Blood Red. Heather Graham
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“Can we move on?” Lauren said.
“Look—she’s blushing. She is attracted to him,” Deanna said triumphantly.
“How could she not be?” Heidi said.
“Look,” Lauren insisted, “something just isn’t right here.”
“The fortune-teller,” Deanna told Heidi gravely.
Heidi linked an arm through Lauren’s. “I don’t know what we’re going to do with you. Wait! Brainstorm! I do know what we’re going to do. I’m having a vision. It’s me, and I’m standing at a craps table.”
“You lose at craps all the time,” Lauren said.
“And I have a hell of a good time doing it. Come on, slave, let’s trot on back over to Harrah’s. I see us sunning in the late afternoon sun later. A dip in the pool will be followed by dinner. K-Paul’s tonight. Then we’ll hit Bourbon Street for music and jazz. Cool?”
“Cool,” Lauren said, though she didn’t sound convinced. Then she looked at Deanna and frowned. “You’re sure you didn’t take a carriage ride today? I could have sworn I saw you with a tall, dark-haired guy, like the one I saw you talking to in the bar last night.”
“The cute guy?” Deanna said.
“Yeah. Were you in a carriage with him?”
“No,” Deanna said.
It could be difficult to tell if Deanna was blushing, because her skin was such a beautiful shade of copper, but Lauren thought she had reddened.
As if she were lying.
“Hey, pay attention here, slaves,” Heidi demanded.
They both looked at her. “Harrah’s,” she ordered.
Lauren let out a breath, still staring at Deanna. “Right. Harrah’s,” she said.
And she started to walk.
Mark had known the women would follow him, egged on by Lauren.
Luckily, they had quickly departed.
And he had gotten more of a response at the police station than he had been expecting. Of course, it had been some time since he’d been in New Orleans. Things here had changed.
At the desk, he’d informed the sergeant that he didn’t have any solid information, but he knew of a European national now in the country who had been linked to various crimes overseas—crimes that left victims resembling the woman found in the Mississippi.
He had expected to give information to a bored paper-chasing officer in a cubicle somewhere.
To his surprise, he was ushered into the office of Lieutenant Sean Canady, an impressive man with steel blue eyes and a rock-hard chin.
“I understand you have information regarding the body in the river?” Canady said, taking his seat after a handshake and indicating a chair across from his desk.
“Not exactly,” Mark corrected. “But I do have reason to believe that the crime may be associated with a man named Stephan??? who I believe is in this area now.”
“I see.” Canady’s hands were folded on his desk. “Sadly, Mr. Davidson, murder isn’t unusual. Nor is decapitation, though I admit it’s somewhat less common.”
“No.”
“So…?”
Mark took a deep breath. “There are a number of ancient beliefs that suggest decapitation will prevent someone from becoming a vampire. And there’s a modern belief that some vampires are careful to dispose of victims they aren’t entirely…sure of. Population control, if you will. Survival of the…”
“Hottest? Most clever?” Canady said.
The man must think he was an idiot, Mark realized. “Yes.”
Canady’s eyes didn’t flicker. He was either trying to humor him until the padded wagon bound for the asylum arrived, or…
Or nothing surprised him at all.
Or maybe…
He’d had previous experience with vampires.
“Your suggesting there’s a vampire loose in the New Orleans?” Canady said.
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