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  “In English,” she said, the words as gravelly and cold as the darkness within her.

  “The church is that way.” He pointed, hand shaking. “Two blocks down, two blocks right, one left.”

  She released him and the ugliness she’d summoned, sliding off the bar stool and back to her feet. “Muchas gracias, fat boy.” She sauntered out of the bar, making deliberate eye contact with any customer who looked her way. Few did.

  She drove the man’s directions as fast as she could, saving the last block to walk. If Preacher was there, if he had Doc, a little surprise could be good. The tiniest bit of light twinkled through the church’s few remaining stained-glass panels. She tried the massive double doors, but they didn’t budge at the first try and she didn’t fight them for fear Preacher would hear her.

  On the side she found an open door tucked under a small overhang. Cautiously, her hand on the hilt of the sacre, she crept inside. The twinkle she’d seen coming through the windows came from a stand of votive candles flickering in red glass cups. She hung by the door, letting her eyes adjust while she scanned for Preacher or Doc.

  She didn’t see or hear either of them, so she ventured into the sanctuary. A worn spot marked the floor before the altar. Like someone kneeled there a lot.

  A cold hand grabbed her arm, yanking her fingers off the sacre’s hilt. “Witch! Have you come for your mother?”

  Fi jerked away, but Preacher’s grip was too strong. Why couldn’t vampires make more noise? “What? No. I—”

  “Good, because you won’t find her. She’s dead.” A little dried blood clung to the corner of his mouth. He must have been out feeding.

  “Who? Who’s dead?”

  “The witch you sent to steal my child.”

  “What? You’re crazy.” Did he mean Aliza? If she was dead, she couldn’t be working a spell on Doc. Fi kicked Preacher in the shin. He didn’t move. “Let go of me, you freak. I’m not here for your kid.”

  He squeezed harder. “Then what are you here for?”

  Telling him the situation wasn’t going to help, but what else could she do? “I’m looking for Doc. You know, the varcolai who lives with your best friend, Mal?”

  Preacher’s mouth hardened into a scowl. “So he’s coming back here, is he? I got home just in time. Thanks for letting me know.” He pulled a camo-painted knife from a sheath on his belt. “I’ll be ready for him this time.”

  A squeak from the floorboards drew their attention. Preacher twisted in the direction of the sound, dragging Fi with him.

  Doc stood in the doorway on the opposite side of the sanctuary, a wrapped bundle in his arms and a full backpack strapped to his body. He must have helped himself to the kid’s supplies, too.

  “Put my daughter down!” Preacher yelled as he dropped Fi and lunged for Doc, his knife out.

  Doc’s eyes were glazed with the look of heavy drugs. Or magic. Fi leaped onto Preacher’s back. “Stop it. Hurt him and you could hurt the baby.”

  Preacher slowed enough to grab her arms and flip her over his head. Her back made hard contact with the floor. The air whooshed out of her lungs. She gasped, trying to get it back. Preacher grabbed her up again and put the knife to her throat. “Put my kid down or your girly gets it.”

  Doc stared blankly at Fi for a moment, then down at the bundle in his arms before answering Preacher. “Don’t… hurt… her.” The words came out like the effort was almost more than he could handle. “Witch,” he managed, his gaze solely on Fi.

  So he was under a spell. To let him know she understood, she nodded but stopped when the movement caused the knife’s edge to dig into her skin. Doc was in no shape to fight off Preacher, and she could defend herself. They could deal with the witch and the baby problems later. And now she knew where he was headed. “Go,” she mouthed.

  Suddenly time seemed to slow down. Doc tossed the baby toward Preacher, who let Fi go to catch the child. As soon as Doc’s arms were empty, he turned, pushed through the door behind him, and ran into the night. The bundle of blankets unraveled in the air. Empty.

  Preacher howled with anger and ran into the room Doc had come out of. The sound of things breaking followed him as he returned to the sanctuary, his face a black mask of fury. “He kidnapped my child.” He stalked toward Fi, the knife pointed in her direction. “I’m going to kill you, then I’m going to track him down and strip the hide from his flesh. You think I can’t find my own flesh and blood? No one will keep me from her.”

