Making his way over, he discovered an elderly black man sitting in a prone position on the ground. He was gray-haired, his face heavily lined, the gnarled, arthritic fingers of his right hand gripped around a carved wooden cane as the man prepared to brandish it as a weapon.
Travis held up his hands to show he wasn’t a threat and tucked his gun away with the knowledge that should he need it, his reflexes were perfectly capable of drawing it back out in the blink of an eye. “New Orleans PD, sir. Are you injured? Do you need an ambulance?”
There were no obvious signs of a struggle, the man’s clothes weren’t even mussed, however, he was winded, his breathing labored as he shook his head. “Just need a hand up.”
Obliging, Travis carefully assisted the man to his feet. “Can you tell me what happened?”
The man’s eyes skated left than right, suddenly nervous and while Travis shouldn’t lead the witness, he couldn’t resist asking, “Did that man attack you?”
A distracted nod was his response so Travis eyed the cane, surprised to see there was no blood on it. Given the condition of the vampire, and the blood he’d smelled, it made no sense that a man who had to be at least eighty years old had managed to fight off a creature of such strength and not have a mark on him.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to call an ambulance? You may be in shock.”
“I don’t need an ambulance,” was the surly reply. “I need to get home to my wife before she worries. She has supper waiting.”
Travis nodded. “Understood. Can I call her for you? Maybe give you a ride?”
“Destin Jourdain,” the man suddenly blurted. “You can call him. He’ll come get me.”
The leader of the Order of Witches? Travis eyed the old man with new eyes. If this man was a witch – and why else would he want to get in touch with Jourdain? – that would explain the level of damage inflicted on a physically stronger being, especially if this man was a high-level wielder himself.
Making the call once the man gave him the number, and ensuring that the elderly man was stable for the moment, Travis went to inspect the body of the vampire. Normally, he would have called this in, but if this was indeed a fight between two supernaturals, it was best to keep human intervention to a minimum.
Rolling the big vampire over, he saw a face he recognized as one of Rodolfo’s thugs that Travis had been keeping a discreet eye on. That face was now a mask of blood that had leaked from the eyes, nose, mouth, and ears. Jesus, the old man was strong. By the look of it, he’d turned the vampire’s brains into soup.
With a sigh, Travis stood. One less minion in Rodolfo’s army. He’d take care of the body, not that the old man or Jourdain needed to know that. As far as anyone in New Orleans was concerned, he was a human cop just doing his job. Nothing more, nothing less.
Chapter Nine
Morgan managed to get several hours of much-needed sleep before she dragged herself out of bed, showered, dressed, and located a servant to arrange a lunch meeting with Rodolfo. It was time to stop dicking around. She was never going to get to the bottom of this case if she didn’t actually converse with the man and attempt to charm some information out of him. Jamie could do her thing on the computer, but that would take time and may prove fruitless. Kane could work the Turned, drawing them into boasting matches over beers, and batting his eyes at the ladies to get some gossip, but again, that might end up leading nowhere. Best to go straight to the suspected source.
It didn’t take long before her invitation was accepted and she was shown to a sunlit veranda decorated with an abundance of hanging baskets of flowers, the blooms throwing off their glorious scent and halting Morgan mid-step as she marveled at the incongruity of such splendor surrounding the lounging form of her host, with his smug expression and surely blackened soul.
“Alone at last,” he purred and Morgan had to keep from visibly shuddering with disgust. Holding tight to her anticipation of seeing her officer angel in a mere handful of hours, she used the thought as a shield and produced a bright smile.
Seating herself in the chair a servant held out for her, she watched Rodolfo pour a liberal portion of white wine into her glass. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me. I know a man of your prominence must be very busy indeed.”
“One must still eat,” he returned, obviously pleased with her flattery. “And how better than with someone as lovely as yourself.”
Ducking her head in a show of modesty at the compliment, Morgan was about to comment on the weather, a typical non-offensive conversation starter when Rodolfo said, “You remind me of your mother. Did you know she and I were acquainted?”
Morgan hadn’t, but she wasn’t surprised. Rodolfo and her parents were of an age and him being originally from France while her parents resided in Wales, it stood to reason that they would have at least met at one time or another if not formed a friendship.
“Now there was a woman who knew how to enjoy life. Wild. Uninhibited.”
His words were laced with enough innuendo that Morgan couldn’t miss the implication. Picking up her glass, she forced herself not to gulp it down in unseemly haste to wash away the foul taste suddenly residing on her tongue. God. Had Rodolfo and her mother been lovers?
She needed to get this over with as soon as possible. Thoughts of her parents always put her in a lousy mood, but if he continued with this particular conversation, she definitely wouldn’t be able to keep her lunch down. Foregoing any thought of small talk, Morgan began her line of questioning while the human servant set a plate of rice surrounded by crawfish smothered in some sort of sauce in front of her. “So much responsibility,” she said, forcing a smile and a sympathetic shake of her head. “You must do something to alleviate the tedium.” Her mother sure had. “I’m sure you must have things you enjoy. Something just for fun?”
The man practically beamed. “Art is my pleasure, my indulgence. I must take you about and show you the abundance of talent on display in my fair city. Humans are such base creatures, but the things they create, the passion in the pieces, is simply astounding.” His gaze grew distant, unfocused as he murmured, “In my younger years, I once drank from an artist I particularly admired hoping to take that creative essence into myself. Alas, I fear it didn’t work and the poor man didn’t survive my little experiment. Pity that.”
Morgan’s face felt stiff from the smile she continued to wear. Art hadn’t been what she wanted to talk about. She’d foolishly hoped he’d volunteer that he had recently created a game where he was keeping score while his vampires took out as many witches as possible, perhaps some sort of macabre scavenger hunt, but she should have known it wouldn’t come out that easily.
Picking up her utensils, she took a bite of food. Normally, she would have savored the slightly sweet yet spicy flavor, but right now she was too focused on her goal to do much more than chew and swallow as she considered her next words. Dabbing at her mouth with a crisply pressed, white linen napkin, she tried again. “I’d love to see the pieces you most admire but surely there is something you enjoy with a bit more challenge? Perhaps a sport other than the blood competitions we saw that first night?”
Rodolfo’s eyes glittered with admiration. “I have a feeling you’d appreciate my gardens, Miss Rhys.”
Gardens? Really?Covering her disappointment with an even brighter smile, she offered, “Please, call me Morgan.”
