"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.
The problem with the New Orleans vamps isn't over-population. It's that they all share a similar mind-set, the same mind-set that drew them to the city in the first place. For these vampires, seeing their cultural popularity skyrocket with Ms. Rice's books was like a rock singer seeing his face on the cover of Rolling Stone, the ultimate moment of self-affirmation, when they could say "See, I'm just as cool as I always thought I was." And for the vampires of New Orleans, life has never been the same since.
The Rampart wasn't just a vampire bar in the sense that it attracted vampires. It was actually owned by vampires. As Cassandra explained: John/Hans and two others had bought the place years ago. They'd kept it small and exclusive, a place they could make their own and amuse themselves playing bar owners.
The taxi driver stopped in an industrial district. Security lights dotted every building except the one beside us, which was swathed in a blackness that seemed almost artificial. As I opened the door, I saw that it was indeed artificial. The brickwork and the windows had been painted black. Even the lone street lamp had been wrapped in black crepe paper and the bulb broken or removed.
"Early Gothic Nightmare. How original," Cassandra said as she climbed from the car. "Last time I was here it looked like a perfectly normal bar. No wonder Aaron is getting his shorts in a twist. He can't stand this sort of thing."
"Well, their taste in decor may be criminal, but unfortunately they aren't violating any council statutes. At least they're keeping it low profile. I don't even see a sign."
"I don't even see a door," Cassandra muttered. "They've probably painted it black like everything else. Now where was it the last time...?"
As her gaze traveled along the building, a limo pulled up and belched three giggle-wracked young women onto the curb. Two wore black leather miniskirts. The third was dressed in a long white dress that looked more suited for a wedding than girls' night out. A beefy bodyguard grabbed the bride's elbow to steady her and led the trio toward the building. As the limo reversed, its headlights illuminated the four. The "bride" turned into the lights and squinted.
"Hey," I said. "Isn't that--what's her name--she's a singer."
The quartet had just vanished around the building when a Hummer pulled up and disgorged two young men in undertaker suits. They followed the same path as the bridal party.
"So much for keeping a low profile," Cassandra muttered.
"At least we found out where the door is," I said.
Cassandra shook her head and we circled the building in search of an entrance.
Keeping Up with the Times
WHEN WE GOT TO THE OTHER SIDE, WE STILL COULDN'T find a door.
"This is ridiculous," Cassandra said, pacing along the building. "Are we blind?"
"I don't know about you," I said. "But I can't see in the dark. Should I risk a light spell?"
"Go ahead. From the looks of those fools going inside, I doubt they'd notice if you lit up the whole neighborhood."
Before I could begin the incantation, an ivy-covered trellis moved and a shadow emerged from behind it. A girl, no more than a teenager, stumbled out, her white face and hands floating, disembodied, through the air. I blinked, then saw that she was dressed in a long black gown; together with her black hair it blended into the backdrop of the building.
When she saw us, she swayed and mumbled something. As she staggered past, Cassandra's head whipped around to follow
, eyes narrowing, the green irises glinting. Her lips parted, then snapped shut. Before she tore her gaze away, I followed it to the girl's arm. Black gauze encircled her bare forearm. Around the edges, blood smeared her pale skin.
"She's hurt," I said as the girl reeled onto the road. "Wait here. I'll see if she needs help."
"You do that. I think Aaron is right. You should wait outside."
I stopped. My gaze went to the girl, tottering along the side of the road. Drunk or stoned, but not mortally wounded. Whatever was going on inside might be worse, and I couldn't rely on Cassandra to handle it. I reached past her and tugged on the trellis.
"I meant it, Paige," Cassandra said. "See to the girl. You're not coming in."
I found the handle, pushed the door open, and squeezed past Cassandra. Inside, the place was as dark as its exterior. I touched walls on either side, so I knew I was in a hallway. Feeling my way along, I moved forward. I got about five steps before smacking into a wall of muscle. A beefy face glowered down at me. The man shone a flashlight over us, and smirked.
"Sorry, ladies," he said. "You got the wrong place. Bourbon Street is that way."
He lifted his flashlight to point, swinging it near Cassandra's face. She swatted it down.