  Crap. This had gone way worse than Fi anticipated. At least she had a way out. She whipped out the sacre. Wasn’t like she could take it with her anyway. She glanced behind her. About fifteen feet to the door, but Preacher had a vampire’s speed.

  Preacher laughed. “You think that fancy sword is any match for me? I’m a vampire and a Marine. You don’t get more dangerous.”

  The sacre fell from her hand. Now wasn’t the time to school him on just how mistaken he was. “Look.” She put her hands up as she slowly edged backward, concentrating on maintaining the image he saw. The longer she kept him busy, the more getaway time Doc had. “We can go after him together. He’s under the spell of the witch Aliza. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

  “Nice try, but dead witches cast no spells.”

  Twelve feet to go. “What?”

  “Aliza’s dead. That’s what happens to people who touch my child.”

  Okay, that was news. “Well, he’s under some kind of magic, then. He’d never steal your child. Someone is making him do this.” Eleven feet. She hoped she’d bought Doc enough time to get away.

  “No more talking. Time to die.” Preacher lunged, slicing through her belly with his blade.

  But Fi had left her corporeal body behind when she’d dropped the sacre. His blade sliced through the intangible form of her ghost self. With a roar, he tried to grab her, his arms meeting air.

  “Time to leave,” Fi corrected him. And with that, she slid through the wall and out into the night.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chrysabelle had barely closed her eyes when Dominic’s plane touched down in Metairie. He’d given her the plane without any argument, even calling ahead to have it fueled and ready for them when they got to the airport. Apparently, he was willing to keep her happy so long as she was willing to keep those two comarré. Considering she’d had them move into the house while she was gone, it still seemed a slightly unbalanced deal on her end. The only comarré she wanted around her was her brother. Her family.

  She tapped her finger on the window, watching the tarmac vanish beneath the halo of the plane’s lighting. What would her brother be like? Would she find traces of Maris in his face the way she could in her own? Was his patron kind to him? Or cruel? She wouldn’t think that. She closed her eyes and tried to focus on what awaited her in New Orleans. She had little idea, but no matter what, she would get the ring and come home with it. Atticus was on standby, waiting for her the moment she returned. As soon as the ring was melted down and the gold stitched into her skin, Tatiana would have nothing left to hunt for.

  That melting would irrevocably disperse the dark power whatever twisted being had laid into the sacred metal. She shuddered at the thought of a being powerful enough to meld the sacred with the profane and prayed the melting would be enough to keep her safe. There was no way the ring could hold its power through that, was there? Because if something that dark was laid into her skin and it reacted with Mal’s blood now coursing through her veins… She shuddered. Pain skittered down her spine and she inhaled, the plane’s air conditioning icy in her lungs. She closed her eyes and concentrated on a long slow exhale to flush the pain out.

  Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. Mostly it didn’t.

  Movement jostled the seat beside her, sending tiny shards of pain into her back and opening her eyes. “You okay?”

  She nodded at Mal as he settled into the seat. Mortalis must still be sitting near the cockpit. He and Mal had left her alone during the fli
ght so she could sleep and gather her strength. Not that she’d told them that’s why she needed to sleep, but Mal had a way of figuring things out, and chances were good he knew she was still in some pain. She should have let him kiss her after she’d given him that last draught of blood at the house, but she wasn’t even sure how effective days’ old, cold blood was in strengthening him. Still, any power from the transfer would have helped. Her back throbbed. “Great. You?”

  “Fine.” He cocked a brow. “Any reason I shouldn’t be?”

  “We are about to enter a city off-limits to vampires.”

  “Only recently off-limits.” He settled back while the plane continued to taxi. “But New Orleans has always been a tricky city for vampires. Every time I’ve been here, I’ve had to watch my step. But once you understand the place, its draw is hard to deny. It’s like a beautiful woman.” He looked at her, his eyes slightly hooded and flashing small sparks of silver. “Difficult, but worth the effort.”

  She pursed her lips. “Are you saying I’m difficult?” She ignored that he’d also called her beautiful.

