by Todd Gregory
Who else could it be but Rachel? She was the only person inside the house it could have been—Jared couldn’t play anything. She played beautifully, and the song was vaguely familiar. I closed my eyes and focused, and after a few moments I recognized the song—“Save the Best for Last.” She started singing, and I was amazed to hear that she actually had a beautiful voice, a soft alto that soared over the notes of the piano as she sang. I sat down on the bottom step and listened. There was a poignancy, a longing in her voice that touched me deep inside. Who would have ever guessed that a snarky vampire could not only sing so beautifully but also put so much emotion into a lyric? Her voice was almost heartbreaking, and I found myself thinking about Jean-Paul yet again.
And if I was going to be completely honest with myself, I had to admit that he had broken my heart.
And that, really, was what it had all been about. Me tracking down the hot Latino underwear model in South Beach, having sex and feeding with that guy in the parking lot of the White Party in Palm Springs, all the little fights and bickering and defiance. I’d fallen in love with him and had thought he was in love with me—when the truth was I was nothing more than the latest version of young flesh he wanted to fuck. It was all me, acting out because he didn’t love me, and he never had, not even in the beginning. I understood that now. Maybe he wasn’t even capable of love the way I felt it, the way I understood it to be. What a fool I had been, thinking that Jean-Paul and I were going to be joined together, a couple for all eternity, walking hand in hand through the centuries together.
I couldn’t believe how naïve and stupid I’d been. Jean-Paul and the others had probably laughed at me.
Clint had tried to warn me when I’d seen Jean-Paul fucking the underwear model at the house in South Beach. But instead of being rational and accepting the truth, I’d gotten all emotional, lost control, and basically made a complete fool of myself.
Was it different for humans? I wondered, my head in my hands. All I’d ever wanted was to fall in love and have someone love me back. I never thought that was too much to ask. But maybe it was for vampires—after all, human couples seemed to have trouble making their relationships last, and they didn’t have an eternal life span. But I didn’t expect to fall in love with a vampire who didn’t love me back.
And look where that had gotten me! Alone in New Orleans, paying back the kindness of the human who’d been the best friend I’d ever had by destroying his life completely.
When she finished the song, she started playing another one I didn’t recognize but sounded vaguely familiar. I sat there, letting the melancholic notes swirl around me. They seemed to fit my mood perfectly.
Of course it does. She can get inside my mind, I reminded myself bitterly.
She didn’t answer this time, so maybe she wasn’t listening to my thoughts anymore.
A sound across the street startled me out of my reverie. I opened my eyes and saw someone locking the door of Sebastian’s house. The man was wearing a pair of loose-fitting jeans that had slid halfway down his ass—I could see his red underwear—and a sleeveless navy blue T-shirt. It was a really nice ass, actually, and the shoulders were broad and strong, the waist narrow. He put the keys into his pocket and turned to go down the steps.
My breath caught in my throat, and I stifled the involuntary cry that rose in my throat.
It was Sebastian.
But that . . . that wasn’t possible, was it?
Sebastian was dead. My brothers had killed him, torched the house, and his remains had been found in the fire. And if I’d learned anything for certain in the last few years, it was that vampires knew how to kill.
But he’d been a witch. Maybe witches were harder to kill; maybe he had cast a spell that had made them think he was dead when he was actually alive.
Then whose body had been in the smoldering ruins?
I swallowed. They’d thought they’d found my body and were wrong about that. It was possible another mistake had been made. . . .
And there was something wrong with me. Nigel thought Sebastian had cursed me. But if he were still alive . . .
Somehow, I managed to get to my feet just as he glanced over at me. He gave me a half-smile and nodded slightly as he started walking down the sidewalk in the direction of the cathedral.
He didn’t seem to recognize me.
Confused, not knowing what I should do, I started following him down the street. Crazy thoughts raced through my head.
Hadn’t Jared said that Sebastian still lives? Neither Rachel nor Nigel had witnessed the weird way Jared’s eyes changed sometimes, had not heard him speak in a voice that was slightly different than his own. It was possible my own guilt over Sebastian’s death had caused those odd delusions.
If they actually were delusions.
