Directly ahead of me, catercornered from the church, was a saloon like something out of the French Quarter—two stories, white-painted wood with fancy black wrought iron on the balconies, narrow windows with working shutters, aged wood, double front doors carved to look like massive, weather-stained orchids. From it, I could smell beer and liquor and sex and blood—common enough in any bar, but even more common in vamp bars. The name of the place was LeCompte Spirits and Pleasure, the words spelled out in bloodred letters on a white sign hanging from the second-floor balcony. Whoever had painted it had deliberately let the red paint drip so it looked like blood, a not-so-subtle promise of vampire ownership and clientele.
I pushed Bitsa to the side of the road against the sidewalk and paid the parking meter two quarters. There were cars parked here and there up and down the main intersection, and movement inside the strip mall’s windows. Two hours before sunset, the town’s pace was lazy and relaxed, and the place smelled great. Mostly the Cajun place smelled great; the blood, liquor, and herbal vamp smell, not so much.
I checked to make sure my weapons were hidden but easy to hand. I was licensed to carry concealed in Louisiana, and there was nothing illegal in my having three handguns and three vamp-killers on my person and under my riding leathers. But advertising it, walking around as if I was ready for a small war, sometimes actually caused trouble. Go figure. I placed my open hand directly over the center of the cross on the front door of Boudreaux’s Meats and pushed.
The man inside moved like I’d thrown a knife at him, ducking fast and sprinting to the left, and when he stood straight, he was holding a shotgun. I stopped dead, elbows bending, hands raising slowly toward my chest in what looked like a gesture of peace but was really just bringing my hands closer to my weapons. “Easy there. I’m not here to rob, kill, or steal.”
“Stranger, you is,” he said in a strong Cajun accent.
“Yeah. My bike died out front. I was looking for the Tassin Bros Auto Fix.”
“Bike?” His face showed honest confusion, clearing thinking bicycle.
“Motorbike. Harley. I just wanted directions and maybe some of that delicious food I’m smelling.” His eyes lost some of the wariness, so I kept talking. “And maybe directions to a place to spend the night if I have to. Someplace clean and quiet. I have a card. Okay if I reach two fingers into the zippered pocket?” I pointed at my chest. The zipper was narrow, maybe two inches, way too small for most guns. He nodded, and I slowly lifted my left hand, zipping open the pocket. I dropped two fingers inside and pulled out a business card. When he gestured with the shotgun, I tossed the card to the glass-topped meat cabinet. He caught it one-handed, and the shotgun never wavered. He held it like he’d been born with one in his hand. Probably had.
He glanced at the card and back to me, and back to the card and back to me. “I hear a’ you before. Dat rogue-vampire killer woman what took to work with Leo Pellissier. You her for real?”
“Yeah. I’m her. How about you put down the shotgun? A girl gets nervous with one pointed at her.”
“How ’bout you open you jacket, reeeeal slow-like. You dat Jane Yellowrock for real, you have lotsa guns and tings, you do.” He gestured again with the gun, firmed it into his shoulder, and waited.
I lifted my hand slowly and pulled the zipper, the ratchets loud in the silent room, and me not knowing if he wanted me to be Jane so he could kill me for a bounty—there had been a few put on my head by unhappy vamps in the last weeks—or wanted me to be Jane so he could befriend me. And there was nowhere to go in the narrow shop, with walls to either side and glass at my back. I was fast, but not faster than shotgun pellets.
The zipper open, I eased aside the left jacket lapel to reveal the special-made holster and the grip of a nine-mil H&K under my left arm. Still moving slowly, I pushed aside the other lapel to display the matching H&K at my waist on the right. The butcher grinned widely, revealing white teeth that would have looked good sitting in a glass, perfect in every way, though I was betting his were real, not dentures. “You is her, you is,” he said. He broke open the shotgun and set it out of sight, moving around the meat counters with an outstretched hand. “I’m Lucky Landry. I a big fan of you.”
I took his hand and we shook, and I felt all kinds of weird about it all and didn’t know what to say. Me? With fans? I opened my mouth, closed it, and figured I had to say something. I settled on “Lucky Landry. What about Boudreaux?” I asked, indicating the sign reading BOUDREAUX’S MEATS on the back wall.
“My father-in-law.” Lucky crossed his arms over his chest and I saw the full-sleeve tat down his left arm. It was of weird creatures—combos of snake and human, with fangs and scales, mouths open in what looked like agony—as red and yellow flames climbed up from his wrist to burn them. It was like some bizarre version of hell. He was maybe late forties, early fifties, Caucasian, with black hair and dark eyes—what the locals call Frenchy. “I married the daughter, and when her daddy done died dead, I took over dey business, I did. It a right fine pleasure t’ meet you, it is, Miz Yellowrock.”