There was a tall, thin man standing over a mannequin. He looked like he was assembling it, since its leg was on the ground next to the man and its arm was in two pieces farther away. Then the mannequin’s head turned. Its eyes blinked, mouth opened…
Eric screamed, trying to scramble to his feet, but a scalding pain in his leg prevented him. The tall man ignored Eric’s screams and frantic attempts to back away as he gave an inquiring glance up the stairs.
“Mon amour, I was getting worried.”
The girl appeared at the top of the stairs. “Why? No one knows we’re here.”
Eric managed to stand. Agony shot up his leg even though he had most of his weight on the other one.
“Don’t either of you fuckin’ touch me,” he gasped, looking around for something, anything, to use to fight them off.
The girl smiled as she came down the stairs. With his blood still around her mouth, it looked more like a hideous leer.
“Touch you? Mon cher, I already told you—I am going to eat you.”
1
Bones didn’t spare a glance around as he strode rapidly up the streets of the French Quarter. Scents assailed him; countless perfumes, body odor from all manners of hygiene, food cooking—or rotting in the trash. Centuries of decadence had given the Quarter a unique, permanent stench no vampire could completely ignore.
A close second to the cacophony of scents was sound. Music, laughter, shouts, and conversations compounded into a constant white noise.
As he rounded a corner, Bones wondered again why Marie had summoned him. He didn’t have to come; he wasn’t under her line, so he owed her no loyalty. But when the queen of New Orleans called, Bones answered. For starters, he respected Marie. And he reckoned his head wouldn’t enjoy sitting atop his shoulders much longer if he snubbed her.
Though chances were, what Marie wanted would involve Bones killing someone.
He had just rounded another corner when instinct told him he was being watched. He jerked to the side—and felt searing pain slam into his back in the next instant. Bones whirled, knocking people over to dart into the nearest door. With his back safely to a wall and the only entrance in clear view, Bones looked down at his chest.
An arrow protruded, its broad head hooked on three sides where it had punched through his chest. The shaft was still sticking out of his back. He touched the bloodied tip and swore.
Silver. Two inches lower and it would have gone through his heart, ending his life the permanent way.
“Hey, buddy,” someone called out. “You okay?”
“Capital,” Bones bit off. He looked around and realized he’d stumbled into a bar. The patrons were goggling at his chest.
He paused long enough to pull the arrow out of his chest before ducking out the door, moving at a speed that would have been only a blur to the onlookers at the bar. He wasn’t concerned with them, however. His attention was focused on finding whoever had fired that custom-made arrow. From the angle it skewered him, it had been fired from above.
One vertical jump had him on the bar’s roof, crouching again while his gaze scanned the nearby structures. Nothing. Bones ran along the tops of the buildings for two blocks, until he felt certain that he was standing where the shooter had been. There was a faint, residual energy in the air that confirmed what Bones already suspected: whoever fired that arrow wasn’t human.
He took another moment to survey the rooftops, but there was no one to be seen. He or she was fast; it had been less than a minute from shot fired to Bones standing where the would-be killer had crouched. No amateur, this. And whoever this was had been alerted quickly to Bones’s presence in the Quarter. He’d arrived only last night.
Bones gave a mental shrug as he jumped down to the street, warier now to stay within clusters of people, but not forgoing his appointment. He’d already died once. It tended to take the edge off fearing it afterward.
Bones waited outside the wrought-iron gate of St. Louis Cemetery #1. His back was to a post, and he’d been eyeing the rooftops, ready to spring at the slightest hint of movement.
Ghosts bathed the cemetery and its surrounding streets like spectral cobwebs. Bones ignored them, though they could to be as noisy and bothersome as the tourists. New Orleans Quarter was the last place for anyone to rest in peace, be it the living, or the dead.
It wasn’t five minutes before a gigantic man walked toward him. His aura announced him as a ghoul, though he looked nothing like Hollywood’s interpretation of one. No, he had smooth brown skin, a bald head, and a barrel-like chest, the very picture of health and vitality. Except his walk, which had a noticeable awkwardness that was at odds with the normal, graceful gait of the undead.
“Bones,” the man greeted him.
It had been decades, but Bones remembered his name. “Jelani.” He nodded. “I am here to see Majestic, at her request.”