Justine had never countermanded or changed one of his orders before and, he was quite sure, had never before considered doing such a thing. He intended to make sure she never did again.
“Explain yourself,” he said, his voice cold enough to frost the deck.
“Of course, mon pиre,” Justine said, her tone dulcet and obedient. “I only did what needed to be done. You used Stephen and Patrick to firebomb Baptiste’s home, and I used them to finish the job.”
“Meaning?”
“I knew Dante Baptiste would come for those responsible for the fire and for the death of his silly Simone. Especially if he knew when and where to look. So I used Stephen and Patrick as bait.”
Mauvais’s fingers white-knuckled around the railing. Wood cracked. “Who helped you set them up? Who made sure Baptiste received word of your false rendezvous?” he asked, his voice crackling with icy anger.
“The artist on Magazine Street—Vincent. But he believed he was setting you up, mon pиre, not that marmot Dante.”
Mauvais nodded, then blew out an irritated breath. Time to clean house once more. An annoying but necessary task repeated every half century or so. Even though Justine had manipulated and used the Magazine Street lord, Vincent would die for his foolish betrayal; his household would be scattered.
Without mercy, he would meet any and all challenges to his authority. As always.
Mauvais watched the dark line of the river bank glide past, shore lights smearing orange, yellow, and white color across the Mississippi’s surface. “Tell me more,” he commanded quietly.
“Everyone aboard La Belle Femme will die tonight. Je regrette, mon cher Guy, but your yacht has been made into a trap.”
“Ah, what have you done?” Mauvais closed his eyes. “Ungrateful child. I gave you your justice. A life for a life.”
“Justice?” Justine laughed. “How could you possibly imagine that one death would atone for Йtienne’s murder? For the loss of his entire household at the hands of that True Blood bastard? I am giving Йtienne the justice you did not, mon pиre.”
The bitter accusation, the quiet fury in his fille de sang’s words, opened Mauvais’s eyes and finally turned his head. Justine met his gaze, her chin lifted, waves of lustrous coffee-brown hair framing her beautiful snow-white face. A fierce grief burned in her dark eyes—a poisoned apple that she had devoured to the stem and core.
Just as he’d known it would, the sight of her pierced Mauvais to the heart, sharper and more ruthless than any knife. He remembered turning her, how she’d clung to him, as he’d drained the blood from her body. Remembered her quiet and grateful murmurs.
He would never find another like her.
But she refused to look beyond her broken heart and her empty bed. She would never understand that vampire society, stagnant and collapsing in upon itself, might very well need Dante Baptiste and the chaos seething in his veins in order to survive.
Of course, the trick would be properly guiding that chaos and violence, a trick Mauvais believed he could handle well.
“You gave me no other choice,” Justine said.
Mauvais lifted a hand from the railing and stroked the backs of his fingers against her soft cheek. “Foolish girl, ungrateful child,” he murmured. “You have given me no other choice as well, ma belle.”
Mauvais stabbed his fingers into Justine’s chest, his nails puncturing her silk bodice and pale breast, cracking bone, and seizing her heart. He yanked the pulsing organ free and held it up for her to see.
As Justine’s blood sprayed across his face and fine French linen shirt, Mauvais regretted removing his leather apron. She blinked in shock, mouth opening and closing, her hands fluttering up to her ruined chest belatedly.
With a flick of a sharp-nailed finger, Mauvais sliced away the black velvet choker with its white rose cameo from around her throat, reclaiming his gift. The cameo bounced across the riverboat’s deck. He brushed Justine’s dark and rose-scented tresses aside so he could whisper into the delicate shell of her ear.
“I disown you.”
Justine crumpled to the deck in a spill of blood and silken midnight-blue skirts and creamy skin.
Leaning over the rail, Mauvais dropped Justine’s heart into the river. It disappeared beneath the dark water without a sound. He straightened, then turned and bellowed, “Edmond!”
Edmond hurried from belowdecks, smoothing his black uniform, then paused, wide-eyed, as he took in the situation. Edging carefully away from the spreading pool of blood on the deck, he awaited Mauvais’s instructions.
“Clean up this mess, then toss mademoiselle overboard. She is no longer a member of the household.”
Edmond blinked. “Oui, at once, my lord.”
Mourning his ruined shirt and slacks, Mauvais strode toward the pilothouse. He had a message to send Dante Baptiste, provided it wasn’t already too late; a message that would end with the young True Blood owing Mauvais a very big favor.
But when the operator signaled the yacht, static and silence was the only reply.
41
HOW TO DESTROY ANGELS
NEW ORLEANS,
La Belle Femme
March 28
GUNSHOTS POP-POP-POPPED FROM THE light-pearled yacht below like corks fired from champagne bottles. The power boat bobbed against the anchored vessel, empty. Tiny figures raced across the deck. Some fell. More pops echoed across the lake. Dante’s pulse drummed through his veins, at his temples.
He arrowed himself down toward the yacht, dropping from eight stories above the white-capped water to five, his deltoid muscles burning as his wings slashed through the humid air, the salt tang of brine prickling his nostrils.
More pop-pop-pops.
Trey’s head snapped back, dreads whipping around him almost in slow motion, then he dropped to one knee on the deck. And swayed. Cold fingers latched around Dante’s heart. A streak of black and purple–edged motion, then Silver stood over the mortal shooter’s splayed body, licking blood from his fingers. He looked up, silver eyes brimming with light.
he sent.
Trey staggered to his feet. He dashed across the main deck, then darted up a flight of stairs to the upper deck, disappearing inside the cabin. Another series of pop-pop-pops welcomed him. Silver raced after him, face grim.
Dante glanced to his right. Lucien flew close to his wing tip, his hair a streamlined banner of liquid night blowing behind him, Von tucked against one side, Heather the other. Lucien had convinced Dante that he shouldn’t carry anyone on his first flight, not until he had tested the strength of his wings and his landing skills.
I doubt Heather would enjoy a long drop into the lake, Dante, or a crash landing on the yacht. I doubt you’d enjoy it either.
A point Dante hadn’t argued, couldn’t argue; his wings were untested. And after having already knocked Heather on her ass with his fucking seizure . . . A muscle flexed in Dante’s jaw.
As though feeling his gaze, Lucien looked at him from over his shoulder, his golden eyes glinting in the darkness like stars. Dante felt a gentle touch against his shields, Lucien seeking permission.