The sermon was about church doctrine, not exactly a rabble-rousing, heartwarming, or hell and damnation sermon, nothing to get the spiritual juices flowing. But not bad. And the people were nice, most finding me after the sermon and introducing themselves in a confusing blend of faces, names, and scents. The preacher was an earnest man who could have passed for twelve, with a scraggly attempt at a moustache, but he was probably older. Had to be. It was okay. I might return next week. If I was still here.
There was a ladies’ room off the front entrance, where I pulled on the jeans again. I expected the churchgoers to look askance when I emerged in biker gear, but they just smiled harder, if that was possible, showing teeth to prove they wanted me back. No matter what kind of fool motorcycle-gangbanger I might be.
In the parking lot, I chatted about my bike with a few teenagers and an elder who wandered over to make sure I wasn’t selling crack to the kiddies. Bitsa’s a cutie-pie and the boys were entranced. For that matter, so was the elder, though he tried to act all stern. When I caught the eye of an impatient parent, I shooed away the boys and geared up. Waving in the remaining churchgoers’ general direction, I pulled into traffic.
In the packet of papers that came with my contract were the addresses for each of the clan blood-masters. Not their hidden sleeping places, not their lairs, but their public addresses where they entertained, where their mail was sent, and their IRS refunds, and their bills, though it brought a smile to my face to imagine a vamp opening an IRS refund or a Visa bill.
I wanted to drive by as many as I could. Sniff out their dens, in Beast-think. Four blood-masters lived in the Garden District: Mearkanis, Arceneau, Rousseau, and Desmarais. The other masters were farther out, with Leo living the most distant. St. Martin, Laurent, and Bouvier were somewhere in between. The “saint” part of St. Martin was a surprise, but then, what I knew about sane vamps was, well, nothing, until now. I was learning stuff I’d never have believed only a month earlier. Sane vamps were a whole different order of business from rogues.
I motored down St. Charles Avenue and entered the Garden District on Third Street. I zipped up and down the blocks, locating the houses, taking time to park the bike and walk down the street in front of and behind each house, sniffing for rogue, trying not to be too obvious.
Vamp security was good. I was riding past the third house on my list, the address of Clan Arceneau’s blood-master, looking for a place to park the bike for a walk-around, when a security guy stepped outside. He was lean, narrow-waisted, broad-shouldered, and made no attempt to hide the holstered megagun he carried. He wore khakis, a red T-shirt, and a tough attitude that looked military, along with wraparound sunglasses, which looked pretty stupid in the shadows.
I figured, what the heck, I might as well push the boundaries. I gunned Bitsa through the open, six-foot-tall, black-painted, wrought-iron gate, the twisted bars in a fleur-de-lis and pike-head pattern at the top, and braked at the back bumper of a black Lexus parked in the narrow drive. I killed the engine. Kicked the stand and unhelmeted. The guard watched me the whole time, walking out onto the porch, hands at his sides, ready to pull the big ugly gun if he needed to.
Beast awoke at the possible threat and thought at me, Holstered gun, like sheathed claws. No match for us. And, Other one at door. I heard footsteps and knew a second guard had come to the door as backup. If there were only two guards, that left the rest of the house vulnerable.
I smiled at Big-Gun, pulling in the scents of the yard. Chemical fertilizers, traces of yappy-dog and house-cat urine and stool, weed killer, dried cow manure, exhaust, rubber tires, rain, oil on the streets. Big-Gun didn’t smile back, but he must have decided I was harmless because he put both hands on his waist. “Lost?” he asked. He sounded almost friendly. But then I guess you can sound friendly when you’re carrying a small cannon under your arm.
“Nope. I’m looking for Clan Arceneau.”
Slicker than lightning, he drew his weapon. He had clearly been drinking vamp blood, to be so fast. Beast tensed. I stared down the barrel of the cannon. “I’m Jane Yellowrock, the hired gun looking for the rogue vamp. You got a minute? For a nice, friendly visit?”
“Depends. You got ID?” When I nodded, he said, “Real slow. Two fingers. Unzip the jacket. When I’m satisfied, you drop the jacket and turn in a circle. Then you can pull an ID.”
With two fingers, I pulled down the zipper on the jacket, held out one side and then the other, showing that I was not wearing a holster. At his nod, I slid the jacket off and laid it over the leather seat. Holding my arms out, I did a slow pirouette, keeping an eye on the gun. I was certain that Beast could move faster than he could fire, but it wasn’t something I wanted to test.