was fair game. The news crews had arrived and staked it out, and the gawkers were lining up, as well.
Before Fiona MacDonald could reply, one of the local network news reporters saw him and charged over, calling, “Detective! Detective DeFarge!” It was Andrea “Andy” Larkin. She was a primped and proper young woman who had recently been transferred from her network’s Ohio affiliate. She was a fish out of water down here.
She was followed by her cameraman, and he was followed by a pack of other reporters. The local cable stations and newspapers were all present. And yes, there came the other network newscasters.
He stopped. Might as well handle the press now, he thought, though the department’s community rep really should be fielding the questions. But if he dodged the reporters, it would just make things worse.
He held his ground, aware that Fiona was watching him from a spot not far from the cemetery wall. He wasn’t going to escape the reporters, and he definitely wasn’t going to escape her.
“Detective DeFarge?” Andy Larkin had apparently assigned herself to be the spokeswoman for the media crew. “We’ve heard a young woman has been found—drained of blood. Who was she? Do you think we have some kind of cultists at work in the area? Was it a ritual sacrifice?”
He lifted a hand as a clamoring of questions arose, one voice indistinguishable from the next.
“Ladies, gentlemen, please! We’ve just begun our investigation into this case. Yes, we have discovered the body of a young woman in a mausoleum, but that’s all that I can really tell you at the moment. We’ll have the preliminary autopsy reports in a day or so, which will answer any questions about the state of the body. We don’t have an identity for the victim, and it’s far too early for me to speculate in any way on whether this is a singular incident or not. However, at this time I have no reason to suspect that we have a cult at work in the city. As soon as I have information, you’ll have information. That’s absolutely all that I am at liberty to say at the moment.”
“But—” Andy Larkin began.
“At any time that I can, without jeopardizing our investigation, I will be happy to see to it that the news media is advised.”
“Wait!” A man from one of the rags spoke up; he was probably in his early twenties, taking the best job available to a young journalism graduate. His hair was long and shaggy, and he was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and carrying a notepad rather than an electronic device of any kind. “Shouldn’t you be warning the citizens of New Orleans to be careful? Shouldn’t you be giving them a profile of the killer?”
Jagger hoped his sunglasses fully covered his eyes as he inadvertently stared over at Fiona MacDonald.
She had a profile of the killer, he was certain.
“We don’t know anything yet. I repeat—we’ve just begun our investigation. I’m going to give young women in this city the same warning I give all the time: be smart, and be careful. Don’t go walking the streets alone in the dark. Let someone know where you’re going at all times, and if you go out to party, don’t go alone. People, use common sense. That’s my warning.”
“But aren’t serial killers usually young white men between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five?” shouted a tiny woman from the rear. She was Livy Drew, from a small local cable station.
He reminded himself that he had to stay calm—and courteous. The public affairs department was much better at that, though, and he fervently wished they would hurry up and get there.
“Livy, there’s nothing to indicate that we have a serial killer on our hands.”
“You’re denying that this is the work of a serial killer?”
“I’m not denying or confirming anything,” he said, fighting for patience. “One more time—our investigation is just beginning. Yes, young women should take special care, because yes, a young woman has been killed. Now, if you’ll let me get to work, I’ll be able to answer more questions for you in the future. Though we have no ID on her yet, we may make a hit with fingerprints or dental impressions, and we’ll have a picture available for you soon. And, as always, the department will be grateful for any information that can help us identify the victim—and find her killer. But no heroics from anyone, please. Just call the station with any information you may have.”
Someone called from the back of the crowd. “Detective, what—”
“That’s all!” Jagger said firmly, then turned to head for his car, parked almost directly in front of the gates. He looked for Fiona MacDonald, but she was gone.
He knew where he would find her.
He got into his car and pulled away from the curb, glancing expectantly in the rearview mirror. She was just sitting up. Her expression was grim as she stared at him.
“What the hell is going on, DeFarge?” she asked.
He nearly smiled. If things hadn’t been quite so serious, he would have.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I do. You have a rogue vampire on your hands. And you have to put a stop to this immediately.”
He pulled up the ramp to a public parking area by the river. He found a quiet place to park along the far edge of the lot and turned to look at her.
Fiona was young, somewhere around twenty-nine or thirty, he thought. Young in any world, very young in their world.
They knew each other, of course; they saw each other now and then at the rare council meetings in which several underworld groups met to discuss events, make suggestions, keep tabs on one another and keep the status quo going.
He suddenly wished fervently that her parents were still alive. The savage war that had nearly ripped through the city had been stopped only by the tremendous sacrifice the couple had made, leaving their daughters to watch over the evenly divided main powers existing in the underbelly of New Orleans, a world few even knew existed.
Naturally the war had been fought because of a vampire.
No, not true. A vampire and a shapeshifter.
Vampire Cato Leone had fallen deeply and madly in love with shapeshifter Susan Chaisse, who had fallen in love with him in return. The two had been unable to understand why they weren’t allowed to fall in love. Frankly Jagger didn’t understand it, either. Old World prejudice had done them in. It had been a Romeo and Juliet scenario, a Southern West Side Story, a tale as old as time. Young love seldom cared about proper boundaries. Man and every subspecies of man seemed prone to prejudice, and it was usually born of fear and or economics. Either way, the outcome was almost always the same. In this case, just as in Shakespeare’s tale, it had been cousins of the young lovers who had caused the problems. Susan’s first cousin Julian had taken on the form of a monster being, half vampire, half werewolf, and attacked Cato. Shapeshifters were truly gifted; they could take on whatever shape they chose, and mimic not only another’s appearance but take on their powers, as well. Cato hadn’t even known who he was battling, and in the thick of the fight his own cousin jumped to his aid and was killed by the shapeshifter. That raised an uncontrollable rage in Cato, who in turn killed his attacker, and because the shapeshifter had taken on a guise that was partly werewolf, Cato’s family had attacked the werewolves, and the violence had threatened to spill
