At last the waitress brought his coffee and a small plate of three beignets that were heavily covered with powdered sugar. Talon sighed appreciatively.
"Coffee arrived?" Wulf asked.
"Oh, yeah."
Talon took a whiff of his coffee, set it aside, and reached for a beignet. He'd barely touched the pastry when he saw something across the street, on the right side of Jackson Square down the Pedestrian Mall. "Ah, man."
"What?"
"Friggin' Fabio alert."
"Hey, you're not too far from the mark either, blondie."
"Bite me, Viking."
Peeved by the timing, Talon watched the group of four Daimons stalking the night. Tall and golden blonde Daimons who possessed the godlike beauty of their race. They strutted around like punkish peacocks, drunk on their own power as they scoped out tourists to kill.
By nature, Daimons were cowards. They only stood their ground and fought against Dark-Hunters when they were in groups and only then as a last resort. Because they were so much stronger than humans, they preyed openly on them, but let a Dark-Hunter near them and they ran for cover.
There had been a time once when it wasn't like that. But the younger generations were more careful than their ancestors. They weren't as well trained or as resourceful.
However, they were ten times cockier.
Talon narrowed his eyes. "You know, if I were a negative person, I would be seriously annoyed right now."
"You sound annoyed to me."
"No, this isn't annoyed. This is mild perturbance. Besides, you should see these guys." Talon dropped his Celtic accent as he invented a conversation for the Daimons. He raised his voice to an unnaturally high level. "Hey, Gorgeous George, I think I smell a Dark-Hunter."
"Oh no, Dick," he said, dropping his voice two octaves, "don't be a dick. There's no Dark-Hunter here."
Talon returned to his falsetto. "I dunno..."
"Wait," Talon said, again in the deep voice. "I smell tourist. Tourist with big... strong soul."
"Would you stop?"
"Talk about inkblots," Talon said, using the derogatory term Dark-Hunters had for Daimons. It stemmed from the strange black mark that all Daimons developed on then-chests when they crossed over from being simple Apollites to human slayers. "Damn, all I wanted was a drink of coffee and one little beignet."
Talon glanced wistfully at his drink as he debated what should take priority. "Coffee... Daimons... Coffee... Daimons..."
"I think in this case the Daimons better win."
"Yeah, but it's chicory coffee."
Wulf clucked his tongue. "Talon wanting to be toasted by Acheron for failure to protect humans."
"I know," he said with a disgusted sigh. "Let me go expire them. Talk to you later."
Talon stood up, zipped his phone into the pocket of his motorcycle jacket, and stared longingly at his beignets.
Oh, the Daimons would pay for this.
Taking a quick drink of coffee that scalded his tongue, he skirted through the tables and made his way toward the vampires, who were stalking toward the Presbytere building.
His Dark-Hunter senses alert, Talon headed to the opposite side of the square. He would head them off and make sure they paid for their soul-stealing ways.
And for his uneaten beignets.