By the time of the Louisiana Purchase, most Keepers and their charges alike had made it down to New Orleans. And there, though not particularly trusting of one another, they had still found a safe home.
Until the elder MacDonalds had been killed. Their deaths, their sacrifice, had been noted by all clans and families. And not only had peace been restored, there had been a sea change in the way the different species felt about each other. There had been a number of intermarriages since that time. Of course, there were still those who were totally against any intermingling of the bloodlines, those who thought themselves superior.
But overall, there had been peace. America was a free country. They were free to hold their own opinions about sex, religion, politics—and one another. They obeyed the laws, the countries and their own. And their most important law said that no one was to commit crimes against humanity—and bring human persecution down upon them.
“Yes,” he said quietly, “she was drained of blood.”
“And a vampire did it?” Fiona demanded.
“Fiona, I’m trying to tell you—I’ve only just begun to investigate,” he said.
“Oh, please. I’m not with the media.”
He looked at her in the rearview mirror. “And you haven’t the patience, knowledge or wisdom of your parents, Fiona.”
Maybe that hadn’t been a good thing to say. She stiffened like a ramrod. But, somehow, she managed to speak evenly.
“My parents died to keep you all from killing one another and preying upon the citizenry of the city in your lust for power and desire to rip each other to pieces. My parents were unique—both of them born with all three of the major signs. But that was then, and this is now. My sisters and I were born without the full power of my parents, but you know that I was born with the sign of the winged being, Caitlin with the mercurial sign of the shapeshifter and Shauna with the sign of the fang. But here’s where we do have an edge—I have all the strengths of the vampire, and the vampires are my dedicated concern, just as Caitlin must watch over the shapeshifters and Shauna is responsible for the werewolves. Don’t you think I wish my mother was here, too? But she’s not. And I will not let the vampire community start something up again, something that promises discovery, death and destruction for hundreds of our own who are innocent. Do you understand? Whoever did this must be destroyed. If you don’t handle it, I will.”
He swung around to face her. “Back off! Give me time. Or do you want to start your own witch hunt?”
“You need to discover the truth—and quickly,” she said. “And trust me—I will be watching you every step of the way.”
“Of course you will be,” he said, regaining his temper. He couldn’t let her unnerve him. “Damn it! Don’t you think I realize just how dangerous this situation is? But these are different times. Hell, I’m a cop. I see violence every day. I see man’s inhumanity to man constantly. But I also see the decency in the world. So let me do what I do.”
She was silent for a minute.
“Just do it quickly, Jagger.”
“With pleasure. Now would you be so kind as to get out of my car so I can begin? Or should I drop you off at the shop?” he asked icily.
“I’ll get out of your car,” she said softly.
Oh, yes, she would get out. She wouldn’t want to be seen around her shop in a police car—even an unmarked car. Especially his car.
The rear door slammed as she exited. She paused for a moment by his window, staring at him through the dark lenses of her glasses.
So fierce.
And so afraid.
Yes, whether she wanted to admit it or not, she was afraid. Well, she had a right to her fear, as well as that chip on her shoulder. She’d been nineteen when her parents died, and she had fought to prove that she could care for herself and her sisters, who’d been only seventeen and fifteen at the time. She had taken on the mantle of responsibility in two worlds, and thus far she had carried it well.
The wind lifted her hair. Despite himself, he felt something stir inside him.
She was so beautiful.
She was such a bitch!
“Good day, Fiona. I’ll be seeing you.”
“Good day, Detective. You can bet on it,” she said, and turned to walk away, the sunlight turning her hair into a burst of sheer gold.
Chapter 2
New Orleans was her city, and Fiona MacDonald loved it with a passion.
She tried to remember that as she walked away from Jagger DeFarge’s car.
The parking area was new and paved, and sat on an embankment right at the edge of the river.
She paused to look down at the Mississippi. It really was a mighty river. The currents could be vicious; storms could make it toss and churn, and yet it could also be beautiful and glorious, the vein of life for so many people who had settled along its banks.
The great river had allowed for the magnificent plantations whose owners had built an amazing society of grace and custom—and slavery. But even in the antebellum days before the Civil War, New Orleans had offered a home for “free men of color.” Ironically, black men had owned black men, and quadroons had been the mistresses of choice. In Fiona’s mind, the city was home to some of the most beautiful people in the world even now, people who came in all shades. God, yes, she loved her city. It was far from perfect. The economy was still suffering, and, as ever, the South still struggled to gain educational parity with the North.
But everyone lived in this city: black, white, yellow, red, brown, and every shade in between. Young and old, men and women.
And the denizens of the underworld, of course.
She took a deep breath as she stared at the river. She was furious, yes. She was afraid, yes. And what might have been bothering her most was the fact that she didn’t think Jagger DeFarge had actually intended to wound her with his words.
God, yes! Her parents would have handled this much better. But they were dead. They had known what they were doing would cost them their last strength, their last breaths. But they had believed in a beautiful world, where peace could exist, where everyone could accept everyone else.
She walked down to Decatur Street and paused.
St. Louis Cathedral stood behind Jackson Square, its steeple towering over the scene before it, including the garden with its magnificent equestrian statue of Andrew Jackson. Café du Monde was to her right—filled with tourists, naturally. It was a “must see” for visitors, perhaps something like the Eiffel Tower in Paris, even if it wasn’t nearly so grand. It was a true part of New Orleans, and she decided to brave the crowd of the tourists and pick up a nice café au lait for the three block walk back to the shop on Royal Street.
Though an actual drink might be better at this moment. A Hand Grenade or a Hurricane, or any one of the other alcoholic libations so enjoyed on Bourbon Street.
But she couldn’t have a drink. She couldn’t drink away what had happened—or everything she feared might be about to happen next.
She made her way through the open air patio to the take-away window, ordered a large café au lait to go, then headed on up toward Chartres Street and then Royal. Her love for the city returned to her like a massive wave as she walked. She returned a greeting to a friend who gave tours in one of the mule-drawn carriages, and headed on past the red brick Pontalba Building. She passed shops selling T-shirts, masks, the ever-present Mardi Gras beads, postcards and sometimes, true relics, along with hand-crafted art and apparel.