“Nah, Miss Lillian, I’d just like to have back space in my pockets for something other than a glass brick. But it was a sweet birthday gift from you and the fellas.”
“Well, I know it hurt you to say that, so I might let you have some of this gumbo I’ve been cookin’ all damn day.”
“Thanks, Miss Lil.”
* * *
I makemy way down Breakwater Drive and pull past the 17th Street pump station. Fucking eyesore. Necessary, I’m sure, but a reminder that the lake ain’t been the same since that goddess-forsaken hurricane. After Katrina wrecked the entire Bucktown waterfront, New Orleans and Metairie been playing a game of hot potato over a damn parking lot ever since, not rebuilding a single thing. Honestly, it works for our purposes, but I do miss the old restaurants, whose waterlogged remains are still visible in the lake just off the ruined shore.
Driving through the protective shield Miss Lillian set up, I’m careful as I cross the rickety walkway over the canal that now serves as a driveway. I pull up to the old, white house on pylons, set entirely over the water, save for a small piece of front porch over the shore. Due to the diligence of the witches in Miss Lillian’s family, it’s survived every hurricane since her great-great-grandfather Captain Bruning landed in New Orleans over a hundred and fifty years ago.
Google Maps made her get creative with the shielding from overhead, but all anyone ever sees is the narrow finger of land stuck between the canal and the harbor marina, supposedly wiped clean from Katrina. No one knows we’re here, not unless they’re trusted friends. Or someone who needs to die.
I walk in and inhale the rich and spicy smell of Miss Lillian’s gumbo, the air layered, as always, with the scent of magnolias, her signature fragrance. She’s been a mother of sorts to all of us, even if not a damn one of us makes any sense.
The entire house, really, is a clown car of oddities, human and non. Scientific and supernatural rejects who together somehow make up more than the sum of its parts, a family I could’ve never imagined for myself. I’m a lucky fuck, and that’s the goddess’s truth right there.
I stand in front of my found pack, all of us hovering around the kitchen table, wanting to get house business out of the way so we can dive into the gumbo. I relay Gentry’s information, keeping his name out of everything, though I suspect some know my source. Eloy, our fae-reject, is pretty fucking grumpy-looking for a fairy. If I had to guess, he’s got a thing for that sweet little slice of incubus.
Sorry, bud. Unless you’re willing to take my knot during this stupid mating season, Gentry’s my go-to.
Jameson, our resident ghost and Lillian’s late husband, silently confirms with her that the family is inquiring into rescue options, but a price hasn’t been named yet.
Doc, one of two people in the house who doesn’t know—or won’t discuss—their supernatural origins, agrees with my assessment. Galyna, the other wayward supe, is currently on an island in the Caribbean and, just for having a beautiful vacation, she doesn’t get a vote. Eloy doesn’t think we should do anything without a price. I think we have the advantage and should head out right now.
In the end, we agree to split into two groups and start early in the morning, with each group owning a set of warehouses to stake out. My Jeep and Miss Lillian's truck get pressed into service, and we pass around pictures of the vamp in question.
He’s handsome and serious-looking and probably has a massive stick up his ass.
No matter. His parents’ money is still green.
Hold on, handsome. Cavalry’s coming.
2
Remy
It’s rather shameful to admit, but given my circumstances, I’ve really nothing to lose: I’m a vampire with a thing for werewolves.
Yes, I know. Iknow.
My family has already disowned me. Twice. And now I’m tied up in a warehouse outside of New Orleans, all because of a beautiful, strong werewolf himbo with an enormous…personality. The kicker is, I’d already grown bored of trying to fit in between his gym schedule and mirror selfies and was making plans to leave. I was nearly home free until my parents offered a reward for information about me.
I don’t know why his selling me out is such a surprise, but it is.
We were just supposed to make it a quick trip into the city, and now I’m tied to a pole in the middle of a cavernous warehouse.
Lessons have been learned.
It’s been a week since my captor-boyfriend left me here, wrapped in silver, talking about seeing what he can do to up the price on my head, and I have no clue when he might come back for me. I could be stuck here for months. Years. I shiver and hiss as the silver shifts onto my neck, burning the skin.
It’s a bad day when one tries to figure out if the cruelty of familial abandonment is actually worse than the agony of silver to the skin.
I’ve been calling out for days with no response. I am truly alone.
* * *
“Hey, man, you okay?”
