BISHOP

 

Bishop leaned closer to his attendant and ask, “What is the hold up?”

“We are waiting for the priestess, Maître,” Basile whispered. “And the wolves.”

Bishop scratched his beard, not because it itched, but because it calmed him. He was rapidly losing his patience, becoming more agitated by every minute wasted on the tardy.

Bishop Delacroix was a French born vampire and active participant in the original colonization of Louisiana. Many years ago, he had walked the land that would eventually be called La Nouvelle-Orléans, or New Orleans, as referred to by the Americans. After the colonization was complete, he returned to his beloved Calais, never returning to the colony again. But thanks to the incompetence of Gerard Sonnier, the deceased vampire regent of Louisiana, he was sitting at a conference table, attempting to clean up a mess that he hadn’t created.

Gerard’s alliance with the witches was foolish. Offering the coven’s assistance with their petty squabbles with the Voodoo tribe proved disastrous. As regent, he should have known better. Now, it was his duty to put the coven back together and appoint a new regent.             

“If punctuality wasn’t a must, we could have met with the coven first,” Bishop grumbled.

Basile nodded in agreement.

Basile Duval was what Americans would refer to as his right-hand man. If Bishop wasn’t so selfish, he would appoint him the position as regent of the Louisiana coven. He was certainly competent enough, but it was his competence that Bishop had come to rely on.

“If this meeting doesn’t start in –”

His ire was interrupted when black women, escorted by wolves, entered the boardroom. The curves of one had rendered him speechless. She was wearing black shorts that hugged the curve of her hips and revealed long, shapely brown legs.

“I’m sorry, Master. What were you saying?” Basile quipped.

Bishop chuckled at the facetiousness of his comment. As luck would have it, the woman was escorted to the seat directly across from him. She was wearing dark sunglasses, so he couldn’t see her eyes, but everything that he could see was alluring. Her plump, red lips had him daydreaming about tasting her blood. She had African locks that were hung long from a high ponytail, and her penny-colored complexion was flawless. Her outfit may not have been appropriate for a council meeting, but it allowed Bishop a perfect view of her cleavage.

Wanting to see her eyes, Bishop strained to see through the dark lenses. As if somehow reading his mind, the woman reached up and lowered her lenses just enough for him to see big, beautiful eyes that were almost golden; a color that she and two other women at the table had in common. They were definitely Roux, from the Moreau line. If the eyes were the windows to the soul, in theirs, he saw their ancestors. More specifically, Auriette Moreau.

The Roux woman continued to stare unabashedly, almost as if challenging him to look away first. Bishop was content with eye-fucking her throughout the entire meeting. But, unfortunately, someone called his name.

“Monsieur Delacroix?”

A bored sigh escaped before Bishop could prevent it. Reluctantly, he turned from the Roux sitting across from him and searched for the disruption.

It was the priest.

Had he been a woman, he would have rolled his eyes. Bishop had very little respect for clergy. He was old enough to have seen the murderous campaigns, excused by their so- called belief in their own divinity.

“Monsieur Delacroix, we were just doing introductions. Would you like to introduce yourself?”

Bishop scratched his beard again while looking at the priest as if he’d lost his senses. Basile dropped his head and chuckled softly.

“Monsieur?”

“No, priest. I do not wish to introduce myself. I am the oldest person in this room. Therefore, if there is someone here that doesn’t know who I am, they shouldn’t be here.”

The priest swallow hard. His face was awash with embarrassment.

“I will introduce myself,” came from across the table, rescuing the priest.

It was the Roux woman with the thick, curly hair.

“I’m Enola Roux-Toussaint, the sovereign of the Moreau Tribe of Voodoo practitioners, and the wife of the Louisiana Pack alpha. Out of good will, and our desire for peace, we are here. However, since I’m new here, I will risk asking a stupid question. Why should my family and I sit at a table with witches, vampire, and… priests?” She narrowed her fiery, golden eyes at the priest.

“For generations, our kind has been under attack from the same witch- slash- priest, with the aid of vampires. Know this… from now on, the trajectory of this fight will change drastically. If we are attacked again, we will settle for nothing less than our enemy’s annihilation.”

Enola Roux was the one rumored to be a phoenix. Bishop could see tiny flames flickering in her eyes. In all his years, he’d never encountered a phoenix. Admittedly, he was curious. He’d been told that she could transform into a giant bird of fire with a wingspan of six feet. He suspected that it was a remarkable sight to see, almost as remarkable a sight of her kin’s captivating beauty. Bishop’s mind was made. He wouldn’t be leaving Louisiana without taking a bite out of the Roux woman.

 

Blood Lust

Coming this summer