2. Lucien

Igaze balefully across the smoky expanse of Le Voile de Sang, my speakeasy and underworld fiefdom. The air hangs thick with the mingled scents of contraband whiskey, expensive French perfume, and the lingering copper tang of spilled blood from the night”s earlier altercation. Mellow brass notes stroke the air, insidious and beguiling, from the house band”s improvised riffs.

Something is off kilter tonight, the very air itself seems to hum and spark with dark energy. It sets my teeth on edge, like the looming sense of a summer storm”s oppressive static charge. All the predators are out in full force, circling and maneuvering, sharks scenting fresh blood in the water.

My lupine senses prickle with unease, hackles raising at some imperceptible threat thrumming beneath the raucous din of laughter and jazzy musical notes. The mystical menace coils around my neck, pricking at my skin until my jaw clenches with the effort of not snarling a challenge into the murky shadows.

I lean back against the polished mahogany, taking a deep calming breath and letting my gaze sweep the room. A politician glad-hands, slipping bribes to a judge. In the corner, painted dollies play up to a table of rising mobsters, their shrill laughter grating the air. Just another Friday night in the City that Care Forgot.

”Auguste.” I jerk my chin at my brother playing cards with some big-shot out-of-towners.

”Take care of that little errand we talked about.” Well, he may as well be my brother.

He catches my eye with a slow, vicious smile. I look away. Let the streets run red, what”s it matter. We”re all just puppets dancing on strings for those mysterious big-shots that really run this town.

And I”m fool enough to let them pay me for the privilege.

A drunken flapper staggers up, her beaded dress clinking discordantly. At first glance, she seems just another lost soul seeking a bit of oblivion. But as her fingers dig into my arm, a chill races through me that has nothing to do with the bayou night.

Her kohl-smudged eyes roll back to reveal only whites. Then, in a blink, they flood obsidian black, gleaming like polished river stones. No iris, no sclera, just endless dark pools.

Her voice thrums with an eerie resonance I feel in my bones.

”The blood moon rises, shugah,” she rasps, crimson lips peeling back from sharp little teeth.

”Devils gon” wake, and lawd help y”all when she does. Hexeblood”s coming, ol” Scratch”s own daughter. She got the witchfire in her veins, the black magic, the bloodsongs of the damned. Ain”t no hidin”, ain”t no runnin, no sir!”

A guttural cackle rips from her throat, the sound skittering up my spine. Her head lolls at an unnatural angle, mouth stretched in a rictus grin. I wrench away, lip curling in disgust as she skitters back into the crowd.

I toss back a hefty belt of bourbon, relishing the familiar burn. Probably spouting nonsense, too much of that bathtub gin rotting her brain. But I can”t quite shake the eerie imagery. Hexebloods, witchfire, the Dark”s daughter?

Nothing I need to dwell on.

Though an icy trickle slides down my spine at the eerie certainty in her voice. I watch where she weaved back into the crowd, the words echoing in my head. The band strikes up a mean stomp and I try to shake it off. I pour another bourbon, ignoring my shaking hand.

A feline shadow glides onto the stage, the new dark fae canary Etienne hired from some two-bit backwoods salon. What was her name...? She looks right at me, eyes glowing like a cat”s, and I”d swear on my mama”s grave she”s thumbing through my head like a dime-store novel.

Another pull of whiskey but it”s lost all taste.

“I hate this fucking town,” I mutter under my breath and take another shot behind the bar, sweet juniper and liquid fire searing down my throat. I make sure my shotgun is still hidden within reach.

Something feels off tonight, alright. The energy is alive, charged like blood in a gator”s mouth, the air thick with sweat and secrets. Laughter slices through the smoky din, too brittle, too bright - like chum hitting the water, stirring up the predators.

And damn if they aren”t out in full force tonight. I can practically smell the hunger rolling off them, see the unsheathed claws behind their glad-handing smiles as they work the room.

Sizing up marks, scenting weakness.

They”re out for blood. But hell, ain”t that always the way in this festering swamp they call a town? Only difference is, something tells me there”s a bigger game afoot. The stakes are rising and the shadows have grown teeth.

Auguste returns through the crowd, a satisfied smirk on his rakish face and the knuckles of his right hand busted and bloody.

”Message delivered, boss.”

I clap him on the shoulder in approval. ”Good man.” But my gaze is drawn irresistibly back to the smoky-voiced lounge singer, her smile sharp as a switchblade in the dark. ”Say, what d”ya make of the new girl? Can”t shake this weird feeling about her.”

He snorts, ”You”re just jumpy, is all. When”s the last time you took a day off?”

I raise a derisive eyebrow, ”And what would I do? Starting to feel like they”ll bury me in this damned town.” I shake my head as if to dislodge the thought.

Another shiver rakes its icy claws down my spine as I sense unseen forces gathering beyond the tawdry lights and whiskey-soaked laughter. Wheels within wheels, the gears of some great and terrible machine grinding into motion.

A storm is coming, all right. One that will rattle the very foundations of our gutter kingdom. And heaven help the sorry bastards who get caught.

But then again, maybe that”s just what it means to live and die in N”awlins. Laissez les bon temps rouler... straight to hell.