"August Gaudin is here--with Jennie Mahoney," she offered.
Fiona decided that maybe Valentina was more than a shapeshifter.
She had to be a schizophrenic, as well. She was nice one minute, haughty the next.
Fiona looked out toward the courtyard and saw Jennie Mahoney and August Gaudin chatting away.
"Thanks. I'll join them," Fiona said, deciding that would be safer than checking the main room of the club, the massive core of the old church, on her own. "Did you catch anything David was saying? Do you have any idea where he went?"
Valentina shrugged. "No, but I'm sure he'll be back. I think August and Jennie were expecting him, too."
Fiona walked past Valentina and headed for the small table where the werewolf and the shapeshifter were sitting, deep in conversation.
"Morning," she said.
They both looked up.
"Ah, Fiona!" August said, and, ever the gentleman, he rose.
Jennie offered her a smile that wasn't much warmer than Valentina's usual attitude.
Fiona accepted the chair August drew out for her. "Lovely to see you both."
"We're a bit perplexed, but now that you're here, maybe you can clear things up. You and David called us, asking us to lunch, but he isn't here," August told her.
"Something needs to be done," Jennie said firmly.
"Three murders now. One corpse missing. And the police still don't have an ID on the last victim."
"They're doing everything possible," Fiona said, knowing she sounded defensive. Too bad. She was defensive. Jagger DeFarge was working nonstop--as a vampire and as a policeman. She found herself leaning forward. "Jennie, you know that the police don't have a prayer of solving this case, but Jagger is doing everything he can. As to not putting a name to the latest victim, that's...that's not that unusual. Her prints aren't in any system. She doesn't match the description of any missing women. And you know damned well where that 'missing' corpse is."
"Yes," Jennie said primly, wrinkling her nose.
"She is another vampire--despite all our unspoken agreements."
"Abigail will be an asset to our community and...you know it," Fiona said.
Jennie shook her head and sighed. "I'm sorry, Fiona. It's a terrible situation, and even I can't help but be afraid. And please forgive me for saying this, but it does seem as if vampire society is having trouble managing its own."
"We're managing just fine," Fiona said, deciding not to argue the point that no one had yet ruled out the possibility of the killer being a shapeshifter. She rose.
"Aren't you going to wait for David?" August asked her.
"I'm going to find David," she said.
And Mateas Grenard, she added silently. There was no reason to tell Jennie and August her suspicions. The lynch mob mentality could take root as easily among the inhabitants of the underworld as among the humans.
"All right," August told her. He pulled out his old pocket watch and checked the time. "I'll wait awhile longer--might as well have lunch while I'm here--so call me if you find him. I have a meeting with the tourism board this afternoon," he said, grimacing. "Anything positive to tell them will be most welcome."
"I'll stay for lunch, as well, and then my poetry group is meeting," Jennie said. "So please call me, too, if you find out anything--if you find David."
"Yes, of course," Fiona said, and smiled.
She left the courtyard and the club, and started down the street, then found a dark alley and...changed.
She was mist, had substance but not. She could move with the air, with the breeze. She was a cloud, she was a shadow and, like both, she could become an illusion that teased at the senses but passed otherwise unnoticed.
She reentered the club and slipped unseen into the body of the church.
By day it was an oddly haunted place, even more Gothic than it seemed by night. In the evening and into the wee hours, music throbbed in the air, and the beat itself could be felt in the walls. Patrons danced, drank and laughed. Men and women flirted--and more--with each other, or with their own sex. Everyone was welcome, everyone was accepted. Colors, religions, sexes, sexual orientations, old and young. Everybody came to play. Laughter was a melody that complemented the melody of the music.
Now the huge room was empty.
The massive stained-glass windows let in a whisper of light broken into a myriad of colors.
Medieval and Victorian art lined the walls.
St. George regally sat his horse and stared down at the dragon in its death throes.
The old stone of the deconsecrated church kept the heat of the city at bay and created an aura of time gone by. The place had an atmosphere all its own.
Bodies had once been buried beneath the floor, and some of the headstones that were set between the marble pavers were still legible. All the bodies should have been removed and taken to one of the local cemeteries, but politics and money were always a factor, and some had been left behind. Now the place was silent and steeped in a potent brew made up of the combined energies of the living and the dead.
