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"In '98. Dallas, Texas. We had a report of a killer draining his victims' blood. Turned out it was a human killer, though, so I suppose that doesn't really count as a vampire concern." I paused. "Let's see, before that it would have been '96. A vacationing Russian vampire was raising a ruckus--"
"Yes, yes, I remember that. I meant when did I last bring a concern before the council?"
"Like what Aaron was talking about? A situation that's worrying vampires in general?"
"Exactly."
I took my tea from the attendant and pulled out the bag. "You've never done that."
"Oh, come now, Paige. Of course I have." She leaned back in her seat. "Never mind. You were only a child, and you were always goofing off with Adam--"
"Hey, I never goofed off in a meeting. Don't you remember all those times Robert gave Adam shit for not paying attention like I did? Drove Adam crazy. Then he'd take it out on me afterward, teasing me about brown-nosing--" I stopped, noticing Cassandra's attention had wandered to her wineglass. "Point is, I paid attention. I took notes. Quiz me if you like. Dates, places, I can name them. In twelve years, you've never brought a vampire concern to the council."
"That didn't strike you as odd?"
I shrugged. "Numbers-wise, vampires are rare, and you're all pretty self-sufficient, so I figured you didn't have concerns. It never bothered anyone else, so it didn't bother me. Lawrence didn't bring up concerns when he was your codelegate."
"That's because Lawrence was so old, he didn't care about anyone but himself." She fluttered her hands over her table. "Took off to Europe and never even bothered to tell us he wasn't coming back. I may be self-centered, but I'd never do that."
I sipped my tea.
Cassandra looked at me sharply. "Well, I wouldn't."
"Okay. Sure. Now about this bar, the Rampart--"
"I must have brought a concern to the council in the past twelve years. What about the Gulf War draft? Several vampires had taken on the identity of American citizens and they were worried about being called for the draft--"
"There was no draft for the Gulf War. That must have been Vietnam."
She frowned. "When was Vietnam?"
"Before I was born."
Cassandra snatched up her napkin and folded it precisely. "Well, there's been something since then. I only remember that one because it was historically significant."
"Probably."
By the time we reached New Orleans, it wasn't yet eleven, still too early for bar-hopping. As I phoned Elena for my nightly check on Savannah, Cassandra directed the taxi to the Empire Hotel, her local favorite. After we checked in, I called Lucas, letting him know I'd arrived safely, then showered and got ready.
When we went downstairs, Cassandra had the doorman hail us a cab.
"This bar," I said. "The Rampart. Aaron has a problem with it?"
Cassandra sighed. "That's just Aaron. For a man who looks like he doesn't spend much time thinking, Aaron spends far too much time at it. Thinking and worrying. He can be the worst mother hen you can imagine."
"So he's overreacting about the Rampart? About it not being safe for me?"
"The Rampart is safe insofar as any bar is safe these days. It's a favored hangout for local vampires, nothing more."
"No offense, but if vamps like hanging out there, it doesn't sound like the safest place for anyone with a pulse."
"Don't be ridiculous, Paige. Dogs don't piss in their beds and vampires don't hunt where they live."
Cassandra strode toward a cab pulling to the curbside. I hurried after her.
Cassandra explained more about the Rampart on the drive. This might seem dangerous, having such conversations within earshot of humans, but supernaturals haven't needed to rabidly monitor their discussions since the nineteenth century. These days, we keep our voices down and watch what we say, but if the odd "demon" or "vampire" escapes, people jump to one of three logical conclusions. One, they misheard. Two, we're discussing a movie or book plot. Three, we're nuts. If our taxi driver overheard any of our conversation, the biggest danger we faced was that he'd ask where this "vampire bar" was located, not so he could alert the proper authorities to a nest of bloodsucking murderers, but so he'd have another destination to add to his list of recommendations for visiting Goths and Anne Rice fans. After all, this was New Orleans.
Speaking of Anne Rice, while I'm sure she's a lovely woman, there are many in the supernatural world who blame her for the New Orleans vampire situation. Roughly coinciding with the popularity of Ms. Rice's novels, the influx of vamps to the city rose astronomically. At one point in the late eighties there had been nine vampires in New Orleans...in a country that historically sees a national average of fewer than two dozen. Some had emigrated from Europe just to move to New Orleans. Fortunately, three or four have since left, and the population has averaged five or six over the past decade.