"Who's in tonight?" she demanded. "Hans? Brigid? Ronald?"
"Uh, all three," the bouncer said, stepping back.
"Tell them Cassandra's here."
"Cassandra who?"
He shone the flashlight beam in her face. Cassandra snatched it from his hand.
"Just Cassandra. Now go."
He reached for his light. "Can I have my flash--?"
"No."
He hesitated, then turned, banged into the wall, cursed, and headed off into the darkness.
"Fools," Cassandra muttered. "What are they playing at here? When did they do all this?"
"Uh, when's the last time you visited?"
"It can't be more than a year--" She paused. "Maybe a few years. Not that long."
The door opened so fast that the man behind it nearly fell at our feet. Mid-forties, not much taller than my five-foot-two, he was pudgy with soft features and gray-flecked hair tied back with a velvet ribbon. He wore a puffy shirt straight out of Seinfeld, the top three buttons undone, revealing a hairless chest. His pants were ill-fitting black velvet, tucked into high-top boots. He looked like a middle-aged accountant heading off to a Pirates of Penzance audition.
He righted himself and blinked owlishly into Cassandra's flashlight beam. I gestured toward the exit. He didn't seem to see me, but stood gawking up at Cassandra.
"Cass--Cassandra. So--so good of you--"
"What the hell are you wearing, Ronald? Please tell me Fridays are Masquerade Night here."
Ronald looked down at his outfit and frowned.
"Where's John?" Cassandra said.
"J--John? You mean Hans? He's, uh, inside." When Cassandra turned toward the door, Ronald jumped in front of it. "We didn't expect--we're honored of course. Very honored."
"Get your tongue off my boots, Ronald, and get out of my way. I came to speak to John."
"Y--yes, of course. But it's been so long. I'm just so pleased to see you. There's a blues bar just a few blocks over. Very nice. We could go there, and Hans could join us--"
Cassandra shoved Ronald aside and reached for the door handle.
"W--wait," Ronald said. "We weren't ready for you, Cassandra. The place, it's a mess. You don't want to go in there."
She tugged open the door and walked through. I grabbed it before it closed. Ronald blinked at me, as if I'd materialized from nowhere.
"I'm with her," I said.
He grabbed the door edge, then paused, uncertain. I tugged it open enough to slip through into what looked like another, longer hallway. Ronald scurried after us. He passed me and jostled Cassandra's heels. At a glare from her, he backed off, but only a step.
"I--I think you'll like what we've done here, Cassandra," Ronald said. "It's a new age for us, and we're taking advantage of it. Adapting to the times. Refusal to change is the death knell of any civilization--that's what Hans says."
"Step on my heels again and you'll hear a death knell."
She stopped before another door, waved me forward. I slipped past Ronald.
"I want you to wait out here," Cassandra said.
I shook my head. "You go, I go."
"I won't be responsible for you, Paige."
"You aren't," I said, and pushed open the door.
Beyond the door was a cavernous room, just barely illuminated by a dull red glow. At first, I couldn't make out the source of the lighting, but then I noticed that the faux Grecian pillars were pieced with tiny holes, each letting out a thin ray of red light, like an infrared pointer.
One glance around and I knew the designation "bar" no longer applied to the Rampart. It was a club, probably a private one. The only furnishings were a half-dozen couches and divans, most of them occupied. Areas on either side of the room had been cordoned off with beaded curtains. Only the occasional murmur or muffled laugh broke the silence.
On the nearest sofa, two women were curled up together, one semireclined, holding her hand out, the other bending over whatever her companion held. Cocaine, maybe methamphetamine. If Hans and his bunch had opened an exclusive drug club, they were treading dangerous ground for people who had to stay below the radar. I wasn't sure whether this violated the council's statutes, but we'd need to look into it after this investigation was over.
One of the women on the divan leaned over her partner's arm. I tried to glance over discreetly, to see what kind of drugs they were using, but the woman wasn't holding anything. Instead, she stretched out her arm, empty palm up, forearm braced with her other hand. A dark line bisected the inside of her forearm. She clenched her fist and a rivulet of blood trickled down. Her companion lowered her mouth to the cut.
