He handed her the glass.
“Drink it all,” he directed as he headed back to the kitchen.
“Okay, Stinger. Now, you tell me why you’re not allowed.”
The young vampire’s brows shot up at the sound of his name. He seemed shocked that Bishop knew it.
“Well, sir... I’m- I’m...”
Bishop’s patience was growing thin. He cleared his throat and pushed his fingers through his beard. Stinger seemed to come to the understanding that Bishop would not ask again, took a deep breath, and straightened his spine.
“I’m gay!” he blurted.
Bishop’s face twisted into a judgmental frown. He massaged his chin through the thick hair. Only in the United States would a good vampire be sidelined for homosexuality. Hang-ups about sexuality wasn’t a French thing.
“Anything else?”
Stinger seemed confused.
“Sir?”
“Other than being gay, have you been accused or disciplined for anything else?”
“No, sir, never,” Stinger assured with a shake to his head.
“Come with me,” Bishop told him as he left the kitchen.
Stinger hurried out of the kitchen and took up step next to him. He may have been young, but he was tall and bulky. Unfortunately, like a lot of white southerners, quite a few members of the Louisiana coven were close-minded, sexist, homophobic, bigots. But the witches made a declaration of war when they scrambled the brains of his vampire brethren. Bishop would utilize every capable vampire, regardless of race, gender, or sexual preference. It was time to cleanse the coven of such pettiness; time to suit up and prepare for battle.
With Stinger on his heel, Bishop opened the double-doors and stepped into the den. Snide remarks about Stinger’s presence hadn’t gone unnoticed. Bishop was unbothered. He walked over to the chair, designated for the coven’s leader. Before he could sit, Basile approached and leaned close to his ear.
“The Roux woman has been located,” he whispered. “She is unharmed.”
Bishop sighed with relief. No matter how strong Margo attempted to portray, he could practically smell her fear. She was worried about her mother and she couldn’t hide it. He thanked Basile and took his seat.
Bishop looked out at what had to be at least ninety vampires and wondered how they were defeated by only five women.
“What the fuck is that faggot doing here?” the vile, angry words came from the back of the room.
“Who’s asking?” Bishop challenged.
“I am! Hell, we all are!”
A hole opened, and out stepped a tall, white vampire. Dressed, head to toe, in denim, he wore one of those ridiculous red hats that were a dog whistle to other bigots.
“And while we’re talkin’ bout it... ain’t no need for round’n us up. We ain’t bout to help them Voodoo bitches!”
Bishop chuckled, if at nothing else, the vampire’s accent, but more so at the vampire’s audacity to test him. With a speed that only he possessed; Bishop retrieved the medieval battle-ax from atop the fireplace. Before the mutinous vampire could utter another word, Bishop took his head.
“Oh, shit!” filled the room when he tossed the vampire’s head in the center of the room. He pointed at the rolling head.
“He speaks for you?” Bishop asked the room.
There was no response.
“Nothing?” Bishop prodded.
Dead silence.
Bishop left the decapitated vampire in the middle of the floor and returned to his seat.
“Good. Let’s begin.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
ENOLA
“Yeah, well, I’m done,” Margo blurted, dropping Ruby’s book of incantations on the table.
Ruby glared at Margo with a hand on her hip.
“What do you mean you’re done?”
Margo shrugged. “I’ve learned all I’m gonna learn today. I got stuff to do.”
Even though they were training for the fight of their life, Enola was definitely sharing the sentiment. It had been a while since she’d found Madame LaRue’s body hanging in their foyer, and Ruby and Madame Belfour had been merciless in training them. Spells, charms, and potions consumed nearly all of their free time.
“Margo’s right, Ruby. I’m done too,” Enola proclaimed.
Ruby closed her eyes and blew out a frustrated breath.
“We don’t have time for this,” she groaned.
“Mamma, this all we do. I gotta get outta this house.”
“Me too,” Enola agreed. “I need to spend some time with my husband.”
