BLOODLUST

by Phoenix Daniels

  “What is it?” Enola whispered.

  “Witches!” the blonde vampire screeched before doubling over in agony.

  Chapter Seven

  MARGO

  The wailing of vampires in pain caused Margo to jump to her feet. She whipped around to face her mother.

  “What’s happening?”

  “They’re performing a spell. It’s not affecting us because we’re protected by our magic.”

  Margo waved her hand toward Bishop and Basile.

  “What about them? Why aren’t they in pain?”

  “We are still protected by a spell that Auriette cast centuries ago.”

  “They’re getting closer,” her mother warned. “Can you hear ‘em, Nola?”

  “I hear ‘em,” Enola confirmed.

  Margo didn’t hear a damn thing. Not too long ago, Enola was just as much a novice as she. But that was no longer the case. Since their grandmother’s death, her cousin grew more powerful each day. And she seemed to have gotten better at controlling those powers.

  Snarling warned of the wolves’ transformation. In what could only be described as a flash, Bishop bolted from the room. He was a complete blur. Only in the movies had Margo seen anything or anyone move so fast. The wolves took off immediately after him.

  When Enola and her mom ran toward the door, Margo quickly grabbed her mother’s arm.

  “What are you doing?”

  Both of them turned back and looked at her as if she’d asked a dumb question.

  “What do you mean? We’re going to help,” her mother responded impatiently.

  She tried to pull away, but Margo had a good grip.

  “There are wolves and vampires out there. They can handle the witches.”

  “How do you know that?” Enola question. “My husband is out there!”

  Enola ran out of the room, leaving them both behind.

  “Don’t worry, baby. We’ll be fine,” her mother reassured her.

  Margo was worried, but not for herself. She was worried about her mom. How could Ruby protect herself with her skill as an empath? But she knew her mother. She was going out there no matter what Margo said. So, she let her go and ran out the door behind her. After the long hall, she crossed the great room, leaping over howling, incapacitated vampires, and a bit of Enola’s destruction along the way.

  No sooner did she make it out the front door, than an invisible force slammed her against the wall. She cried out in pain when her back hit the brick. After she caught her breath, Margo searched for the magical threat that had pinned her. Not less the ten feet from her was a hag-like woman with unruly, dirty blonde hair. Margo struggled to break free from the magic that held her, but fighting was no use. She was just tiring herself out.

  In two blinks, something flew past her eyes, and she tumbled to the ground. When she looked up, Bishop was biting into the witch’s neck. With a yank, he ripped her throat open and spit out her esophagus. His face covered with blood, he hissed and moved on to the next witch. As disturbing as the entire scene was, Margo was surprisingly turned on by his prowess.

  Unfortunately, she didn’t have the time to stand there and admire him. Her mother looked like she was going toe to toe in spells with an older warlock. Margo ran over and placed her hand on the sorcerer’s shoulder.

  “Go pet a wolf,” Margo commanded.

  Immediately, his hands fell to his side. The warlock turned and walked toward Gideon’s big, black wolf. He reached out to pet his fury head and lost an arm. But it was Gabriel who pounced and tore out his throat.

  Margo looked around for Enola. When she found her, she determined that she didn’t need any help. Her cousin was cooking witches left and right.

  Soon all the witches were dead, and Margo was wondering why there were so few. Why would they start a fight with so little manpower? It made little sense, but she knew it was all part of a bigger plan. The witches always had a plan.

  BISHOP

  Bishop watched Margo while draining a struggling witch. She was holding her own. Compelling witch after warlock to submit to their deaths by approaching the wolves. He deduced that she could handle herself in a battle. Although, she still had no idea of the power she possessed.

  Margo had no clue what it meant to be a siren. Bishop was eager to take on the responsibility of teaching her. He felt a strong connection to the voodoo princess.

  Bishop’s attraction to her had gone beyond physical. Their connection was strong. At least his link to her was. There was a chemistry that went beyond her pretty face, amazing curves, the switch of her womanly hips, and plump lips that called for his kiss.

