“To see August Gaudin,” Fiona said grimly.
Usually werewolves were not her favorite beings, though she tried very hard not to be prejudiced and stereotype them. It was the whole transformation thing that seemed so strange to her—so painful. And the baying at the moon.
Vampires were capable of certain transformations, as well, it was far more a matter of astral projection and hypnotism. A vampire could take on a few legendary forms, such as a wolf and a bat, but they were weakened in such states, and since no vampire wanted to go up against an angry werewolf, for example, in the creature’s own shape, the legendary transformation seldom happened.
Like vampires and shapeshifters, werewolves lived among the human population of the city, controlling themselves—with Shauna as their Keeper. But August Gaudin had fought alongside her parents, and in his human shape he was a dignified older man with silver hair, a broad chest and broad shoulders, and benign and gentle powder-blue eyes. He was an attorney by trade, and he had been elected to the city commission, and also worked with the tourism board. He had been genuinely wonderful to Fiona and her sisters, helping them when they truly needed a friend.
His offices were on Canal Street, and she walked there as quickly as she could, not wanting to call ahead, because trying to explain on the phone or, worse, leave a message would be too difficult.
August would see her. He always did.
The office manager stopped her when she would have absently burst right through to see him, but they had met before, and the woman knew that August wouldn’t turn Fiona down. Still, the woman pursed her lips and said, “Please, sit, and I will let Mr. Gaudin know that you’re here.”
“I’ll stand, thank you,” Fiona said. Silly. The woman was just wielding her power.
August Gaudin came out to greet her, reaching out to take her hands. “Fiona! Dear child, come on in, come on in. Margaret, hold my calls, please.”
Gaudin’s office was a comfortable place. He had a large mahogany desk, and leather chairs that were both comfortable and somehow strong. The office conveyed the personality of the man.
He sat behind his desk as Fiona fell into a chair before it.
“I was expecting you,” he told her.
“I suppose the entire city has heard by now,” she said. She leaned forward. “August, the girl was murdered by a vampire. I’m sure of it. She was drained of blood. Completely. The wretched creatures are at it again!”
“Now, Fiona, that’s not necessarily true,” August told her. “First, we all know that—”
“Yes, yes, there are ridiculous human beings out there who think they’re vampires, who even cut each other and drink each other’s blood.”
“It is possible that such a lunatic killed the woman,” August said.
“Possible, but not likely.”
“I take it that Jagger DeFarge is the investigating officer?”
“Yes. Imagine,” she said dryly.
“That’s good, cher. He’ll know how to investigate properly, and he won’t get himself killed in the process,” he told her.
“August, this is my fault,” she whispered.
“Now, stop. It’s not your fault. It’s your duty to see that the perpetrator is caught and punished. But it’s not your fault any more than it’s your fault when some crackhead falls on top of his own infant and kills him, or when drug slayings occur on the street. Crime exists. And it’s unreasonable to expect that crime will never exist in—our world just as it does in the human world,” he said softly.
She stood and began pacing the room. “Yes, but … if the vampires respected me as their Keeper, they wouldn’t have dared attempt such a thing.”
“Not true. There will always be rogues in any society.”
“August, you’ve always helped me. What should I do?” she asked.
He leaned back. “You tell me.”
“All right. Tonight, I make sure that the victim isn’t coming back, that … that she rests in peace. I’ll go as soon as the morgue is closed, and hopefully before … well, before. Then I’ll go to see David Du Lac at the club and make sure he’s ready to deal with what’s happened.”
“The perfect plan. Here’s another,” August told her.
“What?”
“Trust in Jagger DeFarge. He’s a good cop. He became a cop to make sure he regulated things that happened among our kind. He’s thorough in every investigation. He’ll be especially vigilant on this one.”
“He’s a vampire.”
“He’s proven that he has integrity and honor.”
“He won’t want to destroy another vampire.”
“He’ll do what is right. You have to trust in that.”
“I’d like to,” she said.
“But?”
“He’s a vampire,” she repeated.
Jagger headed straight to Underworld, the club owned by David Du Lac, the head of the vampire population of the City of New Orleans. His rule stretched farther, but the city was his domain. He was essentially considered the vampire mayor.
And he did a better job than some of the human beings who had been entrusted with the city’s human citizens, Jagger thought.
Naturally Underworld was frequented by vampires. But David Du Lac prided himself on running an establishment where everyone was welcome. He brought in the best bands and kept the place eclectic, and the human clientele never had any idea just who they were rubbing shoulders with.
Underworld was located just off Esplanade, on Frenchman Street. The edifice was a deconsecrated church. Beautiful stained-glass windows remained, along with a cavernous main section, balconies and private rooms. The old rectory, David’s home as well as a venue for jazz bands and private parties, was right behind the old church. There was a patio, too, open during the day, and a jazz trio played there from 11:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m. every day, while the clientele enjoyed muffalettas, crawfish étouffée, gumbo and other Louisiana specialties—along with the customary colorful drinks served in New Orleans and a few designer specials, dryly named the Bloodsucker, Bite Me, the Transformer and the Fang.
Jagger paused for a minute after he parked just down the street from the club. David took good care of the place. The white paint sparkled in the sunlight. The umbrellas in the courtyard were decorated with pretty fleur-de-lis patterns—naturally boasting the black and gold colors of the home football team, the Saints.
He got out of his car and walked through the wrought-iron gate to the courtyard, where a crowd had already gathered, and where the jazz trio was playing softly pleasant tunes.
“Detective Jagger!”
He was greeted by Valentina DeVante, David’s hostess. She worked all hours, although she was almost always at the club at night. She was a voluptuous woman, with a way of walking that was pure sensuality. She had the kind of eyes that devoured a man.
He didn’t actually like being devoured, so he’d always kept his distance.
“Valentina, is David up and about?”
“Actually, he’s over there in the courtyard, toward the back. Tommy, the sax player, is sick, so the guys brought in a substitute. You know how David loves his jazz. He’s making sure he likes the new guy so he can fill in again if he’s needed. Come on. I’ll take you to him.”
She turned. She walked. She swished and swayed. Half the men in town, especially the inebriated ones, would