AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Leo tapped down the stairs of the townhouse she shared with another girl from Royal Mojo Blues and out the door, into the street. His guards gathered close, summoned on the cellular telephone used by George, his primo blood-servant. Security was much easier since the invention of the devices, though at some point his enemies would discover them, he was certain.
The limousine approached quietly from down the street, riding low, the weight of the armor holding it close to the asphalt. Once inside, Leo said, "One more stop tonight. Back to the club." The club where Marcoise worked as head bartender. Where his bargain with the girl would be satisfied.
"Why, boss?" George asked, his upper-class London accent deliberately coarsened to fit his new persona, his new identity. Like most blood-servants, George had outlived his natural life, his papers and his past reinvented again and again.
"The sister of ma petite fleur received an inappropriate and unwanted advance from Marcoise."
George's brows drew down.
"According to la fille, several of the other girls were similarly approached, with the implication that they would lose their employment if they refused his attention, a clear violation of his service to me."
George shifted his eyes from the street to meet Leo's. "Inappropriate and unwanted advances? And that becomes problematic to you, my master?"
Leo lifted an eyebrow at what might have been censure in the tone. "They are mine. When would I not protect what belongs to me?"
George bowed his head, the gesture formal, the gaze between them broken. "My apologies, my master. It's of no matter."
Leo thought otherwise. George was conflicted and wished to speak, but was holding his tongue, his scent burning with an internal struggle. He was known to have a tender heart for females, having seen his sister abused and his mother killed by those who used them. They would speak of this later, after the situation with Marcoise was addressed. "Her sister acquiesced and has not been seen since their date. I shall attend to the issue."
George scanned the street and the sidewalks to either side as they drove, searching for enemies, problems, threats. Such loyalty as existed between them was rare, but their relationship began in death and violence and had joined them closer than most. Leo knew his primo's mind and heart; they were bound, body and soul.
They pulled up in front of the club, the lights bright inside as the cleanup crew attended to post-closing duties. Leo lifted his cuff and checked the time on his Versace Reve Chrono, though he knew, almost to the second, when the sun would rise. His kind always did. "I'll be only a moment. Security will wait outside."
George opened his mouth to protest. George was always protesting something. Leo lifted his finger, silencing his primo. "I will speak to Marcoise alone. You may cover the outer exits. You may not enter. The cleaning crew will be working and, as former military, they will be armed. I will calm them. I will not have a bloodbath in my club."
George hesitated, clearly thinking about the numb
er of potential victims and hostages. "Derek Lee's company is new," George said. "I'm not certain of the extent of his knowledge, or of his biases."
He did not need to add, Many have refused to work for the vampire Master of the City of New Orleans.
He raked through his hair with his long fingers, worried.
"Alone," Leo insisted and tapped on the window. The chauffeur opened his door. "Thank you, Alfonse," Leo said. He was always polite to the help. Into the night, he exited with all the grace of his kind, part ballerina, part snake, part spider, all predator. The night smelled of humans and blood. Saliva filled his mouth, hunger riding him. The girl earlier had been a tasty diversion, her body a delight as she used it to seal his promise, but this . . . this was the hunt. There was nothing like it, and even civilized Mithrans such as himself knew the desire, the overriding craving for shadowing and stalking prey.
Leo leaped to the door, his speed creating a pop of sound as the air around him was displaced. He keyed open the lock and entered. His men, left behind, rushed to provide the protection his kind seldom needed. He slipped into the shadows. Standing behind a brick pillar, he watched the cleaning crew, scenting them. The men were all dressed alike, in one-piece gray uniforms; they were healthy, their blood touched with alcohol and marijuana. He had known it for centuries as hemp, MJ, ganja, and by a hundred other names and grades and varieties.
He took in a slow breath and parsed the chemicals in their blood. The marijuana smelled . . . odd. Impure. He watched as a small man, no more than five feet, five inches tall, lifted a bucket and then, oddly, dropped it. The pail landed with a clatter and splash of water on the concrete floor, and the man stood, hunched over, staring at the mess as if mesmerized. Certainly confused.
Leo sniffed again. There was something mixed with the marijuana, some chemical he did not recognize. The small man took a breath, a faint gasp of sound. He fell.
Leo held still, as only undeath allowed. The other men rushed to help. Another fell, his head bouncing on the floor. A third dropped. And another. Only Derek was still standing, the boss of the crew. Leo had hired Derek Lee's fledgling company because of his service in the military, though the man was destined for far more. Derek pulled a weapon and backed to the bar, the brass rail at his spine, analyzing the room, the short hallways.
Leo said, "You did not partake of the smoke offered to the others."
Derek swung his weapon toward the column hiding Leo. "Who's there?"
"Leo Pellissier, Master of the City. The smoke? The weed?"
"Owner of the Royal Mojo. Fanghead. And no, to the weed," Derek said, his weapon steady on the brick pillar. "One of the guys brought it. Said his brother had gotten a deal on the streets."
"Mmmm. And a gift is always a good thing."
"No."
"And what shall you do to the man who injured your cohorts?"
"Better you don't know." Derek's voice was harsh, unyielding.