  Bishop felt obligated to show her who she really was.

  Margo had no idea what she could do. If she did, she would’ve known better than to grace a crowd with her song. The siren’s song can drive gods mad, let alone mere humans. She was a force to be reckoned with, and she had absolutely no clue of that.

  “Why would they do this?” Margo questioned. “Why would they attack us here, of all places? They had to know they couldn’t win; not with all of us together.”

  “I don’t know,” Enola responded. “But I can guarantee you they’re not done. This was just the beginning. It never ends with them.”

  Enola turned to Bishop.

  “Why are they constantly attacking us? You know the history. Why do they hate us?”

  When Bishop released the witch, her limp, lifeless body hit the ground with a thud.

  “You’re asking me?”

  “Yes,” Enola replied, walking toward him naked and unashamed.

  “Why are they constantly attacking us?”

  Bishop ran his nails through his blood-soaked beard. After careful contemplation, he came up with a theory.

  “Vampires and wolves don’t do magic. Your tribe and the witch covens are the only supernatural clan that can perform spells. I’m assuming the witches want ultimate power. Not only do you have the power to cast, but you also have physical abilities. In that aspect, you’re definitely a threat.”

  The wolf alpha, now in human form, wrapped a cloth around his waist and walked over to his mate. The way he looked at her made Bishop long for his own mate, a life partner. Bishop has had plenty of women in his long lifetime. He’d even had great affection for a woman or two. But the look in the wolf’s eyes when he was looking at his wife made Bishop a little envious. It made him understand the difference between genuine love and temporary gratification.

  After so many years of roaming this earth, Bishop wanted his eyes to reflect that of one who had experienced true love and partnership.

  He glanced over at Marguerite. She was a dream, but to have her, she needed to be at peace with her true self.

  “I’m over this!” She blurted. “Can we go?”

  Bishop didn’t like the thought of her leaving, but he knew that their time apart would be brief. He’d see her again, sooner than later. He’d make sure of it.

  “Yes,” Bishop agreed. “After all the mayhem, I believe it’s time to call it a night. Do you need a car? Basile can see you home.”

  “No.” The alpha responded. “That won’t be necessary. We have our own transportation.”

  He wrapped an arm around his wife and kissed her forehead.

  “Let’s go, darlin’,” he told her.

  The Roux woman slipped her arm around her husband’s waist and allowed him to lead her away.

  In all his years, the Phoenix Voodoo Queen was the most powerful creature that he’d come across. Yet she happily submitted to her husband, a Louisiana wolf. Wolves mated for life. And Gideon seemed to have chosen the perfect mate.

  Could Marguerite be his perfect mate? Could a woman so modern submit to a man with antiquated values?

  Bishop watched as they left, hoping that she could. He wanted her. He wanted to hold her, to teach her. Not only that, he also wanted to bury his cock balls deep inside of her. He longed to taste her blood, to live off of her essence.

  His!
r />   Marguerite Roux, the Louisiana Voodoo Princess, the siren, his fixation, would be his for life.

  He’d see to it.

  Chapter Eight

  MARGO

  Margo pushed open the heavy backdoor and stepped inside.

  “Good Evening, Bernard,” she greeted her sous chef.

  The Executive Chef at August, an upscale French restaurant. She glanced around.

  “Hey! How’s it looking out there?” she queried.

  “Packed.”

  Margo frowned. “Didn’t we close after lunch?”

  “Yes, but the new floor manager decided that dinner should be moved up to 3.”

  “What?” Margo questioned. “She decided that today? Without notice?”

  “Yep, and when I told her that would create problems, she, not so politely, told me to fuck off in that infuriating French accent of hers.”

  “I see,” Margo muttered.

  Forgoing the galley, Margo walked into her office. She tossed her purse on the desk and grabbed her chef’s coat from behind the door. She slid it on and buttoned it as she crossed the busy galley in search of the new floor manager.

