Malakh

Chapter 1

  "Hurricane Roy has been upgraded to a category three as it continues to veer off its projected path to Florida and curves toward the Louisiana coastline. Meteorologists are scrambling to explain the sudden change in direction.”

  Storm shutters rattled as another clap of thunder announced the coming storm.

  Nothing good can come of this, thought Mick as he tore his eyes from the huge high def TV to take in the patrons jammed practically shoulder to shoulder in his bar as they danced to the zydeco band raising the roof.

  It wasn’t that New Orleans couldn’t take another beating. She’d survived and come back after Katrina, scarred but stronger. But storms didn’t naturally change tracks like this. Not without . . . outside intervention. The whole thing made Mick twitchy.

  He covered his unease by sliding a pint of Bass down the bar, where it slapped into the waiting hand of a customer. The warlock lifted the glass in salute and took a sip. Mick nodded and turned to scan the crowded tables of his bar, noting the mix of Mirus and human patrons as he filled orders on autopilot. The fiddle was hot and fast, and across the room feet tapped, hands clapped, and couples swirled in impromptu dancing. It was a full house, locals mostly, who’d decided to settle in for a last-minute hurricane party in the event the storm bitch slapped New Orleans. There was a betting pool on where Roy would hit and what category it would be when it did. Le Loup Garou was on the high ground and was buttoned down tight, so even if things went bad, everybody inside would be safe. That was exactly the way Mick liked it.

  He continued to mix drinks and draw pints, being sure to send a tray of the band’s preferred beers over to their table with one of his waitresses. It was best to keep their vocal chords lubricated. They were earning every penny of their fee with this gig. The last hurricane party he’d hosted had lasted ’til dawn, and the musicians had played long after the power had gone out, keeping the fear and worry at bay with their instruments and voices.

  Mick’s attention shifted to a group of frat boys on the far side, and his sense of dread ratcheted up a couple of notches. They weren’t being rowdy, but they looked annoyed. One ham-handed guy reached out and snagged a waitress as she walked by. Charlotte covered her irritation, listened to the complaint: where was the service? She calmly took out her pad and scribbled down their orders. Not until she was on her way back to the bar did she absently rub her wrist. Mick’s eyes narrowed.

  Charlotte set her tray down on the bar. “One Jack and Coke, two Bud Selects, a G and T, one Bond-style martini, and a bloody Mary for Table Six.”

  Mick listened as she continued to rattle off orders, part of his brain filing and categorizing as he waited for her to finish. “You okay, chère?” His eyes flicked to her wrist.

  His waitress rolled her eyes. “Fine. Just a little overactive, underfed testosterone. It’s Liza’s station. Apparently they’ve been waiting a while.”

  He flicked his eyes around the other tables in Liza’s section, noting the waiting patrons, and frowned. “Liza isn’t in yet?”

  Tracy, one of the other waitresses, sidled up, orders for the kitchen in hand. “No, she’s late. Helluva night to do it, too. We’re jumpin.”

  “Either of you hear from her?” he asked. Both women shook their heads. Liza was never late. Could be she got delayed from the storm, but she’d have called.

  Mick loaded Charlotte’s tray. “Keep your eyes peeled. Divide her tables among yourselves. I’ll see what I can find out.”

  It took a while to process all the orders, but eventually he squeezed into his small office in the back. Blistering fiddle licks chased him as he shut the door, blocking out the bulk of the noise so he could call Liza’s cell phone. It went straight to voicemail. He left a message for her to call on the bar line and hung up.

  It didn’t necessarily mean anything was wrong. She might’ve let the thing die, or she hadn’t answered the last call. But he didn’t like it.

  As he stepped back into the bar, the band finished a rousing rendition of Hot Tamale Baby. The moment of silence before the audience burst into applause and cheers was interrupted by a sharp crack! up near the front.

  Mick’s eyes went to the windows first, thinking one of the storm shutters had come loose to whack against the brick. Then he saw her standing in the doorway, hair whipping around her heart shaped face as the wind and rain poured in at her back.

  Trouble.

  That’s all Mick could think as he stared at her, mouth going dry. If she’d lifted her hands to send walls of water crashing over his customers, he wouldn’t have been at all surprised. And he wasn’t sure he could move to stop her. For that moment he was absolutely at her mercy.

  Then another patron wrestled the outside door shut and she was just a woman.

  A wet, slightly bedraggled and incredibly sexy woman, Mick corrected. He called himself a fanciful fool as she combed the dripping hair back from her face with both hands and took another step inside.

  She was exactly the kind of trouble he liked between the sheets on long, hot summer nights when hurricanes weren’t threatening the city he loved. Though she was dressed casually in jeans and a leather jacket, she carried herself like she wore a suit, stiff and purposeful. He wanted to peel those wet layers off and make her forget whatever worries had pulled that lush pink mouth into a frown.

  It was then he noticed the temper practically steaming the water off her. Mick tore his eyes and his mind away. No time for play tonight. No time for whatever kinda trouble she brought with her. She wasn’t a local and that meant she wasn’t for him. He had a business to run and a waitress to find.