My red sundress is almost identical to Elaine’s green one. Both are swishy rayon with thin spaghetti straps and stop just above our knees. New Orleans is hot as hell, and the fewer clothes we can decently get away with wearing, the better.

A blast of cool air greets us as we step through the white arched doorway of the Original Pierre Maspero’s restaurant. It’s been our favorite lunch dive since college, when we used to take occasional girls’ trips to the Big Easy.

Nothing says party like sweating your ass off and drinking cheap beer from a plastic cup while walking through the French Quarter. Too bad that’s not the reason for our visit this time. Shaking my head, I try to figure out how it’s possible my life could have taken such a turn.

The restaurant is only two blocks west of our hotel, and we wait to be seated at one of the small, dark-wood tables inside the circa-1788 building. The grey stucco outside hides the beauty of the weathered brick interior. It’s so gorgeous and historic, I’m overwhelmed with sadness.

Is this why New Orleans is such a magnet for the paranormal? Am I destined to live alone through the centuries until the memories of a place like this are my sole source of comfort? God help me.

Elaine’s teasing voice cuts through my despair. “Are you waiting for someone?”

She’s further in the dim room than I am. I had drifted to the door as I considered my grim future, and looking back, I watch as she speaks to a handsome man. He’s fair with hazel eyes, an easy, sexy smile, and an impressive physique.

I try to walk closer and WHAM! I’m hit with a powerful wave of nausea. Reaching out, I grab the old French door for balance.

“I’m here with my partner,” I hear him say. “We’re working on a case.”

“Are you a cop?” Elaine’s flirting, and I can tell she’s intrigued with him. Squinting up, I see in his eyes he’s equally fascinated and bewildered by my pretty friend.

I want to care, but I have to step out onto the sidewalk. I’m afraid I might vomit my meager breakfast of buttered toast. With my enhanced senses, their voices are clear in my ears.

“Close.” I hear the smile in his voice. “Private investigator.”

“Interesting. Are you in town for long?”

“Through the weekend. You?” He’s got a cute, player quality to his voice, and I can practically feel the sexual tension between them.

“We head out on Sunday.” The rustle of bags, hands in pockets. I know they’re both fishing out business cards. “Elaine Merritt. Call me.”

“Patrick Knight, and I will.”

Elaine is so endearingly bold, and I know how men respond to her. It helps she can read their minds. She can tell the jerks right away and deflect their advances before they begin. In the meantime, I’ve got my back against the wall. I’m taking several deep breaths, trying to regain my composure.

“I’m sorry… I have to go.” She’s noticed my absence and is heading my way.

“Hey, wait.” Patrick is right with her, but his growing presence sends my insides into another spasm.

I have to lean forward just in case, and I catch the disapproving looks of passing pedestrians. I’m not drunk! I want to yell, but I’m powerless.

“What are you doing for dinner tomorrow night?” He’s too close. I push away from the wall and stagger down the block to the corner.

On Chartres Street, I can catch my breath. I’m able to stand and breathe deeply when my friend rounds the building fast, worry clear in her eyes.

“Shit, Melissa! You scared the hell out of me. I didn’t know where you went.”

“I’m sorry.” Pressing my eyes closed, I touch the perspiration off my brow. “I don’t know what happened back there. I thought I might puke.”

She glances back over her shoulder before pushing us both further up Chartres. “Do you still feel like eating? We can go to K-Paul’s instead?”

Nodding, we head northeast in the direction of the Louisiana Chef’s signature restaurant. My strength returns quickly, still I’m confused by what just happened.

“Who was that guy?”

A little smile curls her lips. “Not sure, but we’re having dinner with him and his partner tomorrow night.” She gives me a wink. “Try to relax. Before that happens, we’ll meet with Demeter and get answers.”

Dread floods my insides, but I’m not sure whether it’s because we’re having dinner with Elaine’s new lust-interest, or if it’s because I’m afraid of what the old woman will tell us. Or won’t tell us.

---

Derek

Patrick’s text was waiting when I stepped out of the shower this morning. He’d taken the red-eye and was in New Orleans.

Further intel. You shouldn’t be here alone.

Cryptic. It means he’s worried our texts are being monitored.

As soon as I’d read it, I shot back a reply. Preparing. Meet at Two Sister’s, dinner to debrief and regroup.

