Von was about to drink his shot when he heard a double thump at the club’s locked front door. Straightening, he looked in the direction of the darkened entrance hall. Red light from the neon BURN sign at the hall’s mouth winked across the wood floor.
“Did someone just knock?” Silver asked.
“Yup. And it’s too soon to be Dante.” Von pushed away from the bar. Reached for the Brownings in the double shoulder holsters strapped on over his black button-down shirt, but his fingers only brushed against the butt of one gun.
That’s right. Heather’s got the other.
Leather creaked as Von pulled the Browning free of its holster. He flipped off the safety and slid a round into the chamber. He motioned for Silver to wait at the hall’s entrance beneath the buzzing sign in case the fucker at the door managed to get past Von.
Silver nodded. Bared his fangs. Coiled his body. Hunger for the fight gleamed in his eyes.
Von moved down the dark hall to the front door in an adrenaline-fueled rush, and ghosted up against it. Listened. On the other side of the door, he heard the slow, measured beat of a nightkind heart.
And knew whoever it was heard his.
Mauvais’s lackeys wouldn’t bother to knock—unless drawing him to the door was a decoy, and they were busy climbing the fire escape at the back of the building.
Von sent to Silver as he quietly worked the door’s dead bolts.
Swinging the Browning up, Von grabbed the metal door latch and yanked the door open, gun aimed at forehead level. His finger froze on the trigger when he realized he recognized the face targeted in front of his gun barrel.
14
MUCH TO ANSWER FOR
NEW ORLEANS
CLUB HELL
March 28
VON STARED, FINGER CURLED around the trigger, boots rooted to the wood planks.
Holly Miková’s hair was a wild, wind-swept tangle the pale, buttery color of late afternoon sunshine, her eyes the deep blue of ripe blueberries and full of mocking laughter, just like the lips painted a deep wine red and parted in a fang-revealing smile.
She wore a white blouse underneath a black leather vest that hugged her firm curves like it’d been molded to her with a blow torch, and belted blue jeans over square-toed scooter boots. A crescent moon tattoo glittered like frost beneath her right eye.
And her presence—or the possible reason for her presence—turned Von’s blood ice-water cold.
“Good to see you again, McGuinn.” Time had plucked her formerly flannel-thick Russian accent almost threadbare. She nodded at the gun barrel in her face. “Looks like some things never change, da? Still playing with your gun, I see.”
“Every chance I get, darlin’.”
“Well, they say practice makes perfect.”
“That it does. Which is why I get no complaints,” Von drawled. He lowered the Browning to his side, but didn’t holster it. No way this is an outta-the-blue social call. “So what brings you to New Orleans, Miková?”
“You.”
Suspicions confirmed. She’d been sent. And Von had a sinking feeling as to why.
“I’m flattered as hell, truly. But I’ve handed myself over to God and taken a vow of chastity in order to keep the peace. I don’t wanna be responsible for the ladies—and a few gents—turning this city into Thunderdome just to win a date with me.”
“Still an egocentric idiot, I see.” Holly’s gaze glided over him in a heated blue caress. “But a handsome-as-sin egocentric idiot.”
“Stop. You’re making me blush.”
Holly snorted. Her attention shifted past him as she looked into the darkened hall. “You going to ask me in, McGuinn?”
“Nope.” Von stepped out onto the sidewalk, pulling the door shut behind him. The cool, moist night smelled of rain-wet brick, the Mississippi, and night-blooming jasmine. He sent Silver an all-clear, then leaned one shoulder against the door. “Tell me why you’re here.”
A smile flickered across Holly’s dark lips. “To the point, as always. A nomad thing, da? At least the few nomads I’ve met have all been … direct.”
“Unlike a certain Russian llygad. Spill, woman. Why you here?”
“I was sent to deliver a summons.” Pale light from the street lamps flickered in her eyes. All expression vanished from her face as she took up her official duty. “Von McGuinn, you are to report to the filidh in Memphis in one night’s time to explain why they’ve learned of a True Blood through outside sources and not from the llygad apparently serving this alleged True Blood’s household.”
Von nodded. Even though his chest felt slivered with ice, some of the tension unspooled from his muscles. He’d been right; so no more reason to fret over it. The filidh, the master-bards of the llygaid, planned to take him to task for his silence.
“Why’d they send you? Because they thought you’d enjoy breaking the news?”
“No, they thought you’d listen to me—because of what we once had.”
Holly’s black tea and vanilla scent curled into Von’s nostrils, a warm and intimate odor he’d once known very well. “Before or after you shot me?”
“That was thirty years ago, McGuinn. And, for the record—in case you haven’t noticed—you lived.”
“I’ve noticed,” Von growled. “I was thinking you might like to explain.”
“Why you lived?”
“Why you shot me, woman.”
“Come to Memphis and maybe I’ll tell you.”
Holly stepped closer and tilted her head as she scanned him from head to toe and back again, her heated gaze skimming his body like hot oil. “One question,” she said softly, lifting her eyes to his.
“Shoot—not literally, of course. Maybe I didn’t make that clear last time.”
She rolled her eyes. “Big baby.”
“So what’s your question?”
“Is Dante Baptiste a True Blood?” Excitement curled through Holly’s voice, thickened her accent. Ruined her llygad- bred impartiality.
Von held her lambent gaze. “Ain’t my place to say. You need to ask him.”
Low, incredulous laughter broke from Holly, and she shook her head. “Of course it’s your place! It’s your duty to observe, compose, and report. This is information vital to vampire society, and you’ve kept mum. Abandoned your duty, your impartiality.” She touched his arm, her fingers as warm as her gaze had been. “Oh, Vonushka. You’ve got a lot to answer for.”
Von kept quiet. Her charges were true. But he regretted nothing. Gently shaking off her touch, he flipped the Browning’s safety back on, then reholstered the gun. Just as he pushed away from the wall, he heard the low, throbbing thunder of a Harley rumbling up one of the Quarter’s streets. And his heart kicked into high gear. Good old Murphy’s Law was putting in a goddamned appearance.
Von sent.
Dante’s response burned, a white-hot coal centered behind Von’s left eye.
Von rubbed his forehead as the searing echo of Dante’s migraine faded.