It was possible. Before that Mardi Gras when I met Jean-Paul, I didn’t believe vampires existed, and now I was one. Witches certainly existed—I had firsthand experience with them. So, it was possible that somehow Sebastian had also survived that night. He’d ingested some of my blood, believing the power he would derive from vampire blood mixed with his own powers would make him a god. That was why he’d been destroyed, or at least that’s what Jean-Paul had said, and I’d had no reason to doubt him.
That was also when I thought he actually loved me, thought I was more to him than a young piece of ass. The only doubt I’d had back then was whether he’d acted more out of revenge than out of a need to destroy the hybrid creature Sebastian was becoming.
No, I thought as I reached the corner, it can’t be Sebastian. But I’m not imagining him. This isn’t some kind of crazy hallucination. He’s right there across the street. I can see him, and he even kind of walks like Sebastian.
He weaved his way through the crowds of people at Bourbon Street and dodged around the Lucky Dog vendor. I had to hurry to not lose sight of him—his legs were longer than mine, and for every stride he took, I had to take two.
He turned to his right when he got to the corner at Royal Street.
I reached the corner just in time to see him unlock a door in the corner building and disappear through it. I crossed Orleans Street, dodging around an enormous couple with incredibly pasty white skin, and stood in front of the door. There were a number of buzzers on the right side of the door frame, with just numbers and names neatly printed on white cards next to them. It was enormously frustrating. I wanted to slam my fist against the door, but stopped myself with inches to spare. I smiled at a couple of young women holding supersized daiquiri cups. They averted their eyes and walked faster.
This was one of those times when having my full powers would come in handy.
I could have gotten inside his mind—
I slammed my palm against my forehead in irritation. Why didn’t you get Rachel to go inside his head, you moron?
“Maybe I wouldn’t have done it after you were so rude to me.” Her voice sounded smug. “Not so annoying when you need it, is it?”
I cried out, startled. The enormous couple with the pasty skin gave me a strange look and hurriedly crossed the street. “Don’t do that!” I told her, hoping my irritation was clear in my tone.
“Yes, no worries on that score. Your tone comes across loud and clear, Cord. So sorry about that, didn’t mean to make you jump.” Her tone, though, made it pretty damned clear to me she wasn’t in the least bit sorry. “Besides, you’re right. It’s not Sebastian. His death was pretty well documented.” Her tone turned grim. “It wasn’t a pretty death, and the Witches Council wasn’t happy about it.”
“Witches Council?” This was the first I’d heard of that.
“There’s so much you don’t know. Remember, you hadn’t heard of the Council of Thirteen before yesterday. Hang on, I’ll be there in a moment.”
“It really is shameful the way your education has been so thoroughly neglected,” she said as she materialized next to me. “Jean-Paul is lucky he isn’t called before the Council.” She gave me an enormous
smile. “He still might be. And if I have anything to do with it . . .” She let her voice trail off as she turned toward the door, putting her left palm against my forehead and her right one on the door. A couple in their forties gave us an odd look as they went past us, and she glared at them. They walked faster.
Her eyes narrowed, her brow furrowed. “That’s strange.” She dropped her hands and took a few steps back away from me. “I’m not getting anything—there’s no image of him in your head, and I get no sense . . .” She rolled her eyes. “Of course.” She stepped out into the street and looked up. “Is that him, by any chance?”
I followed the direction her finger was pointing. The building was about five stories high, and on the Orleans Street side there was a rusty and not very secure-looking fire escape. On the Royal Street side, there were several small balconies on each level, with French doors opening out onto them.
A man had stepped out onto one of the balconies on the third floor. He’d removed his shirt, revealing a perfectly smooth, well-defined torso. His skin almost seemed to shine in the light from the streetlamps. His jeans looked to have slipped down another inch or so—it looked like the only thing holding them on in the front was a rather prominent bulge. I nodded, licking my lips. “Yes, that’s him. How did you know if you can’t—”
“Because I can’t read him, either.” She smiled. “He isn’t wholly human, you know. That’s why I can’t read him—I can only read humans and other vampires. Nigel would be able to, if he were here.” She bit her lower lip and hummed for a moment. “He’s definitely a relative of Sebastian’s; that’s for sure. He’s at least part witch.” She narrowed her eyes. “But I don’t sense any danger from him—and I should.” She tapped her forefinger against her temple. “Interesting.” She reached over and rang the third buzzer from the bottom. A name card next to it read Q. NARCISSE. She gave me a smug look.