Then I’d closed the blackout shades in my suite, shut off all my devices, and forced myself to sleep eight hours longer, until late afternoon. The Knight brothers and I have worked together long enough to know our strengths and vulnerabilities. Patrick’s emergency trip to the city is significant.

I’ve been accused before—mostly by my targets—of being a hypocrite for hunting vampires with shifter partners. Two responses: First, I’m not. Second, I don’t search out vampires for the thrill of staking them. I seek justice.

The Knights are law-abiding, and in addition to their loyalty and adherence to family bonds, they have heightened senses, strength, and enhanced healing powers.

Patrick’s overactive sex drive tests my patience, and it doesn’t help that his shifter charm seems to dissolve women’s inhibitions. He’s been embroiled in two sticky situations in the short time we’ve worked together. Still, he’s smart, and he’s a great tracker. I can overlook a few lapses in judgment, but I’ll be glad when he finally mates.

When my alarm rouses me, it’s after six. It’s not yet twilight, still New Orleans feels darker than other cities. The black wrought iron and clinging vines covering every structure add to the shadowy nature of the place. It’s sweaty and damp, and everyone is looking for a cool place to escape the heat.

It’s also September. We’re moving into fall, harvest season, Halloween. It’s a dangerous time to be in my line of work, and I’m on full alert. I’m actually thankful my younger partner is here.

Before I leave my suite, I slip a 9mm handgun in my boot. It’s loaded with silver bullets, and it’s the only weapon I’ll carry. Forget sneaking up on immortals. Their heightened senses alert them to your presence, and even if they didn’t have that advantage, they’re paranoid about attacks.

Patrick is a huge asset, but if our target truly is an old one, neither of us will be a match for him alone. I only hope together we’ll be a close equivalent. My flesh is vulnerable, but I’ve learned a few tricks for staying out of danger. Shifters cause such painful wounds, vampires tend to avoid tangling with them.

Anyway, we only want information. This old one isn’t the one. Patrick’s investigations have indicated they’re associates, nothing more. If we don’t walk into any surprises, we should be okay.

The sun is behind the clouds, still the air is thick with heat. I’m wearing dark, loose jeans, a light, short-sleeved polo, and heavy black boots. As I walk the few blocks from my hotel to The Court of Two Sisters, I wonder what my partner did today while I rested and prepared. Female laughter and loud music flows out of the Bourbon Street bars, and I can imagine the temptation is great for him here. We’re on a job, however, and he’s usually focused when we’re working.

Returning as a tourist to the city where I grew up makes me feel like a pampered guest in my family home. In short, it feels wrong. My parents still live in their garden district mansion on St. Charles Avenue, but it’s close to the sister campuses of Tulane and Loyola Universities—far from here.

I don’t intend to visit them on this trip. It’s best they don’t know why I’m in town. They have no knowledge of my current occupation (obsession?) since Alison was killed. If they even believed what I was doing, it would only fill them with unnecessary fear.

I’m a block from the restaurant, and I can’t help glancing in the direction of Royal Street and the Hotel Monteleone. I won’t be at Mr. B’s tonight. I’ll never know if she goes there to meet me.

Her shimmering skin, dark hair, and beautiful breasts fill my memory. Regret twists low in my stomach. I don’t even know how to reach her. My fists involuntarily clench, and I consider postponing this job for a second time. Honor won’t let me do such a thing.

All I know is somewhere, two blocks from where I stand, is an amazing woman I only hope I’ll find again, and when I do, I hope I can convince her to accompany me back to my suite for another taste of heaven.

Wiping that thought from my mind, I step through the white, arched doorway into the restaurant. Nodding to the Creole hostess, I do a quick scan of the narrow interior. The outer walls are lined with large French doors, and the hallmark of the establishment is the enormous, open courtyard situated under a network of thick wisteria vines.

In the spring it resembles a vineyard with the purple clusters of grape-like flowers hanging through the foliage. In the fall, it’s more like a jungle. Dark-green canvass umbrellas shelter the tables where the wisteria doesn’t grow, and white twinkle lights shine in the dark branches and around black wrought-iron columns. A bright blue fountain adds a trickling noise to the low drone of conversation. It would be relaxing if it weren’t for the task ahead of us.

My younger partner is staring at a menu, but he’s clearly not reading it. I can’t tell if he’s preoccupied with our case or something different.

