Cracking the thinnest of smiles, he headed off to find Chrysabelle. Today was going to be a very good day. A good day to die.

He found his way to Canal Street and, flipping his collar up, did his best to be invisible. Keeping his head down was harder than he thought. The urge to look at the clear blue October sky was almost as great as the desire to stand still and drink in the daylight. But he kept going, thankful he had a place to be or he might have disappeared down a side street after the tantalizing scent of warm humans. Blood blood blood… He was hungry. And suddenly very aware of it.

His mind drifted as he walked, back to the last time he’d been here: 1926. Two years before the ban. The memories had been fuzzy, but stepping onto New Orleans soil had lifted the fog.

He’d been a killing machine, sticking to the French Quarter, which then had been a slum, full of easy pickings if you could stomach the sickly sweet aroma of too-ripe bananas being carted in from the nearby port. He remembered the crimson-lipped prostitute he’d lured into the hedges surrounding Jackson Square and there, amid the other working girls earning their pay, he’d drained her and walked away from her corpse like a discarded newspaper. Now he wore her name across his left thigh.

Had he been that much a monster? Yes. Oh yes. But not anymore. Still. He couldn’t imagine doing the same thing today. Yes, you could. Chrysabelle was right not to want him to lose the curse that kept him bound. The moment it was gone, he had no doubt he’d return to that life. Blood blood blood…

He checked traffic and the people around him. The prickling sensation of being watched had crept onto his skin a few blocks back. Seeing no one, he crossed to the other side of Canal and ducked down Chartres Street. He sidestepped a man hosing down the sidewalk, paying little attention to the way the man’s heartbeat filled his head or the warm scent of his blood curled into his nostrils. Beyond that, the aromas of chicory coffee and frying beignets mingled with the garbage waiting to be carted away.

Just a few more blocks and Jackson Square would open up before him. He crossed Conti, and a fae stepped into his path. He had short gray horns, silvery skin, and lavender eyes. Smokesinger maybe. Low against his side, he held a blade. From the sour tang, the powdery coating on it was laudanum. “Far enough, vampire.”

Mal’s peripheral vision showed two more fae of the same variety at his back. Son of a priest, he had been followed. His whole being wavered with the slip-switch decision between fight or flight, but with Chrysabelle’s reason for being here, neither one made good sense. He didn’t want to be the cause of her not getting the ring back, and without being able to make eye contact with all three of the fae, using his power of persuasion wasn’t an option. Not that he was even sure it worked on fae, but since it worked on varcolai, trying it out was a chance he’d take at the right opportunity.

He held his hands up casually. “I’m sure we can work something out.”

Interest crackled over the fae’s face. “Like what?”

Chrysabelle had slipped him a fat roll of bills before they’d parted ways. He loathed giving up her money, even if that’s what it was for. “Cash.”

The fae behind Mal tightened in. “How much?” one of them asked.

“A thou.” Mal had separated the slick plastic bills into smaller rolls ahead of time.

The fae in front of him snorted. “We look cheap to you?”

“Each,” Mal added. He could almost hear wheels turning in the heads of the two behind him. What he actually heard over the thrum in his head was their heartbeats kicking up. They wanted the money. Probably needed it if the desperation wafting off them was a clue.

The lead fae waggled his blade. “You even got that kinda cash on you?” He dropped his gaze to a small hole in Mal’s sleeve. “You don’t exactly look flush.”

“I have it. That a deal, then?”

The fae grinned. “How do you know we won’t just roll you and take it all?”

“Because I’m a five-hundred-year-old noble vampire, and the kind of power I could unleash would turn you into stains on the sidewalk quicker than you could take your next breath.”

“That so?” The fae hitched one shoulder like he’d just developed an itch. “Then why haven’t you?”

Weakling. Fight them. Kill them. Drain them. “Because I don’t need trouble. Do you want the money or not?”

“Deal.” The word came from behind him. The lead fae shot a look at his partner.

“I’m going to reach for the money.” Mal slipped a hand into the inside pocket of his coat and snagged the first bundle, then into the back pocket of his jeans for the rest. The bulk of the ten thousand was in his boot. He pulled his hand out and splayed the three rolled bundles like playing cards. “Here you go.”

The lead fae came closer. Mal inched his hand back a little and slipped some persuasion into his voice. A little test couldn’t hurt. “You have a name? In case I need help getting out of another situation?”

The fae’s gaze went slightly murky. His mouth opened and stayed that way for a long moment before any sound came out. “Jester.”

Mal flipped the money into the air and took off, the sounds of scrabbling fading behind him. His head spun, but three grand and a sudden bout of nausea was a small price to pay to find out his power worked on the fae. Something told him that might come in very handy helping Chrysabelle get her ring back.

Fi had scoured Little Havana, gone to the freighter, and talked to the bouncers outside Seven. Doc was nowhere. Now, hours later, she pulled the sedan back through the gates at Chrysabelle’s, exhausted and heartsick. She knew Doc must have taken the baby to the witches. Why else would he have said witch? It must have been a clue for her. But knowing that and finding him were two different things. She had no idea where the witches lived, and she didn’t know anyone who did, besides Dominic, and chances of him helping Doc were none. Maybe Velimai. The fae might come with her. The idea of going after such a powerful force alone frightened Fi. She’d do it if she had to, but a little company would be a great thing. Times like this, she wished with her whole heart that Doc had made peace with the leader of his pride and gotten himself reinstated. Then she could go to Sinjin and get help. Now, with Mal and Chrysabelle gone, she was practically on her own.