I really am an idiot sometimes. I hadn’t even looked at the names.
Up above, I saw the shirtless man turn and walk inside from the balcony. After a few moments, there was a burst of static from the speaker mounted above the buzzers. “Yes?”
The sound of his voice raised hackles on the back of my neck. He sounded just like Sebastian.
“Mr. Narcisse?” Rachel asked smoothly, not missing a beat. “My name is Rachel Dufour, and I’m a special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, working in tandem with the New Orleans Police Department. May we come up? I’d like to ask you some questions about your brother.”
She was really an accomplished liar. She sounded completely convincing. I gaped at her, and she winked at me and gave a slight little shrug.
“That’s something else you need to work on, Baby Vamp. You need to lose the Christian brainwashing about telling lies. They’re a necessary part of life as a vampire in the human’s world.”
I just nodded, and she gave me a playful punch in the shoulder.
There was a buzzing sound, and Rachel pulled the door open. She gestured for me to go inside. I made a face and walked in. It smelled dead inside—like urine and stale alcohol. There was a rickety-looking staircase a few yards inside the door. The banister didn’t look stable, and the stairs were worn, sagging in places, and badly in need of paint. The stairwell wasn’t particularly well lit—there was a naked bulb just inside the door, but the bulb at the landing was burned out. About hallway up, the stairs were enveloped in darkness. Of course, that didn’t bother me with my nonhuman eyesight, but I didn’t understand how the humans stood it. Before I changed, it would have made me incredibly uncomfortable to climb stairs in darkness. I started climbing. At the first landing there was a worn-looking warped door, and I kept going up. The landing on the second floor was well lit with a yellow bulb, and I breathed a slight sigh of relief as I stepped into the warmth of the light.
“You really need to let go of your human superstitions,” Rachel said from behind me. “It should be pretty clear to you by now that the dark is your friend, and clearly, the religion you were raised in was wrong about pretty much everything.”
I didn’t answer her; there wasn’t really any point, so I kept my mouth shut and kept climbing the stairs. Several of them sagged under my weight, and finally I reached the third landing. It was also lit, but there was a white globe over the lightbulb so the light was softer and not quite as harsh as at the lower landing. The door was open, and the man was leaning against the door frame. He smiled at me, and in spite of myself I felt my knees go a little weak.
“Get a grip, idiot,” Rachel’s voice sneered in my head.
This close, the resemblance to Sebastian was so remarkable it took all of my control not to gasp. His golden-brown skin gleamed in the light like it was lightly oiled, and his reddish gold hair was plastered down to the scalp. His eyes were brown with gold flecks, just as Sebastian’s had been, and were wide set on either side of his strong nose. His skin was free of blemishes, and unlike Sebastian, his eyes were warm and friendly. There were other, subtler differences that weren’t so obvious at first. There had been a deep dimple in Sebastian’s chin—this young man didn’t have one. This young man had the same type of frame as Sebastian—wide-shouldered and narrow-hipped, but Q. Narcisse’s muscles were thicker and better defined than Sebastian’s had been. There were deep crevices between his eight pronounced abdominal muscles. Thick veins lined his forearms, and I could see almost every fiber of muscle in his chest, shoulders, and arms. His neck was also thicker, and he seemed to radiate sexuality in a way Sebastian hadn’t. His jeans still hung loosely off his hips, and there was a dark line of dampness just below the waistband of his red underwear—Unico, according to the emblem on the elastic. “You’re a cop?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at me.
“I’m a special agent with the FBI, not a cop,” Rachel said from behind me. She flashed a badge.
Where the hell did she get that? I wondered.
She went on, “My friend here is not a cop. He’s more of a consultant. I brought him with me because he’s an expert on the supernatural.” Her tone was no-nonsense, I’m-in-charge-here.
I wondered if she’d impersonated a federal agent before.