“Patrick,” I say before pulling out the chair across from him. He starts, and I frown. I can’t afford to have him distracted tonight. “What’s on your mind?”

He’s on his feet clasping my hand in a strong grip before we both sit. “Sorry.” He only pauses a beat. “Unusual lunch.”

“Anything you need to tell me about?”

Seated across from him, I scan the menu briefly. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve dined here through the years, and I already know what I’ll order.

He doesn’t have a chance to answer before a young woman in black and white arrives at the table. “Good evening, gentlemen.” She gives me a wink and a smile. “Can I start you with a Sazerac? It’s the signature cocktail of New Orleans.”

I do miss the easy nature of my hometown, but my partner and I can’t afford any weakness tonight. “Thanks, but I’ll stick with iced tea. Unsweetened with lemon.”

Patrick nods. “Same.”

She gives us a quick nod, and we place our orders before she goes. Turtle soup with sherry to start, followed by crawfish étouffée for me. Roasted half duck with Bourbon praline sauce for my cynanthropic friend.

Our waitress disappears, and my gaze levels on Patrick. “What has you so distracted you didn’t even notice me approach the table?”

He leans back and flashes that cocky grin women can’t seem to resist. “We’re safe here. Even the undead respect New Orleans’s finest restaurants. If they forget that—”

“We have to be on guard everywhere in this city.” It’s as much a reminder to me as to him, and I wait while the busboy places two tall glasses of iced tea in front of us. “Tell me what you’ve learned.”

When the boy leaves, Patrick leans forward, and his fair brow lowers along with his voice. “The one we’re after is here, in the city. Now.”

Adrenaline mixes with excitement in my chest. Could my hunt possibly be over? Could I possibly end my quest and return to a normal life?

Maintaining control, I lift my glass and take a sip. “How do you know?”

“Sloan told me.”

Patrick wins. I’m completely stunned. “Sloan? What the hell—”

“Keep your shirt on.” Again with that grin.

“Patrick.” Warning is in my tone. My former mentor is no laughing matter to me. “Explain.”

“When you left, I had a little free time, so I dug out Sloan’s old research journal. That fucker has some seriously sick shit in his notes.”

“He dedicated his life to tracking the paranormal.” Fear teases in the back of my mind. And I’m following dangerously close in his footsteps.

“Remind me again—what happened to him?”

Mildly impatient, I quickly rehash the story of the man who taught me how to track and kill vampires.

Like me, Sloan Reynolds had been an adjunct professor at Princeton University. With my Marine background and police training, I’d focused on Law Enforcement Online, a branch of the FBI. Sloan was the son of a successful Baltimore importer-exporter and taught students how to build and manage shipping businesses on the eastern seaboard.

In his spare time, he’d become obsessed with the ancient writings of the vampire hunters employed by the Vatican in the fifteenth century. He believed it was God’s work, and after a few evenings sharing drinks at a local pub, he pulled me into it.

I confess, I didn’t believe any of it at the time, but I was fascinated. I enjoyed studying the old legends and reading the ancient journals, seeing how the job was done centuries ago.

It wasn’t long before I was supplementing my income investigating mysterious deaths and unsolved murders across the states. In the beginning it was only a distraction. Sloan taught me all the signature marks of paranormal criminal behavior—bodies covered in Katrina debris, bodies under the twisted rubble of car crashes, bodies added to crime scenes—the only connection being the victims were all drained of blood.

Unlike the savage murders committed by rogue shape-shifters, a vampire killing generally leaves very little evidence of the attacker. The undead typically do not engage in sexual intercourse with their victims. The act of draining a human mimics the orgasmic state for both victim and killer.

Occasionally, a fetishist vampire will sleep with a victim, however they leave no DNA evidence behind. The two tiny pink puncture wounds are the only indicators of what took place. The blood is completely consumed.

Time passed, and I was drawn deeper into his world. I began to see things I couldn’t easily explain away. Nine months later, we spotted our first vampire. The thing was inexplicably hanging around, lurking in the shadows of a kill when we arrived on the scene.

I could feel its presence. It was unlike anything I’d ever experienced in my life—dread mixed with anger mixed with adrenaline. Sloan stayed behind to check the victim, a young runaway. I went after her killer, and I finished him.

It was my first kill. I had my gun, and I shot him straight through the heart with three silver bullets. It was quick and brutal, and I expected to be more shaken by the experience. At the same time, looking back on it, I was able to see how my Marine background prepared me for such a moment.