  He sighed and went back to staring straight ahead. “Yes.”

  “When were you here?”

  “Been coming here since the city was founded in the early 1800s, but my last trip was in the 1920s, right before the ban went into place. After that I returned to Europe.”

  And Tatiana, Chrysabelle thought. “What makes it tricky?”

  “Besides the varcolai and witches, the city is rife with churches and cemeteries. Many of the estates even have their own chapels. That’s a lot of enemies and hallowed ground to deal with. Plus there’s the heavy fae population—although it wasn’t a haven city when I was there. That happened while I was in the ruins.”

  “So now that it’s officially off-limits to you, how are we going to get you in?”

  “I’m your personal escort and bodyguard. They have to let me in.”

  Mortalis walked toward them, his jaw tense and his gaze distant. “No, they don’t. And chances are zero they will. Even if I vouch for you.”

  Chrysabelle sat up a little. “But you’re willing to vouch for him?”

  Mortalis sat across from them, his six-fingered hands folding over his kneecaps. His eyes lost their faraway glaze to penetrate in Mal’s direction. “I don’t know what weight it will carry, but yes.” He scratched one horn. “You need to know that there are some here who care very little for me and my family.”

  Chrysabelle tried to hide her surprise. It was the first she’d heard of Mortalis having family. Not that his past was any of her business, but she’d always thought of him as such a solitary being. “You mean like parents or—”

  The plane came to a stop and he stood. “Gather your things. It’s time to get going.”

  So much for that conversation. Easing to her feet, she pulled on the long white leather coat she’d found packed away in the depths of her mother’s closet. She’d found her mother’s silver body armor and a few other comarré things as well.

  A light drizzle greeted them as they exited the plane. Mortalis had a car waiting for them, a sleek navy SUV. A driver, a young shadeux fae with budding horns and the requisite six fingers, got out from behind the wheel and popped open a large black umbrella. He met Chrysabelle as she stepped onto the tarmac. “Ma’am. I’m Amery, your driver. Do you have baggage?”

  “No,” Chrysabelle answered. She wasn’t staying that long.

  Amery pointed toward the sacres in her hand. “Would you like me to put those in the back?”

  She hadn’t bothered strapping them on beneath her coat since she was getting into the car anyway and they made sitting uncomfortable for any length of time. She glanced at the fae thinblade at his hip. “No. They stay with me.”

  “Very good. To the car, then.” He walked beside her to the vehicle and opened the rear passenger door, holding the umbrella until she was in.

  Mal climbed in from the other side, taking the captain’s chair opposite hers as he shut the door. Mortalis settled into the front passenger’s seat. Amery dropped the umbrella through the back hatch, closed it, and got back behind the wheel.

  He looked at Mortalis expectantly. “I can’t bypass the checkpoint.”

  Mortalis stared straight ahead. “I know. I’m willing to vouch for him.”

  “That will just get you banned, too.” The driver glanced briefly back at Mal. “He could… go around.”

  Mortalis turned his head, finally making eye contact with the driver. “Hugo know you make those kinds of suggestions?”

  Amery paled beneath his smoky gray skin. “No, sir, I just thought—”

  Mortalis held up a hand. “It’s a good one. What about once he’s inside?”

  Amery shrugged. “He keeps his head down and his fangs in, he should be okay. The checkpoints are hella tougher than the patrols. The current guardian is pretty slack, and if a patrol does pick him up, a couple of bills will set him loose.”

  Mortalis twisted to look at Mal. “How well do you know the city?”

  “Well enough.”

  “Good. You’ll stay with us until Amery says you can’t go any farther, then you hike in and meet us at Jackson Square. It’s always crawling with tourists and those damn vampire tours, so you should blend in fine.”

  Mal frowned. Chrysabelle didn’t blame him. Getting dumped in some random spot would have ticked her off, too. She expected an argument any moment, but Mal just slanted his eyes at her and nodded. “I don’t like it. But I’ll do it.”

  “So noted.” Mortalis jerked his chin forward. “Let’s go.”

  She peeked at Mal. Maybe this was all part of Mal’s decision to stop arguing with her. But she was surprised how quickly he’d decided to do this. She leaned over toward him. “You okay with this?”

