Patrick’s breathing is fast, and I sense his desperation. Defying his alpha’s direct order is a unique stressor on its own, but leaving his mate unguarded is worse. Ice floods my veins as understanding fills me. He would only leave her if someone were about to die.

I shudder, thinking of Derek so far away. Oh, god, don’t let him be killed…

Derek

Stuart drums his fingers on the glossy wooden bar in Chartres House. “It’s not smart working with an unproven witch.”

“Patrick trusts her,” I say, lifting a tumbler of scotch to my lips. “And with him in Algiers, we don’t have a choice.”

He props an elbow on the ledge. “Too much is wrong with this situation. Our mission was finding Alison’s killer. We should be back in Princeton finishing that job. We’ve taken a personal detour, and now you’re carrying vampire blood in your veins. We’re not prepared, and if something happens to you—”

Normally, talk like this would piss me off, but I’ve served with this man in combat. He saved my life. Of all the people in the world I should listen to, he’s one of them. I manage to control my temper.

“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” I say. “Yes, it’s a personal detour, but it’s not outside our mission. We’re after justice, Stuart.” The vampire’s plans to torture Melissa flicker across my mind, the wooden box. “Tonight is about justice. Trust me.”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

Nodding, I accept his concession, even though I know he’s right. We’re vulnerable. We haven’t traded blood. Patrick is miles away. We’re facing one of the strongest vampires I’ve ever encountered—stronger than my immunity. If I didn’t believe emphatically time is of the essence, we wouldn’t be here right now.

I’m mentally calculating all our weaknesses when Star pushes through the door. She’s different, although I shouldn’t be surprised. She’s a witch in New Orleans. Dealing with the undead is second nature to her.

She looks around the room, chin lifted as if inspecting her domain. Her eyes light on me, and a thin dark brow arches. A smirk curls her velvet-red lips, and she crosses the small space, slim hips swaying under a long, black dress.

Her dark eyes sweep slowly from my waist to my face, and I have to confess, she’s good. She’s everything those undead fuckers love—rich, confident, and dripping with sex.

“How about you buy me a drink.” Her deep voice is sassy.

The bartender, along with all the straight men in the room, picks up his jaw and asks what we’re having.

“Scotch neat,” I say. I don’t have to ask. I know Star is a scotch drinker. Actually, I’m betting she’s more of a whiskey gal.

The small barroom returns to business as usual, and the bartender scurries off. Stuart hasn’t moved from leaning on the bar beside me. Irritation rolls off him in waves, but Star doesn’t seem to notice.

She looks up at me, speaking quietly. “My neck, arms, and wrists are all exposed. The slit in this dress provides access to my inner thighs…”

The bartender’s back, and I nod, slipping him a twenty. He’ll take care of us and leave us alone at the same time. Once he’s gone, she continues.

“I spent the last hour drinking a tea of verbena root, mountain ash, and wild rose. If he swallows even an ounce of my blood, he’ll be weak enough for you to kill him.” She slants a dark eye at Stuart. “A dose of shifter blood would make me practically invincible.”

My partner clears his throat and straightens, taking a hit of scotch.

She faces him then, amusement flickering in her dark eyes. “How about it, wolf? Care to step into the alley for a quickie?”

“No thanks,” he grumbles not making eye contact.

Her grin is wicked as she takes a long pull off the drink I ordered her. “You act like you haven’t been laid in a month. Is the horniness getting you down?”

That does it. Stuart’s voice rises. “Don’t fuck with me, witch. If I fucked you, you wouldn’t walk straight for a week.”

“Hmm… that’s a challenge I’m willing to accept.”

“Okay, cut it out.” I give Stuart a pointed look, and he turns away while I lower my voice again. “Let’s hear your plan.”

She bends an elbow, passing her fingers over her lips as she speaks. “It’s dark tonight. Fog is rolling in off the river, hiding the moon. I’ll take a lonely walk on the levee toward Woldenberg Park. Two small pavilions are hidden in the trees there.”

Remembering our pretense, I slide my palm along the outside of her upper arm, stepping closer as if we’re making a connection.

“You think you can entrance him?”

“I’m tipsy, half-dressed—easy prey.” She looks over her shoulder, ensuring no one is listening. Her chin drops, and her forehead almost touches my chest. “Don’t move too fast. Wait until he’s in the frenzy, then take him out.”

The simple perfection of her plan convinces me. I nod at once and glance up at Stuart, giving him a slight nod.

“We’ll be close. I won’t let him kill you.”

She exhales a laugh, stepping back to finish off the scotch in one large gulp. “I would hope as much. Later, wolf.”

She gives my partner a wink and turns on a tall stiletto. I watch her ass sway under long black silk as she makes her way to the door and leaves. Only a few customers glance at us as I bump my partner’s arm, and we settle up the bill. We’ll give her a bit of a head start then take off after her.

Out on the street, the night feels close. The fog has rolled in quickly, shrouding everything in a thick blanket. Tension grips my shoulders as we make our way the two blocks to the river. Stuart looks around as we cross Decatur and grabs my arm.

“Give me a minute.” He steps into a deserted alley, and I inspect the empty street, waiting.

Moments later an oversized black Rottweiler is at my side. As much as I hate to lose direct communication with him, his vision and hearing are improved, and one man walking a dog is less conspicuous than two men walking alone, clearly on a mission. Too bad we didn’t have time for the ritual.

Making our way down St. Louis Street, the lamps are hazy balls of light in the thickening fog. Banana trees cast eerie shadows, and a few bodies are hunched against the wide planters lining the large, waterfront parking lot for the Creole Queen riverboat.

On nights like this, the city settles into an unusual quiet. Of course, the revelers are going strong on Bourbon Street, but once the French Market vendors clear out, the storefronts roll down their doors, and only a few bars remain open for tourists brave enough to roam the streets of New Orleans in a fog this thick.

We’re at the steps leading up to the levee. The riverboat entrance is behind us, and the large vessel is gone, making its nightly voyage up and down the expansive waterway. Two dark figures are moving toward us. My fight reflex kicks in, but after a moment, I realize it’s only a couple strolling the levee, talking and laughing, oblivious to the danger around them as they gaze out at the wide, black water swirling in crosscurrents.

Their soft, disembodied voices reach us through the fog before they do, and I place my hand on Stuart’s neck. He’s not wearing his protective chain collar tonight, but I still try to make it look as if he’s restrained. The less attention we draw the better. They pass us without greeting, and we keep moving.

The Mississippi River Bridge looms in the distance, white lights dotting its three metal arches. A small tugboat pushes a massive barge out on the water. Only muffled beams of light and large ripples signal its presence. The further we go toward the trees and bushes surrounding the small pavilions that dot the path, the darker it becomes.

We’re completely alone, and we both stop to listen. Stuart’s ears perk forward. He might not like Star, but he won’t let her be vampire food any more than I will. For moments that stretch out like hours we hear nothing. Then Stuart’s ears twitch. He detects something, and with a slight lowering of his massive head, I know it’s time to move.