The young man closed his eyes and barked out a harsh laugh. “You might as well come in, then.” He stood aside so we could walk in. He shut the door behind us and crossed his arms. “I knew Sebastian’s death was too good to be true.”
I glanced over at Rachel. It was a strange thing to say. How could a death be too good to be true?
She gave a little shrug.
The apartment was incredibly neat and tidy. It was really just one large room, with a nook area that served as a galley kitchen. There was another door on the opposite side of the front door, which I assumed was a closet. There was a set of French doors directly opposite to the galley kitchen, leading out to the balcony—which was a lot smaller than it looked from the sidewalk. There was a double bed pushed up against one wall, an armoire, and a flat-screen television mounted on the wall. He unfolded two chairs and gestured for us to have a seat. Once we sat down, he hopped up onto the bed and crossed his legs. Every muscle in his torso rippled as he made himself comfortable.
“So, I’m right? This is about Sebastian?” He leaned back on the bed, and the muscles of his stomach flexed under that gorgeous, smooth golden-brown skin. There was a trail of wiry reddish gold hair running from his navel into the waistband of his underwear. “I’ve spent my entire adult life distancing myself from him—from my whole damned family—and no matter what I do . . .” He shook his head. “Sebastian told me once I’d never fully escape. I guess he was right.”
“You wanted to escape from your family?” Rachel replied, pulling out a little notepad and pen from her jacket pocket. I was impressed—it was very official-looking. “I’m sorry, Mr. Narcisse. I didn’t catch your first name.”
“It’s Quentin.” He leaned forward, sticking his hand out toward me. “You said your name is Rachel, but I didn’t catch your supernatural guy’s.” He
flashed a smile at me that made me tingle a bit inside.
“You’re acting like a schoolgirl,” Rachel’s voice mocked inside my head. “Yes, he’s very sexy, but if you’re going to go all goofy every time we’re around a hot man—”
“Cord Logan,” I said without thinking, cutting her off and instantly wanting to bite off my tongue.
Cord Logan was supposed to be dead—but it didn’t matter, really.
He raised an eyebrow. “That name sounds familiar,” he replied, offering me his hand.
I took it, almost losing mine inside his grip. His hands were much larger than mine, powerful and strong. His skin was warm but dry. I felt an electrical current flow through my entire body from the skin contact. My cock began to harden inside my pants.
“Can’t you keep your mind on the business at hand for a fucking change?” Her voice echoed angrily around the inside of my head. “If you want to fuck him, worry about that later.”
Out loud, she said, “You said you’ve tried to distance yourself from your brother, from your family. Why exactly is that, Quentin?”
He took a deep breath and let go of my hand. “If you’ve got a supernatural expert with you”—his eyes flicked over to me briefly—“then you already know about my family.”
“Why don’t you just go ahead and tell me?” She gave him a brittle smile.
He sighed. His tongue flicked over his lower lip, and he glanced over at me. “The Narcisses are witches, of course. Always have been, for as far back as anyone can remember—back before the Civil War, even. The story is that we came from Haiti—Saint-Domingue—and it was there that our family . . . one of my ancestors, he supposedly made a pact with the devil, if you can believe that.” He shrugged.
“You don’t believe in the devil?” I blurted out.
He smiled at me. “I don’t think we—any of us, really—can know what happens after death, so we make up stories so we can sleep at night, so that we can accept the deaths of loved ones.” He shrugged again. “But deals with the devil? Trading your soul for power?” He laughed. “All I know for sure is that the people in my family . . . we have weird powers, powers that other people don’t have.” He rubbed his head. “I don’t want any part of that, never did, not even when I was a kid. My grandmere always said I didn’t have a choice, that we’d been marked centuries ago, and turning our backs on our”—he swallowed—“powers was like turning our backs on God, which was of course a sin. I don’t know, it all sounded like justification to me, you know? I don’t see these powers as a gift, you know? I’ve seen members of my family who embraced their power consumed by it. Power corrupts. I’ve seen it.” He shook his head. “I choose to embrace God and his light, not the darkness. We all have a choice—my choice was to not use the power. Once I was old enough, I broke away from the family.” He gave us both a brittle smile. “I went to college. I have a job. And I have no powers. I renounced them.”