend and moved back to Houston,” he said. “Apparently your exit the other night was inspiring.”

  “Glad I could help.” The new waitress avoided us just as carefully, so I assumed Gray had propositioned her at least once and checked his sandwich. He made a show of leaning in and stroking my reluctant hand, passing off a flash drive under cover of creepy-older-man lechery.

  “We’ve removed Stephanie Dupree and the vampire in Lieutenant Emerson’s custody,” he said caressingly. “Good work.”

  “What?” I jerked my hand back, nearly knocked over my drink. “Ac—Stephanie’s a victim. How could you—” Gray glanced a warning toward the bar, but I couldn’t believe what I’d heard. “She was under the protection of the Church!”

  He shrugged it off, leaned back. “She’ll be a guest at Camp Necessity until we’re confident that the trauma she experienced hasn’t made her unsafe. And I’m sure our government and the Vatican are even now exchanging very secret recriminations. The other one—well, we need practice deprogramming vampire victims anyway. The DSA is taking over the V-Juice investigation.”

  I clamped down hard on a scream. Emerson might not blame me. I was just the DSA asset loaned to his department—yeah, like he’s going to believe that—but I couldn’t imagine what Father Graff must be thinking. Or Dupree, who I’d promised— Gray had just casually blown up my reason for being here and my fragile network and he sat there smiling and I could tell he knew I was imagining kneecapping him with my Desert Eagle. Just one knee, dammit—he’ll heal eventually!

  “Why?” was all I managed. It was almost a hiss.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

  He leaned close.

  “You report a vampire who’s just been forced to remember being serially tortured, raped, and killed, and all you ask is that we help feed her?” For once his mask slipped and he looked something other than slyly depraved. Then he winked for our audience, leaned in again. “Do you think your priest and his friends could handle her without killing her if she, oh I don’t know, went bat shit raving crazy on them?”

  I didn’t! I survived! I wanted to scream that in his smug, smarmy face. But as horrifying as the admission was, there was no comparison between what my sire had done to me and hers had done to her. In his own sick way, he’d loved me until I killed him. “So you’ll lock her up until the shrinks tell you she’s safe? I’ve never met one who didn’t think we were all just one bad day from a killing spree—at best!”

  He shrugged that away too. “It’s better than a killer vamp on the loose.”

  “We’ve got a killer vamp on the loose! Did you find what I said to look for?”

  “No, and yes. The FBI has two open cases, probably not all of them. One in Detroit, one in Boston. Young blondes, spiked to walls, tortured, raped, exsanguinated. First one nearly a year ago, the second five months ago. Like I said, they probably haven’t found all of them—the two they know about were meant to be hid. Nothing after that.”

  “Sure, because he’d turned Acacia then—she’s been his victim three times. He makes her forget and she’s all better in a couple of days! He recycles! But he doesn’t have her anymore so he’ll be looking for a new toy soon!”

  “And we’ll find him. Not you—you’re to back off. We’ve got someone breeding vamps through better chemistry, and that’s a whole level above serial killer. So you’re done. Get out of town. When this is over you can go back to trapping kiddy-fang.”

  You’re right; we’re done.

  I threw my drink at his head and spit in his face, considered lighting the bar on fire on the way out, but as much as he liked the dramatic exit that would be a bit over the top. I made it out of Napoleon’s without any vandalism, but fell against the rough and flaking wall, eyes tight shut. Taking deep and useless breaths to keep from screaming, I tried to push away the images Acacia’s broken story played inside my head.

  “Miss, are you alright?”

  I turned away from the wall and the owner of the concerned voice took two steps back and nearly tripped off the low curb.

  “No. Go away.” It came out a ragged whisper, but I pushed with all the influence I had. The tour bus just missed my Good Samaritan, and I didn’t stay to see if he stopped running.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  How blessed are some people, whose lives have no fears, no dreads, to whom sleep is a blessing that comes nightly, and brings nothing but sweet dreams.

  Bram Stoker, Dracula.

  So your life sucks. Boo hoo.

  Jacky Bouchard, The Artemis Files.

  * * *

  Paul looked better than someone who had no regular sleep cycle and was too many ounces low had a right to. I hadn’t had time to think about his own “special” condition, but now I wondered if it gave him the kind of recuperative powers regular werewolves had. Grams had joined us in the kitchen, listening without comment as I caught him up. It being after her consultation hours, her hair was pulled back in a steel grey bun, her face devoid of its usual arch makeup.

  “So that’s it?” Paul said finally. “The DSA has dropped you? And take
n away our investigation?”

  “More like they’ve cut me loose for now.” I kept my eyes on my coffee. The cup steamed fragrantly, but didn’t warm my cold hands. “I’m a civilian asset, not an agent, and with my background they don’t consider me that reliable.” I shook my head when he started to protest. “Not—they know I’d never jam them up. I’m just not… not one of theirs.”

  The flash drive had included account numbers, plane ticket purchases, and instructions to go back to Chicago. At least they realize I’m still a target. More than before, if Emerson’s department was as leaky as I thought it was. Acacia’s sire had to know that Emerson believed I’d helped her disappear, and with no leads left to follow I was more dangerous to my friends than my enemies now. Dangerous to Grams.

  “But they still haven’t found him?” Paul couldn’t let it go. I’d given him and Grams a sketchy description of Acacia’s story. It had been light on the gut-churning details, but still enough to shut down all expression on his expressive face.

  “No.” I shook my head. “They found the room Acacia—Stephanie—told me about, the place where she and the others were turned. Dead end.” Gray had had the decency to include the investigation file with my walking papers, for what good it did. He knew how to do his job; he’d used Acacia’s description to define a search, narrowed it down to three locations, and had teams in the doors before lunchtime. They’d found the old lab and the “crypt,” but either He was done building his vamp army or he’d moved his operation.

  It checked with my phone conversation with Leroy (that had been as fun as always); the couple of V-Juice dealers he’d been able to “talk to” hadn’t just been dead ends—they’d been cut off, selling the last of their inventory.

  Leroy. As much as I wanted Acacia’s twisted sire dead and ashes, I wanted Leroy’s sire nearly as much—and Gray had taken away my bargaining chip with MC…