Between constant pack business and endless Voodoo lessons, she’d barely seen Gideon. Enola sat the clay pot on the table and wiped her hands with a towel. Whether or not Ruby liked it, she was done for the evening. Her next move was to find her husband and convince him to set pack business aside for some quality time.
To Enola’s surprise, Ruby acquiesced with a nod. She turned to place a jar of rock salt on a shelf, but she turned back with a raised brow and grin. Enola frowned, remembering her aunt was an empath. Ruby could sense how horny she was.
“Go on,” she said with a chuckled.
Then she turned to Margo and studied her through narrowed eyes. She glared at her with confusion, as if she couldn’t read feelings.
“Cut that out!” Margo blurted. “I’m outta here.”
She walked around the table and kissed her mother. On her way out of the workroom, she raised two fingers.
“Deuces,” she hailed over her shoulder before clearing the threshold.
Enola laughed under her breath. Margo was definitely free-spirited. She seldom took things seriously. That she’d devoted so much of her time to training, said a lot. Vivienne and the witches were a serious threat.
“Go find your husband, Nola,” Ruby urged with a smile.
Enola didn’t need to be told twice. Like her cousin, she threw up the deuces and hurried out of the workroom.
MARGO
Margo burst through the service entrance like a woman on fire.
“I know. I know,” she muttered while hurrying to her office. After tossing her purse on the desk, she snatched her chef coat off a hook. She put it on and buttoned it on the way to the sink where she thoroughly washed her hands.
Margo was late, but she was neither worried nor apologetic. She’d put together a remarkable kitchen staff that included a team of chefs that could easily prep in her absence. She dried her hands and followed her nose to the wonderful aroma of Coq au Vin.
“Chef,” she greeted as she approached.
Bernard, her sous chef, was stirring the sauce.
“Chef,” he smiled in response.
Bernard placed the wooden spoon to the side and grabbed a smaller one for tasting. He scooped a bit of sauce and held the spoon toward Margo. She blew to cool, then sipped the sauce. When she moaned with appreciation, Bernard’s smile widened. He seemed delighted to have gained her approval. Margo nodded, pleased, and with no complaints. He pinched off a piece of chicken and fed it to her.
“Mmm... délicieux,” she complimented.
Bernard was an excellent chef. He was skillful, creative, and eager to learn. Sharing workspace with him was a pleasure. His enthusiasm for cooking fueled her own culinary excitement.
Margo looked around her bustling kitchen. It appeared everyone had something to do. Yet, they were doing it with smiles and playful banter. Which could only mean one thing, A quick scan of the galley revealed that the galley was free of the annoying restaurant manager.
Margo turned back the Bernard.
“Emma?”
He shrugged.
“Don’t know.”
Bernard placed the lid on the large Dutch oven and lowered the flame. He turned back with a grin.
“I was thinking,” he started.
“Uh oh. That’s dangerous,” Margo teased.
“What do you think about adding escargot to the menu?”
Margo contemplated the i
dea. Escargot was definitely a favorite of hers, and it had done well in other restaurants. Although Louisiana was well known for its exquisite food, it was still in the south. Margo couldn’t be sure how well fancy snails would do in their area.
“This is a French restaurant,” Bernard pressed, pointing out the obvious.
“Maybe we can run it as an appetizer ... see how it does.”
“Yes!” he celebrated with a little dance.
Margo raised a brow. He was way too happy about the probability of snails. She shook her head and left him to his celebration. She walked through the galley, observing and supervising along the way, stopping at Audrey’s station. The aroma of things made with sugar made her smile.
“How’s it going, Chef Happiness?”
Audrey looked up and giggled. Like most pastry chefs, her apron was covered in bright colors, and there was icing on her cheek.
“Splendid, Chef. Beverly, over there is working on an assortment of pastries for dinner, Laura is making crème brûlée, and I am creating a beautiful croquembouche for a party in the Blue Room.”
