with a few final words. Spells are wonderful weapons, but on a speed-of-use scale, they rank down there with bows and arrows. If the arrow isn’t already in the bow when you get jumped, you’re in trouble. The other problem, though, is that you can’t pause mid-incantation indefinitely. Lucas and I had once spent a weekend experimenting with this, and concluded that you could ready a spell for about two minutes. After that, you had to prep it again. This being my first practical application of that research, I was re-readying my spell every sixty seconds, just to be sure.
I crossed to the front window. It was boarded up, but someone had pried loose the middle board to let in sunshine. I stood sideways, so I could see both the window and the doorway, then I redirected my light spell behind me, for backlighting.
Once my eyes adjusted to the darkness of the street below, I could make out Cassandra’s figure walking down the empty road, Pradas clicking impatiently against the asphalt, Dolce & Gabbana coat snapping behind her. How many people were huddled behind other windows along this street, drawn there by our earlier noise and now watching as this impeccably dressed, attractive forty-year-old woman strode unaccompanied down their street? Talk about an easy mark. Yet no one came out. Maybe they didn’t dare.
Judging by Cassandra’s angle and purposeful stride, she was heading here, presumably having found nothing farther down. That meant my hunch about John’s whereabouts was probably correct, and it meant I had to move fast.
I turned my back to the door and adjusted my light-ball until I could see the reflection of the door in the window glass. Then I took out my cell phone. I readied a new spell, called our apartment, and started talking before the machine picked up.
“Hey, it’s me. I’m still in New Orleans. Cassandra got a lead on a vamp and she’s following him now. He was supposed to be at this bar, but he ducked out the back door. Can you believe that? Mr. I’m-an-Evil-Vampire running out the back.” I paused, then laughed. “No kidding. Vamps, huh?”
Through the reflection in the window I saw a shape cross the doorway. I prepped a fresh spell and continued talking into the answering machine.
“I bet he is,” I said as the shape crept closer. “Probably hiding in some cubbyhole hoping the rats don’t get him. Guys like this, it’s a wonder they haven’t died out—”
I cast the rest of the binding spell, then whirled to see a man frozen in mid-lunge. Slender, early thirties, black hair slicked back into a ponytail, white linen shirt, flowing knee-length black leather coat, and matching leather pants. Mascara, maybe. Eyeliner, definitely.
“John, I presume,” I said. “Forgot that vampires really do cast a reflection, didn’t you?”
His brown eyes darkened with fury. Below, the front door clicked shut.
“Up here,” I called. “I found him.”
Cassandra’s heels clicked double-time up the stairs. As she rounded the corner, she looked almost concerned. Then she saw John and slowed.
“Like my statue?” I said. “The not-so-cunning vampire swooping down on his not-so-unsuspecting prey.”
“I see your binding spell has improved.” She looked at John and sighed. “Let him go.”
I released the spell. John fell on his face. Cassandra sighed again, louder. John scrambled to his feet and brushed off his pants.
“She trapped me,” he said.
“No,” I said. “Your ego trapped you.”
John adjusted his coat, then scowled at a line of grease across his white shirt.
“This better come out,” he said.
“Hey, I didn’t do that,” I said. “That’s what you get crawling around dumps like this.”
“I wasn’t crawling. And I didn’t duck out the back door. I—”
“Enough,” Cassandra said. “Now, John—”
“I prefer Hans.”
“And I prefer not to have to chase you through abandoned buildings, but it seems neither of us gets our wish tonight. I came to speak to you about—”
“The Rampart.” John rolled his eyes and slouched against the wall, then noticed his shirt creased and adjusted his slouch. “Let me guess, you’ve been to see Saint Aaron. Such a waste of a gorgeous vampire. I could reform him, of course.” He grinned, all teeth. “Show him the error of his ways, or the way to delicious errors. Show him what that perfect body—”
“You’re not gay, John. Get over it. Now, I don’t know what beef Aaron has with the Rampart, but I know nothing about it and I saw no cause for concern myself.”
John straightened. “Oh?”
“The matter I came to discuss involves the Cabals.”