Dark and Deadly Be the Whispers

Heather Graham

 

Prologue

Lily

                Pirate’s Alley! 

                And darkness.

And a strange shadow of that darkness seemed to be moving.

Just walk! Lily Morgan commanded herself.

It was such an eerie darkness that seemed to permeate such a small spot! And still, in what seemed like the strange and misty darkness was filled with the sounds beyond, the sounds of the City of New Orleans, right in the Vieux Carre where so very much life continued into the wee hours the night—and morning.

                But in this little block space of the city, surrounded by the life of Jackson Square, Chartres Street, Royal Street, Bourbon Street, famous bars and restaurants . . .

                It could be so very, very, bizarrely dark! Here between the side of the cathedral and the Cabildo. And the air itself . . . perhaps it had found the perfect place here to become misted from the buzzed chain-smokers puffing away throughout the city, or the cooking fires or electricity even, perhaps mixed with the humidity of the day.

                But it seemed that the shadows were moving again, moving with evil intent, human and inhuman, writhing dark within the dark!

                For a moment, Lily froze. She just stood still, not at all sure how she had come to stand in the heavy gray of the air and the black of the shadows in Pirate’s Alley that night.

                Labor Day weekend. She and friends, usually so hard-working and stable, had decided that they needed to celebrate. And they all knew the city well. She had grown up in the Irish Channel, Marci had been born and raised in the Garden District, Claudia had grown up on a small ranch for carriage horses in Treme, and Darcy had grown up not five blocks from here, just in from Esplanade!

                And she loved the city! How many times had she walked these very steps?

                But tonight, so . . .

                How?

                Naturally, they partied a wee bit hard. Starting off with one of Lily’s favorite restaurants on the Square, Muriel’s. Then since they were on Jackson Square to begin with, it seemed a natural thing to take a short walk and move on to the Old Absinthe House.

                Lily didn’t even really like absinthe, but that didn’t matter. The place hadn’t become that famous a hangout without offering a full array of bar offerings. She was a “wine woman” herself, and they had several offerings which were quite delicious. It didn’t matter; she’d always loved her home, loved the incredible history of places such as the Old Absinthe House, Jackson Square itself, and so much more.

                It was the news, of course, that was disturbing. Supposedly, there had been a bit of a “Rougarou” cult in the city, people thinking that they were creatures, Cajun-French versions of “loups-garous” or werewolves. Of course, they’d all been taken down by law enforcement; and seriously, while New Orleans was like any other big city and had sometimes been known for its crime rate, now it was supposed to be down. Heck! Kids she’d gone to school with were on the police force, and they were good!

                Just walk! She told herself again. Get out of the darkness and down Royal Street, hurry along the blocks, and you’ll reach the Monteleone!

                That’s where they’d been supposed to enjoy their last drink of the night, at the beautiful Carousel Bar! So . . .

                How had she come to be alone . . . here? Claudia had started talking to the bartender, telling them she’d be along soon. Marci had excused herself to take a phone call from her boyfriend who might be able to meet them, and Darcy, hm.

                She’d thought that Darcy had been right behind her.

                She turned.

                And it was then that a dark and eerie shadow seemed to sweep around her . . .

                She opened her mouth to scream. But she could not.

                “And now,” the shadowy darkness whispered, “you are one with us!”

 

Jackson

Pirate’s Alley.

                Situated right by the famed St. Louis Cathedral, the grand dame of Jackson Square. It was right in the heart of the city. Of course, St. Louis Cathedral was beautiful, the oldest cathedral in continuous use in what was now the United States—well, so Jackson had been told—along with the Royal Presidio Chapel out in Monterey. But the point here was that the cathedral was grand, a tourist attraction for those of every religion, and truly, the grand dame of Jackson Square. The Square is a gorgeous patch of green with its equestrian statue of Andrew Jackson, daily offering of fascinating museums, local art, its horseshoe of fabulous shops and restaurants, and more.

Café du Monde was right across the street, and beyond that, the mighty Mississippi.

                “Jackson Crow by Jackson Square,” Detective Jaden Montrell said dryly. “Well, hell, I hear that this city is where your division first came to life, is that true?” he asked.

                “Yep,” Jackson murmured, looking up and down the alley and shaking his head. He turned to Montrell who was, in his opinion, a damned decent detective. He was a man who knew how to use all his resources be it for facts or forensics, or for theories, stories told by the man on the street, or more.

                He’d ordered that there be a man dedicated to the area because the supposed “werewolf” they’d taken into custody had told them that the “witches” in the alley were the ones who had turned him into a Rougarou. But Officer Boyer, on duty during the night, had been distracted by a bar fight, a switch in duty that could not be condemned because one of the combatants had been threatening others with a knife. So . . .

