"Is it always this hard to find a room in New Orleans?" Dory asked, as the owner of the crappy little motel fumbled with his keys.
"Nawlins," he told her, glancing over a beefy shoulder. And taking a moment to smile appreciatively at the tank top sweat had molded to her torso and the short cap of brown hair sticking to her skull.
Dory frowned. "What?"
"You're down south, little lady. Got to pronounce it right. Like the French with Paree, you know?"
"Okay, so is it always this hard to find a room in Nawlins?"
"Nah," he rattled the door, which appeared to be about as sturdy as the rest of this place, which meant that Dory was amazed it hadn't fallen in on its own. "It's Jazz Fest. Ain't as bad as Mardi Gras, but it's close. Used to be just a local thing, but they keep on advertisin', and every year it gets bigger. We were sold out the whole week 'till a guy did a no show. 'Course, he could still turn up later, but don't you worry, darlin'. I got your back."
Literally, Dory thought, as a meaty hand found the back of her jeans.
Dory indulged herself with a brief image of ripping it off and beating him with it. It had been that kind of day. But it would be a bitch finding another room.
"So, uh . . . so are you in town for the music?" the guy asked, looking vaguely concerned when his bicep was pinched, causing the hand to magically spring away from its resting place.
"No."
"Oh. Uh, okay then," he said, renewing his efforts to find the right key. A few fumbling moments later he managed it, causing the door to swing open with an audible groan. "Here, I'll just help you with --"
He stopped abruptly, having just discovered that the large duffle bag she'd sat down while he fiddled did not move when he pulled on it. Or when he yanked. Or when he put both hands on it and heaved.
"Good God, girl, what you got in there? A body?"
Dory swung the pack up onto her shoulder and slipped past him. "Not yet."
She kicked the door shut.
And scowled, because the action had stirred up the air. The room smelled like mildew, stale microwave popcorn, cigarettes and sex. She tossed her gear onto the bed, sending up evidence that the comforter hadn't been washed since possibly the 80's, and threw open a window. And just as quickly regretted it.
Bayou is not an attractive smell. Bayou smells like somebody's old socks wrapped around a dead skunk, at least this one did, and the wind was blowing this way. After a second, she decided on the popcorn and cigarettes, since the screen over the window was torn and the tiny winged vampires that abounded down here were being drawn in by the overhead light.
At least they were until it flickered and went out.
She sighed, closed the window, and fiddled with the air conditioner poking out of its bottom half by the dim light from the parking lot. The grumpy old item belched like a freight train for a couple seconds, sending a cloud of dust into the room that coated her sweaty skin and clumped on her eyelashes. And then sent forth a tepid stream of air only barely cooler than the sauna outside.
Damn, it was hot.
Louisiana in spring might not be hell on earth, but it was running a close second. Dory mentally added another grand to the tally sheet for this job as a heat tax. And then another for the mosquitoes. And what the hell, a third for the freaking smell, because it didn't matter anyway since it was looking less and less like she was going to collect a damned thing.
She flopped onto the bed, having forgotten the state of the comforter, which was a hell of a name for something that reeked of sadness and bourbon. She tore it off, threw it into a corner, and then lay back down the sheets. Which might be cheap and paper thin, but at least had seen the inside of a washing machine recently. And, finally, finally, she breathed a small sigh of happiness, because the air conditioner's trickle of relief was pointed this way.
She toed off her shoes, and felt it tickle her soles.
Oh, yeah.
Yeah, that was better.
Somebody knocked on the door.
"Compliments of the management," floated through the thin wood.
Dory narrowed her eyes, and pulled a couple items out of her bag, because this wasn't the sort of place that had management. And because it wouldn't be the first time the hunter had become the hunted. She took up a position to the side of the door, gun in one hand and stake in the other, wishing the crack around the facing was big enough to see through.
And then she didn't have to.
"Aw, come on, open up. I got the good stuff," a familiar voice said.
Dory sighed and opened up. And found the front desk guy, who also appeared to be the place's only employee, perusing the label on a large rum bottle. "Spicy," he told her, holding it out with a grin.
She shoved the Glock into the holster at the small of her back. "I brought my own."
"Yeah, but it's prob'ly warm. Everything's warm this week." The guy swatted a mosquito, which left a worryingly large smear on his neck. "You'd think it was the middle of summer already."
"I noticed."
"So let me in. I got ice," he said temptingly, and picked up a plastic bucket. He held it out in one hand; the other still proffered the rum. He waggled his eyebrows.
"Thanks," Dory told him, and took them both.
And shut the door.
"Hey!"
There was no mint, but the ice was fine and the rum, surprisingly, wasn't half bad.
After making herself a tall one, Dory pulled over her bag and liberated a packet. The latter was the case file she was currently running down, which as usual involved a vampire. Not as usual, this one was a master, and at third level, was powerful enough to pose a challenge.
That was okay; Dory liked challenges. She especially liked challenges that came with this kind of price tag. And the possibility of many, many more big payouts later on, the kind that could put her always shaky finances on solid ground for the first time in . . . well, ever . . . if she didn't screw it up.
She took a moment to admire the official bounty papers, which had the old timey scrolls and elaborate flourishes of the Latin American Senate. Who had missed their very bad boy repeatedly when he was in their territory, and had decided that their luck wasn't likely to improve when he fled to the States. So they'd hired her, because it seemed she was getting a reputation as someone who never missed. And they wanted this guy dead or alive, with a preference for dead-and-in-little-pieces.
That suited Dory; manhandling a body through customs was never fun.