  Margo knew she had a reputation for being carefree, maybe even a little shallow. But her job ... she took it seriously. Since she was a child, making mud pies in her grandmother’s garden, the thought of creating art in the kitchen gave her joy. But it was a joy Margo wanted all to herself. Not even her family knew about her passion for cooking. As far as they knew, she was not much more than a party girl. Which was fine with Margo. The more they thought of her as a flaky southern debutant, the less they expected of her. So, she kept them in the dark. Which wasn’t easy since her grandmother was a mind reader. Who knows? Maybe her gran did know. Now, she’d had to worry about Enola in her head.

  “Chef,” Audrey, the pastry chef acknowledged.

  Margo nodded her greeting and pushed through the swinging door that led to the restaurant. She spotted the new restaurant manager standing near the hostess’ station. She must’ve sensed Margo’s approach because she glanced up from whatever she was working on. Her dark hair brushed against her bony shoulder. She was attractive, in a very European way, but too thin; scary thin, in fact. Still pretty nonetheless.

  Her broad smile immediately irritated Margo. She was so disgustingly French.

  “Bonsoir,” The manager beamed with the fakest of grins.

  “Emma, dinner starts at 5 P.M. 3 doesn’t work.”

  With a patronizing smile, Emma tilted her head.

  “We’ll make it work.”

  Emma dismissively returned her attention to whatever she was working on.

  “No, Emma, we won’t make it work. My team needs that extra time for prep.”

  Emma looked up with a glint of irritation in her eyes.

  “I believe I’m offering plenty of time for dinner prep.”

  Now, it was Margo who couldn’t hide her irritation.

  “Emma, I don’t give a fuck what you believe. And as long as I’m running that kitchen, I will tell you how much time my staff needs to prepare.”

  Emma blew out a frustrated breath and looked at her through narrowed eyes.

  “I am the manager of this restaurant. That includes that kitchen and your staff.”

  Margo’s hand flew to her hip. She glared at the woman as if she’d lost her whole damn mind.

  “No, chéri, I run that galley,” she pointed out, jabbing her own chest. “Now, unless you’re gonna take your skinny ass in there and prepare tonight’s Duck a l’Orange, I suggest you shut the fuck up and let me run my galley the way I see fit!”

  Uninterested in any rebuttal from Emma, Margo spun on her heel and headed back to the kitchen. What the newbie would not do was risk losing a Cordon Bleu-trained chef over a scheduling dispute. The restaurant group would lose their shit and she’d be on the first thing smoking back to Burgundy, or whatever region in France she came from.

  When Margo entered the kitchen, Bernard was rolling dough for the short rib ravioli.

  “How behind are we?” she asked him.

  “Not too bad. Luckily, a few of us got here a little early.”

  Margo walked over to the sink and washed her hands. She looked back at her kitchen staff while drying with a towel. They were unusually quiet. The relentless need to catch up silenced the normal chatter that went on during work.

  Margo tossed the towel on the counter and walked to the middle of the kitchen.

  “Listen up! I want everybody to slow down. We may be a bit behind, but that’s not our fault. I won’t allow that to affect the quality of our food. I want you to cook like you love what you’re doing.”

  A few sighs of relief reached Margo’s ears as she moved to her workstation. As usual, Bernard prepared all the materials she would need in advance. So, all she needed to get was a protein.

  Margo walked over to the refrigerator and grabbed a large swordfish. She had them flown in fresh every Tuesday and Friday. Walking it to her workstation, she slapped it on the wood and grabbed her boning knife. Margo inspected the fish on both sides before slicing into the soft flesh. Once she finished with the fileting, she created a pineapple peppercorn rub and prepped a cast-iron skillet for searing.

  Margo was in her element. She was at home in the kitchen. There were so many times when her mom and her gran were going at it in the kitchen and she desperately wanted to join them. But she knew better. Margo’s family would’ve destroyed her love of cooking by hounding her to cook.

