LITMIR.BIZ

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an addiction to decency …

      Fiona MacDonald.

      God, no.

      Yes. She was sleek and smooth, and she never teased or taunted; she was simply beautiful, and even when she was angry, there was something in the sound of her voice that seemed to slip beneath his skin. Her hair was like the sunlight, and her eyes …

      “David, Jagger is here,” Valentina said, leading him to David’s table and pulling out one of the plastic-cushioned patio chairs. As he took the seat and thanked her, she leaned low. Her black dress was cut nearly to her navel, displaying her ample cleavage right in front of his face.

      But then, since Valentina was a shapeshifter, she could shift a little more of her to any part of her body she desired.

      “Hey, Jagger, I was expecting to see you,” David said. He had half risen to greet Jagger, but Jagger lifted a hand, silently acknowledging the courtesy and assuring him that he was welcome to keep his seat.

      “David …” Jagger said in greeting.

      Since they were both wearing dark glasses, there was nothing to be gleaned by seeking out honesty in David’s eyes, though Jagger knew from past encounters that they were fascinating eyes, almost gold in color. David was Creole, mainly, with additional ancestors who had been French and Italian, so his skin was almost as golden as his eyes, complemented by dark lashes and dark hair. He was a striking man and had always been a friend.

      He couldn’t tell what his friend was thinking right now but.

      David tended to be a straight shooter.

      “Obviously, yes, I’ve heard about the body,” David said quietly.

      “Any suspects?”

      “You think it was one of us?” David asked. He didn’t have to keep his voice low; the music was just right, and the courtyard was alive with the low drone of conversation. They wouldn’t be heard beyond the table, even if Jagger did note that customers—most of them women—did glance in their direction now and then.

      “David, the body was bone-dry. Not a drop of blood.”

      David nodded, looking toward the band. “They’re good, don’t you think?”

      “Yes, very good. Your taste in music is legendary. Listen, right now the investigation is wide-open. Obviously no one but me suspects anything … out of the ordinary. But we’ve got a serious problem, because it certainly looks to be the work of a vampire. And pretty soon it’s not going to be just me hanging around here and questioning people.”

      David groaned.

      “The Keeper?” he said quietly. “Oh, Lordy.”

      “She found me right after I made it to the crime scene.”

      “That one has some attitude, too,” David said with a sigh, then shrugged. “Oh well, comes with the territory, I guess. She had a hell of a lot to contend with at a very young age, and so far, we’ve all kept the peace. She hasn’t had the time—or the need—to acquire the wisdom of her parents. And she’s got that strict code of ethics thing going on, too. Guess it comes with being the oldest.” David grinned suddenly. “Beautiful little thing, though, huh? If we were back in the old days … yum. And I wouldn’t have let anyone interfere with her birth into a new existence, either. Hell, she’s the kind who might have made me monogamous. For a century or so, anyway.”

      Jagger wasn’t at all sure why he immediately felt protective. Fiona MacDonald certainly wouldn’t expect or even want him to defend her.

      Maybe David’s words irritated him because they had touched a little too close to home.

      “Well, she is nice eye candy,” David continued. “And everyone is welcome at my club. She has to do her job, right, Jagger?”

      “No, I have to do my job. I have to find a murderer. I hope that it doesn’t prove to be a vampire, but if it does … well, we have to handle it as a community.”

      David looked away. “It’s against nature,” he said softly.

      “Our lives are against nature. We drink blood that’s inferior to what our ancestors craved, but we’ve evolved, we’ve adapted to it. Louisiana has the death penalty. And since we don’t have any vampire prisons, we have no choice. Rogues die, and it’s a community affair.”

      “What do you want me to do?”

      “Call a meeting.”

      “All right. And I’ll make it known that everyone’s presence is required, though I can’t guarantee that we’ll get everyone.”

      “I think most of our kind will be extremely concerned, since they know the other races will be breathing down our necks. This is frightening, David. Frightening for everyone. A young woman was killed, drained of blood. The whole city will be up in arms. And you can guarantee our friends in the underworld of New Orleans society will all be staring at us.”

      “I’ll call the meeting,” David assured him. “You’ll be presiding?”

      “You bet.”

      “I think I can manage it by late—late—tomorrow—the following morning, really. Make it 3:00 a.m. Those who are still hanging out here will probably be three sheets to the wind, not likely to interrupt. The rectory, 3:00 a.m.”

      “That will work. Thanks, David.”

      “So, will you have some lunch? As my guest, of course.”

      “I appreciate the offer, but it’s going to be a long day.”

      “Where are you off to now?”

      “The morgue,” Jagger told him.

      Fiona arrived at Underworld while lunch was still being served. She walked up to the hostess stand, and the woman standing there looked up at her with patronizing patience. She looked Fiona up and down, and would have sniffed audibly if it weren’t against all sense of Southern courtesy. She was dressed in black, and had long black hair, black eyes and enormous breasts.

      “Yes? A table for … one? I’m afraid there’s a wait,” the woman said.

      Shapeshifter, Fiona thought.

      And she probably knew damned well who she was, and what she wanted.

      “I’m sorry, I’m not here for lunch at all. I need to see Mr. Du Lac,” Fiona said.

      “Ah,” the woman said, just looking at her.

      Fiona wasn’t in the mood for a staring contest.

      “If you would be so kind, I would deeply appreciate it if you would tell Mr. Du Lac that I’m here.”

      “Do you have an appointment?”

      “I’m quite certain that he’s expecting me,” Fiona said.

      “He’s a very busy man. Perhaps you could leave your card.”

      “Perhaps you could inform him that Fiona MacDonald is here. In fact, I strongly suggest that you do so right now.”

      The woman lifted her chin. Fiona could tell that she was about to stall again.

      Fiona hated changing. She seldom had to do so, but she was adept at the art that was her birthright. She could do so in an instant, and change back so quickly that anyone seeing her who didn’t know would assume it had been a trick of the light. So …

      She changed. She gave something that was a warning growl, fangs dripping and bared.

      And then she changed back instantly.

      “You don’t need to get huffy,” the woman told her. “Right this way.”

      She led Fiona past the scattered tables in the courtyard. Beneath one of the lovely umbrellas with its fleur-de-lis in black and gold,

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