One Immortal - Tia Louise Page 0,63

not be locked away in a box, left in a dark tomb to starve until she breaks.

He’s going to complete her change then torture her until she’s completely subservient to him. The young vampire mind is so intense. It’s like a child’s. They’re easily consumed by emotions, and the idea that suffering will end is easy to forget.

He will not do that to her. I’ll kill him first.

“What did you see?” Stuart’s voice breaks me from my racing thoughts.

“He’s searching for her, scanning every shop, restaurant, street.” I’m still moving, trying to remember all he said.

“Could you get an idea of where he’s staying?”

Stopping at the exposed-brick wall, I put my hand against it and breathe deeply. “He’s in a small room overlooking a courtyard. Every floor has a balcony with white railings. Stairs going up and down.”

Star is still sitting in the pentagram watching me intently. “That could be any number of places,” she says.

“He looked toward the French Market, starting at Toulouse.”

Stuart crosses the room to me. “And when he circled up?”

Straining, I try to remember what he said. “I think the first street was Chartres.”

“Corner of Toulouse and Chartres.” He orders the witch, who jumps to her feet and dashes to a MacBook sitting on a metal desk. She’s hastily clicking as I’m remembering all his threats.

“French Market Inn,” she says. “Can’t be anywhere else. Look at this.”

She turns the slim device in our direction, and I see an image of a redbrick courtyard and dozens of white-railed balconies.

Stuart’s hazel eyes light on me. “What now, brother?”

Passing my hand over my mouth, I consider what we’re facing. “I’d feel better if we had Patrick with us.”

“This one is strong. I can tell by the way he has you so worked up.” He walks over to the desk and looks at the screen for several seconds. “Did you get any sense he might be setting a trap, luring you away so she’s unprotected?”

“Not at first,” I say, remembering his plans. “He’s very focused on finding her. But now that he knows I’m tracking him, it’s possible.”

Stuart nods gravely. “Then Patrick remains on guard duty. We’ll have to go it alone.”

“I can help.” Star’s eyes light. “I could be a lookout. Or I can distract him.”

“Not happening.” Stuart shakes his head.

His dismissal angers her. “I’m strong enough to find the information you need, but not strong enough to help? Your brother wouldn’t be so dismissive of me.”

“I’m not my brother.”

I step in. “How would you help us?”

Stuart glares at me briefly, but I’m not about to turn down the assistance of a powerful witch in this situation. We need all the help we can get.

“Vampires are attracted to pretty things…” She’s speaking slowly, thinking as she goes. “He has to feed… You say you have his blood in you?”

Nodding quietly, I watch her lift a heavy book onto the metal table and quickly turn the pages. “I have a recipe for blood bread. I’ll need some of your blood—his blood—to mix in the dough for me to eat.”

“We don’t have time to bake bread,” Stuart is texting Patrick.

Star narrows her eyes at him, and I step between them. “What else can we do?”

“Black tourmaline will protect me.” Her gaze flickers to me. “I have verbena root serum I can drink. If he bites me, it will weaken him.”

“That’s what we need.” Nodding I signal to Stuart and go to the door. “Meet us at the bar in Chartres House. One hour.”

“Chartres House?” Her brow furrows. “It’s only a block from the inn. Is that wise?”

“We don’t have time to waste.” Signaling my partner, we head for the door. “We’re not going to get another chance like this one.”

15

Confrontation

Melissa

Dinner at Demeter’s small home in Algiers rivals anything you’d find on the menu at an expensive New Orleans restaurant. When we enter through the back door she’s holding a colander of silvery, raw shrimp over a pot of boiling water.

The spicy bite of cayenne pepper mixes in the air with the scent of celery, onions, and garlic, and instantly my mouth starts to water. If I’d lost my appetite in the last several days, I just found it again.

I watch as she slides all the shrimp into the large boiling pot then turns to a smaller pot containing what looks like a creamy batch of yellow grits. She circles salt through her fingers over the dish, letting the grains fall slowly as she stirs.

“It smells like heaving in here,” I say