  She preferred keeping some things to herself. Margo had even spent a few years in Paris with her family thinking she was jet setting across Europe with girlfriends. When, in fact, she was in culinary school and interning in upscale French restaurants.

  Laughter across the kitchen made her look up from the fish. Despite Emma’s best efforts to disrupt her kitchen, morale had been restored. Margo smiled and returned to what she fully intended to be a culinary masterpiece.

  BISHOP

  “Right this way, Monsieur Delacroix. It is such a pleasure to have you with us.”

  Bishop paused when she spoke his name. He vaguely remembered the young vampire. She may have been a hostess at an eatery in Cannes. Bishop recalled her being almost too attentive. Her clingy behavior had bordered on annoying.

  The hostess led him and his party to a large table in a corner. When they sat, she pulled the bow from a golden curtain that fell closed, giving them privacy that they hadn’t asked for. Bishop preferred to see everything that went on around him.

  Basile and Beth sat on each side of him. While the others conversed amongst themselves, Bishop pondered the coincidental presence of the hostess.

  He didn’t believe in coincidences.

  “Your server will be right with you, monsieur.” She spoke the words in perfect French.

  “Merci.”

  Bishop opened his menu, but it didn’t take long for him to decide that he wanted to sample everything on the menu. So, when the waitress approached, that’s exactly what he ordered for the entire table.

  Bishop leaned back in his chair and moaned with pleasure. The food was magnificent.

  “My compliments to the chef,” He said to the server.

  “I will let her know,” the young server responded.

  “How about you let her know yourself?” the hostess chimed unexpectantly.

  Bishop turned to find her peering through a break in the curtain. She appeared out of nowhere. And just as fast as she appeared, she was gone, scurrying off toward the kitchen.

  “She’s an eager one,” Basile commented.

  “Oui,” Bishop nodded in agreement. “Do you recognize her?”

  “I do. From Nice, right?”

  Bishop shook his head.

  “No, Cannes, I believe.”

  “Ahh, yes, Cannes.”

  “Find out what she’s doing here,” Bishop instructed.

  “Certainly.”

  Bishop grabbed his glass from the table and emptied the
last bit of red wine.

  “Here she is,” the hostess screeched in a bubbly tone that made him cringe. Bishop closed his eyes and inhaled a deep breath. He was conjuring patience as he exhaled.

  When he turned, the hostess was tying the curtain back. She pulled the other half of the curtain, revealing his latest preoccupation. To his utter shock, she was standing there, as beautiful as can be, wearing a pristine, white chef’s coat. Her long auburn locks were pinned into a neat bun on the back of her head. Her flawless, copper skin had a glow he hadn’t seen before.

  Marguerite was a chef.

  Until now, Bishop hadn’t even thought of her having a career. He’d assumed she was a trust fund socialite. Pleasantly surprised, but surprised nonetheless, Bishop didn’t like surprises. He cut an angry eye at Basile before plastering a smile on his face and standing to his feet.

  “Monsieur Delacroix, meet Chef Marguerite Roux.”

  She smiled, but Bishop could tell she was just as surprised to see him.

  “Monsieur Delacroix, I hope you enjoyed your meal.”

  Her voice was soft and alluring, with just enough rasp to awaken everything that made him male.

  “Every bite.”

  Marguerite smiled with a cute curtsy.

  “Margo, hi!” Beth beamed.

  Margo’s demeanor change when she blinked over at Beth. The tinge of jealousy she couldn’t hide gave Bishop a bit of satisfaction.

  “Beth,” she dryly acknowledged.

  “What a delicious meal. You’re an amazing chef. You made my night,” Beth complimented.

  “My reason for living,” Margo muttered sarcastically.

  The waiter cleared his throat and asked, “Would you like to see the dessert tray?”

  “Absolutely,” Bishop responded.

  His lips stretched into a smile. “I have an insatiable urge to bite into something sweet.”