Margo rubbed her hands together and licked her lips with cheeky anticipation. Sure, Audrey’s chipper disposition was refreshing, but her description of the deserts was glorious.
“Very good. Carry on.”
Margo managed to pull herself away from the table without sampling the goods. She left the kitchen for the front of the house where she expected to find Emma. She didn’t. What she found instead were two vampires, one male, and one female, seated at a table as if on a date. She’d recognized them from the estate Bishop was occupying. And if that weren’t strange enough, three female wolves were seated at another table. Seemingly under the pretense of a girl’s night out.
“Unbelievable,” Margo scoffed.
She shook her head with a chuckle and scanned the restaurant for actual patrons that weren’t supernatural bodyguards. At least the question of whether the wolves knew what she did with her time was answered.
Margo spotted Henrietta, the floor manager at the hostess station. She ignored her security detail as she crossed the room. Henrietta looked up just as she approached. Her eyes widened as Margo approached. She seemed surprised to see her at the hostess’ station.
“Chef?”
“Where’s Emma?”
Margo realized that she was being rude as soon as the words left her mouth.
“I’m sorry. Hello, Henrietta.”
Henrietta smiled. She was older than Margo. Maybe a little younger than her mother. She had smooth skin, the color of a penny, and dimples like her grandmother.
“It’s fine,” she forgave with a rich, southern accent. “I haven’t seen her this evening.”
Margo frowned. Emma hadn’t missed a day since she started working at the restaurant.
“And, she hasn’t called,” Henrietta added. “That’s not like her. I’m a bit concerned.”
It was strange, Margo thought to herself. No matter how irritating, Emma was an astute and accomplished manager. ‘No call, no show’ just wasn’t her. But with or without her, they had people to feed.
“Okay. No worries. You can handle the front of the house, can’t you?”
“Of course,” Henrietta responded confidently. “I was doing it before she got here.”
Margo had asked a stupid question, and she heard the bitterness in Henrietta’s response. Understandable because before Emma showed up out of the blue, Henrietta ran the restaurant. And she ran it well. Until one day, she was told that the pretty French girl was taking her job. She had a legitimate grievance, and Margo would’ve been pissed off too.
“Yes, ma’am,” Margo said, backing away before she could say anything else stupid.
Margo turned to make her way back to the kitchen and ran right into a solid wall of Bishop.
“What the hell, Bishop?” she screeched.
He grabbed her shoulders, ensuring that she was steady on her feet. When she looked up, concern etched his handsome face.
“Sorry. Are you alright?”
“Yes, fine. What are you doing here?”
Bishop released her shoulders and placed his hand on her lower back. Without words, he urged her toward the kitchen. Unsurprisingly, he walked right into her kitchen as if it were his.
“Do you have an office, chéri?”
Margo stopped walking and looked up at him. His serious demeanor was worrisome. Her face heated from fear as she waited for what she assumed was bad news.
“What’s happened?”
Bishop must’ve heard the dread in her quivering voice. In his eyes, she saw a flash of regret.
“No worries, chéri. Your family is fine,” he assured.
Margo sighed and waved him toward her tiny office. Every eye in the kitchen landed on the tall, stocky, ridiculously handsome man, treading confidently through the galley. Margo didn’t mind the ogling as much. She did, however, mind the pause in her once busy kitchen.
“COOK!” she barked at the nosy staff as they entered her office.
Bishop closed the door and crossed his thick arms. Margo was growing increasingly anxious about his unexpected visit.
“Bishop?”
“You were looking for the woman that works here- this Emma?”
Margo frowned, wondering why he would ask about the restaurant manager.
“Yeah, so?”
“I’m looking for her as well.”
“Why?”
“When was the last time you saw her?” he continued, ignoring her question.
Margo threw her hands up.
“Bishop!” she called in a huff. “Why?”