Fiona stood still, feeling the space. She looked around and saw no one, but there were side altars, and nooks and crannies, a choir loft behind what had once been the high altar.
She sensed that she was not alone. But she was ready, waiting and wary. "Fiona?"
It was Billy Harrington's voice, calling to her softly from the shadows surrounding the choir loft.
She didn't answer, and he stepped out, holding hands with Abigail.
He looked even more afraid than she had felt, and she let out a silent sigh of relief.
"Billy, are you alone here--you and Abigail?"
"Yes."
"Do you know where David is?" she asked.
"No," Billy said, puzzled. "He isn't here?"
"No, and he was supposed to meet me," Fiona told him.
Billy looked at Abigail. "We saw him at breakfast," she said.
"Do you think he might have gone to my memorial service?"
"Abigail wanted to go. I convinced her that she couldn't," Billy said.
"You definitely shouldn't be there," Fiona said. "I'm sorry."
"I--I suppose it's better this way," Abigail said. She wore a look of indelible sadness. "I'd want to comfort the nuns. I'd want to tell them that I was really all right, that things would be okay."
"Precisely," Fiona said softly. "Won't people be surprised that you're not there?" she asked Billy.
"They'll understand that I couldn't bear it," he said, looking at Abigail with such adoration that Fiona wondered how she had ever doubted the boy. He would have died a thousand times over rather than do the slightest harm to her.
"I think I'll go over to your memorial, though," Fiona said. "Where is it being held?"
When Billy told her, she realized that it was the same church where the service for her parents had been held, and where she had just gotten the holy water.
She imagined that she knew just which priest was reading the service.
David might have gone--but if so, why hadn't he left her a message about his change of plans?
"All right, you two stay low--and I mean low," Fiona said.
"We're staying right here--we're not budging," Billy assured her.
Fiona changed, drawing a little gasp from Abigail, who whispered to Billy, "She's so good. She's a human being, but she has such power...."
"Well, of course," Billy replied. "She's the Keeper."
Fiona wished she felt as powerful as Abigail thought she was.
Still, it was good that others saw her that way. In fact, it was crucial that they did.
She slipped away from the deconsecrated church. In an alley, she found her substance again.
She decided to hail a cab and get to the memorial as quickly as she could. On the way, she tried calling David again, but he didn't answer.
The driver let her off right in front of the church. Mourners were walking in slowly, some chatting softly, others quiet and thoughtful.
She saw a number of the students she had interviewed, along with what could have passed for a flock of very tall penguins. Every nun in the city must be attending, she thought.
She started to head in herself, but as she did so, her cell phone rang. Quickly, without even looking at caller ID, she answered, "David?"
There was silence, then a husky laugh.
"Is it true that blondes have more fun?" a raspy voice asked.
She froze, certain that the murderer was on the phone.
"I will find you. And I will destroy you," she said.
"This city was founded by the French, ruled by the Spanish, and peopled by those of all colors and faiths--along with all kinds of creatures, of course. Like vampires. Drinkers of blood. Killers."
"Men kill, too, but they don't have to, and neither do vampires."
"Ah, that's where you're terribly wrong! Man loves to kill. And vampires long not only to kill but to possess, to capture a beauty and watch her eyes as they consume her blood and her life drifts away."
"You're sick," she said, realizing with a nauseous feeling that the killer was a vampire. One of hers gone over to the side of darkness and death.
That husky laughter that seemed to slip right beneath her skin sounded in her ear again.
"Then there were three. Three little Keepers, and all of them blonde. I'm watching you right now. And you should know--I have a little blonde beauty. She's not you, but she's so like you. She isn't dead yet, but she will be soon. When we hang up, you will close your phone. You will start walking back toward the French Quarter, and you will keep walking. If anyone calls, you will not answer your phone, because I will be watching you all the way. Will it be a long walk, you ask. Yes, it will. But if I see you reach for your phone, if I see you so much as say hello to a stranger, I will kill your sister before you can reach your destination. Do you understand?"