She let her finger trace the seal, which was done in red wax like a prop out of an old movie. She'd never seen it before this mission. How could she have? She hunted vamps; she didn't work for them. Well, not officially, anyway.
There had occasionally been masters who ended up with revenants, the mad results of a Change gone wrong, and been glad to pay her to clean up their mess. Or a vamp who needed info on a rival that nobody else -- nobody vampire, anyway -- could get close enough to get. Or a master who'd been ordered to deal with a subordinate, only to find out that he was stronger than expected, and that he was in over his head . . . .
But a formal commission?
From a senate?
Yeah, she didn't get a lot of those. Or, you know, any, because senates could clean up their own messes. Senates were made up of the strongest of the strong, the beautiful, charming monsters who ran roughshod over everybody else in the vampire world. Senates didn't need to employ a dirty little dhampir.
Until, suddenly, they did. Or one did, and one was really all she needed, wasn't it? Dory folded the pretty paper, and dreamed of future commissions. Official ones, lucrative ones . . . .
Somebody knocked on the door.
She picked up her gun, and did a repeat of the side of the facing thing.
"I brought mint," a familiar voice said hopefully.
She eased open the door. And a bunch of the saddest, wiltiest mint leaves she'd ever seen were thrust in at her like a bouquet. She regarded them for a moment. Then she regarded the beefy face ab
ove them. "I thought we could make mojitos?" the front desk guy said hopefully.
"No."
"I brought sugar," he added, fumbling in his pocket as the door started to close. "I found some little packets in the coffee room that --"
"No."
"I get off in an hour," he said quickly, peering in the tiny slit that was left. "I could run to the store and get some better --"
"No."
The door shut.
Dory went back to the bed, and picked up the photo that went with the file.
Unlike most, her prey looked like a vamp -- the Hollywood version, anyway. Slicked back dark hair, too-pale face, menacing expression. Visible Adam's apple. No scars, of course. Vamps didn't have them unless they came pre-Change, and even then, they'd usually be covered by a glamourie. Not that it looked like tall, dark and creepy was worrying with one of those.
That was the only break she'd had so far. Because this was not the sort of guy you forgot. This was the sort of guy who gave grown men the willies in broad daylight, and would probably send sensitive types screaming after dark. This guy . . . was memorable.
At least, she really hoped so, because she was tired of eating his dust. Bastard was slick as the oil in his hair. Despite a rather broad experience to pull from, Dory had missed him not once, not twice, but three freaking times already.
This did not happen.
This was not going to happen again.
She was only getting paid once for this job, no matter how many weeks it took her. Too many more and it was going to stop being a windfall and start edging into liability territory, even with the heat tax. It was also starting to be frankly embarrassing.
Son of a bitch was going down.
But not tonight. Dory liked challenges, but she wasn't stupid. Tomorrow, in daylight, when even third degree masters were sluggish and slow, would be quite good enough.
She rooted around in the bag and liberated a plastic-wrapped shrimp po'boy and a bottle of Louisiana hot sauce. There was no dessert, but the dime bag of weed in her jeans would do fine. She was going to eat, shower and take a little nap. And by morning everything would probably look a whole lot more --
There was a knock on the door.
"Oh, give it a rest!" Dory said, around a mouthful of shrimp.
Right before the door was kicked open, and her prey stood there, staring at her.
For a split second, Dory stared back, lettuce falling from her lips because there was a sandwich in her hand instead of a gun. And then shrimp were scattering everywhere, and she was hitting the floor behind the bed with her gun now where it was supposed to be. And preparing to do the patented shoot-his-ankles-and-wait-for-him-to-drop maneuver.
Only to discover that the bed was on a platform.
Shit!
Her duffle was on the far side, where she'd dropped it to remove the comforter. But it didn't matter because the motel furniture was old wood and splintered easily. The next second a chair was history, and a makeshift stake was in her hand, and she was leaping over the bed --
And stopping, but not because he'd used power on her, which usually didn't work anyway.
But because he hadn't.
He hadn't done anything.
Dory stood there, breathing hard, the jagged edge of the wood actually denting his throat, and he still didn't. Her eyes locked with his, but there was none of the anger she'd expected, none of the vengeance of a vamp who has realized he's being tracked and has decided to turn the tables, no anything.
Except for pained pleading, which was so wildly out of place that it threw her.
"Is this some kind of trick?" she snarled, after a moment.
The vamp didn't say anything.
Dory's hand tightened on the stake, slipping on sweat and possibly blood, she was gripping it so hard. But she didn't move. Not even when he suddenly grabbed her arm, because it wasn't an attack. More of an entreaty, despite the strength that was enough to bruise the muscle.
"Kill . . . me . . . ." the pale lips whispered, right in her face.
"What?" She stared at him.
"Kill. Me." And then, before she could process that, he started yelling it -- "Kill me! Kill me! Kill me!" and pushing her into the room. And shrieking it in her face, and okay, if this was a freak-them-out tactic, it was a really damned good one, Dory thought, wondering why she didn't just do what the maniac wanted.
But she didn't get a chance.
Because a moment later, he had grabbed the stake, and was wrestling her for it. And when he couldn't separate it from her fingers, he stared around, spied the one she'd left on top of her bag, and dove. And turned to face her a moment later, blood coursing down his shirt from a slit in his throat, and a grin of pure relief spreading over his features --
Until he toppled over and hit the nasty floor, face first, and stayed there.
Courtesy of the stake he'd just plunged through his heart.
Well . . . shit.
Chapter Two