He rubbed his beard like he did every time he was in deep thought. Since Bishop was offering no explanation, Margo played detective in her head. Why would the powerful leader of a large vampire coven be looking for a restaurant manager? Margo smacked her head, and she drew in a sharp breath when she was hit with the most reasonable explanation.
“She’s a vampire,” Margo concluded.
Bishop shook his head.
“No, chéri,” he contradicted with a sigh. “She is more than that.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
ENOLA
With one last glance in the mirror, Enola was satisfied with her look. She’d taken special care to make sure that she was sexy enough to get her husband’s attention and demure enough to make sure that he wouldn’t have to commit homicide.
A lady in the streets and all.
Her black jumpsuit was sexy, fitting in all the right places. It did accentuate hips she’d inherited from her gran and hugged full breasts that were clearly her mom’s. She left her curly, auburn mane free to fall on her shoulders. And, contrary to her character, Enola actually applied makeup.
Enola was on a mission, and that mission was to reconnect with her man. She’d been training tirelessly to protect her family from a person who was... her family.
She grabbed her purse from a table next to her vintage, full-body mirror, took one last glance, and dipped out of her room. She hurried down the hall and damn near bounced down the stairs until she was clearing the front door.
Enola expected a car to be ready and waiting. However, that’s not exactly what was waiting for her. To her surprise, in its stead was a white, two-seater Audi. Elmira popped out of the driver’s side.
“Get it,” she all but ordered.
Enola shook her head, emphatically refusing. She didn’t have time for whatever Madame LaRue’s grieving granddaughter had planned. Her Aunt Ruby had already held her hostage. Her one night of freedom was going to be spent crying out Gideon’s name.
“Mm-mm. I got shit to do.”
Enola attempted to walk around her car. If need be, she would pull one of the family cars out of the garage. Elmira ran around and grabbed her by the wrist. Enola looked down at the woman’s hand, then raised her eyes to meet the younger woman’s in a warning.
Elmira dropped her hand like a hot potato. She dropped it so fast that
Enola looked down to see if her wrist was burning. Her fire-starting was sometimes involuntary, and there were times she didn’t notice it right away.
“Look, Enola. I know you don’t know me, but Voodoo has been a part of my entire life. Madame Belfour and your Aunt Ruby reached out to me.”
Enola raised a brow, surprised her to hear that they’d had a conversation about her with Elmira. She was young, angry, and practically a stranger.
“I know I’m young,” she admitted, apparently reading Enola’s mind. “But I know magic, and I know how to pull the magic out of you. I know where your power is. I can help you find it.”
Enola opened her mouth to speak, but Elmira’s next words left her silent.
“Your family is in danger. We’re all in danger.”
Enola sighed. She was right, Enola weighed her selfish need to be with her husband against the possibility that the girl could actually help. Of course, there was no other choice to be made.
“Let’s go,” Enola said, walking toward the car.
She sat in the passenger seat and sank into the soft leather. Elmira slid into the driver’s seat and closed the door. Enola pulled the seatbelt across her body and looked around. Soft ambient light and a high-tech dash illuminated the interior.
“Damn, this is nice,” Enola complimented.
“Thanks.”
It occurred to her, for the first time, that she didn’t have a car of her own. And she was really liking the sporty Audi. Elmira put the car into gear and stepped on the gas with a heavy foot. When she took off like a bat out of hell, Enola’s eyes flew open. She gripped the armrest embedded in the door and held on for dear life.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Enola screamed. “Slow the fuck down!”
Elmira eased off the gas and grinned at her.
“My bad,” she apologized with a giggle.
Enola struggled to find the humor in her “fear-factor” driving. But she released the smooth leather and forced herself to relax as they drove through the dark Louisiana night.
After 15 minutes, Enola looked around. They seemed to be in a more rural parish. The area was much more occupied than that of her family’s estate. Enola didn’t recognize the neighborhood. But, being raised in Chicago, she wouldn’t. She turned to Elmira.
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