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“Samael?” Nico sounded surprised. “That can’t be good. Who the hell is this guy we’re tracking? Do we have a name yet?”
Declan’s eyes narrowed. “No name.” He paused as an owl hooted in the distance. “Check out Los Angeles, see if you can pick up his trail or find a bread crumb that’s bigger than a nibble.”
The line went dead.
Guess he was heading to the Big Easy.
DECLAN ARRIVED IN New Orleans well past midnight the following evening. The moon was in hiding, the air was cool, and the energy in the city was powerful. Ancient magick lived here, fed not only by the great Mississippi River that slid by in silence, but by the souls of the dead who refused to leave.
It had been ages since he’d last been here. Another lifetime. He shook the melancholy that threatened and sought out the French Quarter. The Voodoo Lounge was located amongst a host of venues on Decatur Street.
Declan headed that way, his tall form sliding amongst the tourists with ease, his dark good looks drawing many a female eye. He ignored them all—even the busty brunette with the large doe eyes and plump, candy red lips.
There wasn’t time for such frivolities when the world was going to shit.
Decatur was party central in the Big Easy, and the heat from the bodies in the streets and sidewalks created a blanket of mist that hovered inches above the crowd, as it mixed with the cooler air.
It was an eerie glow that somehow fit the chaotic undercurrent in the air. It was the chaotic undertone he was worried about. Something was off here in the land of crawdaddies and mint julep. He continued along Decatur until he spied the sign he’d been looking for.
It wasn’t hard to miss, being a shade past puke green with a splash of orange and yellow. THE VOODOO LOUNGE. He smiled as he neared the club. He didn’t remember it being so . . . gaudy.
There was a crowd gathered along the sidewalk, and by the looks of it, no one was getting inside. Typical night in the Quarter.
A mountain of flesh guarded the entrance; his bald head and heavy features were intimidating—as were the mess of tattoos that adorned his flesh. His shoulders were as wide as the door, the muscles bulging from beneath a tight t-shirt, and his legs were leather encased, his feet booted.
The dude was otherworld. It was in the energy that slithered along the man’s frame, invisible to the human eye, yet vibrant to someone like the sorcerer.
The bouncer was a shifter, one of Ransome’s clan, no doubt.
Declan nodded. “Nice evening.”
The incredible hulk cocked his head to the side but remained silent.
“Ransome in tonight?”
“Depends”—the bouncer spit to the side—“on who’s asking.”
“An old friend.” Declan flashed a smile that never reached his eyes. “Tell him O’Hara’s in town.”
The bouncer’s eyes narrowed. He turned his head slightly, murmuring as he did so, obviously talking into a com device. Seconds later he stepped aside and Declan was allowed entrance.
The Voodoo Lounge had been in existence for as long as Ransome LaPierre’s family had been in New Orleans, and that had been several generations. It was an eclectic bar filled with all sorts of otherworld and a mixture of human as well. They came together in a melting pot of bodies, music, and sex.
It was the kind of place that easily bred darkness. As Declan eyed the revelers he felt the potency of the energy surround him, and along with it, the familiar tug of want.
The dark side was a seductive bitch. He’d tasted her secrets. And though he was bound to the light, sometimes the lines blurred.
His gaze wandered the room as he slid through the crowd. It was hot, frenetic. He spied Ransome LaPierre immediately. It was hard not to. The alpha of the LaPierre pack was a handsome son of a bitch with a mess of hair the color of dark tobacco. The wolf was holding court in the far corner, surrounded by cheesy velvet sofas, jugs of beer, and—Declan grinned—lots of women.
The werewolf arched a brow and moved two women off his lap, a slow smile spreading across his features as Declan approached.
“You want one?” the wolf asked as Declan approached. He grinned and shoved a tipsy blonde Declan’s way. “Or two?” He nodded toward the brunette and laughed, his N’awlins accent rolling off his tongue with devilish glee. “Bookends, no?”
Declan shook his head, though his eyes lingered on the generous rack that was nearly falling from the lady’s too-small tank top. Lady being an extremely loose term.
“We need to talk.” His tone was clipped.
Ransome’s smile faded, and he stood in one fluid motion. The man was tall and had an inch or two on Declan, putting him near six-foot-six.