For years we had been studying and preparing to confront these monsters. Unlike human killers, vampires can’t be rehabilitated. Murder is their nature. The one I executed was cruel and remorseless. He was exactly what I expected a vampire to be, and ridding the world of him was the obvious right answer.

Once he was down, I walked straight to his writhing corpse and cut the head off then torched the body. Vampire corpses are highly flammable. When all that remained were his ashes, I sprayed them away with water. No chance that fucker would ever reanimate.

Unlike me, Sloan was disoriented when I returned. He said another creature had appeared and cursed us both. I searched but could find no signs of anyone else in the area. Knowing vampires are typically loners, I dismissed it, told him to pull himself together.

A month later, my wife Alison disappeared. She’d run out for a pint of ice cream and never came back. We found her dead, drained of blood and dumped in the woods of central New Jersey…

It’s a night I’ll never forget. My life changed that night.

I’ve put away those feelings. I had to or I would never move past it. Nothing in my experience prepared me for the pain of what happened to her. It marked me for a long, long time, and I was convinced I’d never get over it.

I stood over her ghastly white body and swore I’d find her killer. I’d get her justice. From that point on, I was all in.

Patrick and I are quiet a moment as I finish the backstory. All the Knights know what happened to my wife. Their loyalty and commitment to helping me find justice binds us together, makes us brothers. Even after all these years.

Still, my partner isn’t satisfied. “He taught you everything he knew, and then what? He simply disappeared?”

The waitress and an assistant set our plates in front of us, and as they work, I scroll back through the years to that awful month and the sudden retirement of my former mentor. Patrick assures the girl we need nothing more, and she retreats, leaving us to resume our conversation.

“Within days of Alison’s death, he tendered his resignation and withdrew to his mansion. He refused all visitors. He wouldn’t even see me. As far as I know, he’s never come out again. His staff takes care of his needs.”

Patrick shakes his head, lifting his knife and fork to cut into the duck. “And you never went after him? You didn’t demand to know why?”

Stirring the shot of sherry into my soup, I hesitate, remembering my disgust. “I knew why,” I say, before tasting the rich, brown roux.

I know he can sense the change in me. Still, he asks the follow-up question. “Why?”

“He fell in love with one of them. Or lust…”

Patrick’s fork hits his plate with a clang. “You’ve never told me this!”

“It never seemed important before.” I slide my soup aside and take my fork to try the étouffée. “I didn’t know you were digging in his old files.”

“What did it look like?”

“I never saw her.”

“It was a female?” My young partner leans back in his chair, a knowing look on his face.

“I assumed it was. From what I pieced together, he was trying to find a way to change her, bring her back.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Yes,” I nod, stabbing my fork into a curled crawfish tail covered in thick, red-orange sauce. “He didn’t realize it until the end.”

Patrick doesn’t say the question plain in his eyes. He doesn’t have to. The end?

“Somehow, he realized she was beyond redemption.” I take a deep breath, remembering Sloan’s final notes. He left me his files along with a post-it saying only two words: It’s over. “He drove a stake through her heart.”

“Jesus!” My partner hisses. “What the fuck?”

“He’d dedicated his life to eradicating them. After all our years of hunting, he found her, stood right there on the precipice. It took everything he had to make the right decision.”

We’re quiet a long time, neither of us eating. It seems appropriate—a moment of silence for the mortal broken by the immortal.

“Well, he left some kick-ass research behind,” Patrick finally says. “Why haven’t you shared any of it with me?”

Leave it to youth to be able to shake off the gravity of the situation. A small grin lifts the corner of my mouth. “Perhaps I grew a little disillusioned myself.”

“Bullshit,” he hisses. “You’re as focused as you’ve ever been.”

“Maybe I felt it was disrespectful.” Returning to my plate, I try and remember why I’d locked up Sloan’s notes. Patrick’s right. All those years of work should be in our shared arsenal, not my brain alone.

“When he quit, he was tracking a very powerful one,” my partner says. “Possibly the one we’re after.”

Alison’s murderer.

My sense of vengeance toward this particular killer roars like a bonfire in my chest. Patrick knows how important avenging her is to me. Her death was a personal attack, and I won’t rest until I answer it.

Placing my fork beside the elegant white china, I level my gaze on him. “Tell me what you’ve got.”