I stumbled back, hitting Cassandra. She turned sharply, mouth opening to snap at me, then followed my gaze. She wheeled on Ronald.
"Who is that woman? I don't know her."
"She's not--" Ronald lowered his voice. "--not a vampire."
"Not a--?" I said. "Then why is she...?"
"Because she wants to," Ronald said. "Some like to give, some to receive. Hardly a new fetish, but they've become more open about it. We're simply taking advantage--"
Cassandra stomped off before he could finish. She strode to the nearest curtain and shoved it back, to the yelps of the surprised guests within. She swung around, letting the curtain fall, and headed for the next cubicle. Ronald scrambled after her. I stayed where I was. I'd seen enough.
"You're not seeing the beauty of it, Cassandra," Ronald whispered. "The opportunities. Hiding in plain sight, that's the ultimate goal, isn't it? Other races can do it. Why shouldn't we?"
Cassandra shoved back another beaded curtain. I looked away, but not fast enough. Inside was the singer, in her mock bridal ensemble, splayed across the center of the couch, arms outstretched, her two female companions each attached leechlike to an arm, her dress shoved up around her hips while her male bodyguard crouched before her, pants down...and I don't need to describe anymore. Suffice to say, I hoped to wipe the scene from my memory before it reappeared at an inopportune moment, and ruined a perfectly good round of bed games.
Cassandra whirled on Ronald. "Get these people out of here now."
"But--but--they're members. They've paid--"
"Get them out and consider yourself lucky if money is all you lose."
"M--maybe this wasn't such a good idea, maybe we made an error in judgment, but--"
Cassandra brought her face down to his. "Do you remember the Athenian problem? Do you remember the penalty for their 'error in judgment'?"
Ronald swallowed. "Give me a minute."
He hurried to the singer's cubicle and pushed his head through the beaded curtain. I caught the words "police," "raid," and "five minutes." The quartet came barreling out so fast, they were still pulling o
n their clothes as they raced past me.
A minute later, as the last stragglers stumbled for the exit, a door opened at the far end of the room. In strode a tall woman in her late twenties. Her face was too angular to be pretty, with features better suited to a man. She wore her blond hair long and straight, an uncomplimentary style that left one with the fleeting impression that she might be a guy in drag, yet her black silk baby-doll revealed enough to reassure any confused onlooker that she was indeed gender female. Even her feet were bare, toes painted bright red, as were her fingernails and her lips. It looked as if she'd put on her lipstick in the dark, and smeared it. As she moved into the semilit room, I saw that it wasn't lipstick at all, but blood.
"Wipe your mouth, Brigid," Cassandra snapped. "No one here is impressed."
"I thought I heard harping," Brigid said, gliding into the center of the room. "I should have known it was the queen bitch--" A tiny smile. "Whoops, I meant queen bee."
"We know what you meant, Brigid. Have the guts to admit it."
Cassandra's gaze slid from Brigid and riveted to a young man following Brigid so closely that he was almost hidden behind the statuesque vampire. He was no more than my age, slightly built and pretty, with huge brown eyes fixed in a look of bovine befuddlement. Blood dribbled down the side of his neck, but he seemed not to notice, and stood there, gaze fixed on the back of Brigid's head, lips curved in an inane little smile.
"Get him out of here," Cassandra said.
"You don't give me orders, Cassandra," Brigid said.
"I do if you're fool enough to need them. Send him home."
"Oh, but he is home." She reached down and stroked his crotch. "He likes it here."
"Don't be boorish," Cassandra said. "Find another dupe to charm when I'm gone."
"I don't need to charm him," Brigid said, hand still on the young man's crotch. He closed his eyes and began rocking. "He stays because he wants to stay."
Cassandra thrust the young man toward Ronald. "Get him out of here."
Brigid grabbed Cassandra's arm. When Cassandra glared at her, she dropped it and stepped away, lips drawn back. She saw me and her eyes glimmered. I tensed, binding spell at the ready.
"You bring your human along and I can't bring mine?" Brigid said, eyes fixed on mine.
"She's not human, which you'll discover if you continue what you're doing."