  “Yes.”

  Not like he had a choice. She shifted forward, grabbing the back of Mortalis’s seat. “Can’t we try to go through the checkpoint with Mal in the car?”

  Mortalis turned the air conditioning down. “Amery?”

  Amery met her eyes in the rearview mirror. “We could all get banned.”

  “Vampires that big a problem here?”

  He shook his head. “Used to be. Not since New Orleans became a fae haven. We gave up Manhattan in exchange.”

  “We?” She laughed without much humor. “I didn’t realize the fae and the vampires had gotten together and divided the States up.”

  “Not the States. Just certain cities. Keeps peace.” He looked out the window. “Or it did.”

  “Why is New Orleans such a draw for vampires? The city seems synonymous with them. Or did.”

  Mortalis made eye contact with her, one brow raised like he wished she hadn’t asked the question. Then he shifted to Mal. “You’ve been here before. Why did you come?”

  Mal was silent a few long seconds. “New place to go, I guess.”

  “But you’ve been here more than once. Why come back?”

  A rare, puzzled look crossed Mal’s face as he thought. “I don’t know. But even now, I feel drawn to the city.” He narrowed his gaze. “Why is that?” His question held the implication that Mortalis best explain.

  Mortalis took a deep breath. “Not long after New Orleans was founded, a French witch, Aurelia La Voisin, took a fae lover, who proceeded to break her heart. She cursed the city to get revenge on him. From that time forward, any vampire who set foot within the Orleans Parish was able to daywalk so long as they stayed within those limits. The fae counteracted with a spell that causes the effect to be erased from a vampire’s memory the moment he leaves the parish, but the urge to return always remains.” Mortalis paused for a moment. “You’ll be able to see me during daylight hours, too. Because of the fae’s distant shared bloodlines with nobility, shadeux are also visible.”

  Chrysabelle’s jaw went south. “Are you telling me New Orleans is the Ville Éternelle Nuit? That’s not real. It’s a legend, a myth like—”

  “The Kubai Mata,” M
al interjected.

  She closed her mouth and rested back in her seat. Mal looked as shocked as she felt. No wonder every vampire she’d ever known had spoken about the Ville Éternelle Nuit as if it were Valhalla. Organized search parties had been sent out to find it. Starting in the late 1700s, the ancient books were filled with the mention of the mystical place.

  Except it was real. And right in front of them. New Orleans was the City of Everlasting Night.

  Doc had just left Fi to die and there was nothing he could do about it. Driven by the other mind inside his, all he could manage was to keep his human form and head toward the destination the compulsion demanded. If he ended up somewhere besides the Glades, he’d be shocked. He pushed hard for more speed. Jostled, the baby in his backpack began to cry.

  He rolled his eyes. The vampire halfling was nothing but trouble. Preacher would be after him. As would any nearby fringe who enjoyed the taste of newborn blood and heard the wailing. It was like a siren. He had to get the halfling quiet. He shifted his movement to adopt the most even rhythm he could. Finally the crying faded.

  And as long as the compulsion didn’t force him to shift into his leopard form, he could manage this small grasp on reality. In his animal state, fighting the compulsion was impossible. In his human state, at least part of his mind was his own, and with that thin sliver he was able to formulate a plan.

  He would deliver the little beast to Aliza, or if she was really dead, then he’d find whoever was behind this spell and sever this control they had over him. By any means necessary. Then he could get back to Fi. Mother Bast, if Preacher had hurt her, Doc would hunt the daywalking bastard down and shred him to ash.

  Miles disappeared under his feet and the landscape around him shifted to a very familiar one. An hour later, he came to a stop in front of Slim Jim’s cabin.

  The old man was on his narrow front porch, the glowing end of a cheroot lighting up a patch of his face. An assault rifle rested on his knees, and a long-faced hound curled around his booted feet. “That you, Doc?”

  “Yes, sir.” Doc prayed the baby kept quiet. He liked Slim Jim and didn’t want to involve him in any unnecessary trouble. “How are you tonight?”