                There they stood, looking along the alley. Then Jackson walked forward hurriedly, frowning as he studied the ground.

                “Maybe nothing happened here last night?” Montrell asked hopefully.

                But Jackson was already shaking his head. “See the ground here—someone was dragged along to the . . .” he broke off, walking quickly along the way to Chartres Street. “Someone was dragged along here.”

                “Someone or maybe just something!” Montrell said. “I mean . . . first, thank you for staying into the holiday weekend, I know . . .”

                His voice trailed and he shook his head. Yes, they’d caught the “Rougarou” killer. And it was hard to believe that someone pretending to be a “witch” had, in the man’s demented mind, turned him into a monster. And while Montrell didn’t want to believe it, in truth he did. And that’s why he was glad that Jackson was there with professional partner and wife, Angela.

                “Ah, Jackson, then what the hell? Okay, say someone was attacked, knocked out, dragged through to the street, and likely once there, was thrown into a vehicle. Where do we go from there? If someone drove out of the area, they could be anywhere by now!”

                And sadly that was true.

                “I think we have a chance of finding out what else is going on,” Jackson told him. “If someone was just taken last night, we have a chance of stopping whatever they’re intending to do.” He took a deep breath. “Angela is at the morgue right now—”

                “I know,” Montrell said, “with the bloodless corpse fished out of the Mississippi at the crack of dawn this morning.”

                He nodded. “This is a two-pronged thing,” Jackson told him. “You have the ‘witch.’ What his or her agenda is, we don’t know. Except they were getting a kick out of creating Cajun werewolves. But they know that those so-called monsters have been caught. They’re going to change this up, or maybe they already had a few pokers in the fire. A bloodless corpse—”

                “Vampires,” Montrell said, sighing. “You know, we have a few legal ‘vampire’ groups around here. They just share bits of their own blood.”

                “Right.”

                “This isn’t a voodoo thing—” Montrell began.

                “I am not suggesting it is. I know a few very legitimate voodoo practitioners here,” Jackson assured him.

                “Right. Yeah. I should know that about you,” Montrell said, looking down the street. But he shook his head in frustration. “So, what the hell do we do? Walk around the city and try to find someone with blood caught in their mustache or dripping down their chin or something like that?”

                “We know that this person has been hiding out in the shadows of Pirate’s Alley. By day, the place is busy and filled with light. When you get into the late, late hours when the bars have actually closed, it gets dark. There’s someone who has been attacking people here. We need to set up a real sting—”

                “And if they see us, they’ll just move their operation.”

                “Not if we get it stopped. Let’s get to the station. I want to meet Angela there and get her and our team of brilliant computer techs on this. People are communicating somehow. There are those creating monsters, and those who have been turned into monsters. And one way or another, that group has been on social media.”

                He didn’t add—couldn’t add, not in the rational world—that they had a bit of unusual help. Out in the bayou, seeking the “rougarou,” they had met a man.

                A dead man. A long dead man. And he was now in the heart of the city with them. The city he had loved in life and protected to this day. A man who had told them how people had appreciated the Lafitte brothers who had brought goods into the city, who taught them great history about the fires that ravaged the area, what had remained, and what had been rebuilt. Alain Laurant had lived during a tumultuous time, but if his spirit was any indication, he had been a good man. And in his spectral form, he remained every bit as willing to help.

                And despite how painful it must have been for him, he was currently at the morgue with Angela.

                “Let’s head in, and I’m going to hope that Angela is the whiz online that I’ve heard her to be!” Montrell said.

                Jackson nodded. Except . . .

He thought about the streets of New Orleans. There were so many street musicians here, and many of them were better than those who might charge large ticket prices to be seen at an arena venue or the like.

Some of them were quite interesting in their musical repertoire, too. He thought of a particular group he and Angela had seen the night they had arrived in the city and just gone walking along Royal Street. They’d called themselves the Shadow Demons. They’d been good, but their music had been heavy metal—nothing wrong in that. He loved lots of heavy metal, but he loved almost any kind of music. But they’d done a number of their own songs, and the lyrics in those songs had included suggestions of “bloody good times” and “death in the darkness and the darkness in death.”

“We need to take a quick stroll here, first,” he told Montrell.

“Oh?”

“Check out some music.”

“Music? Now?”

“We won’t take long. But I have a reason. There’s an interesting group out there that I’d like to hear again.”

“Are they witches?”

“Or maybe vampires,” Jackson said. “We’re a few blocks away. It won’t take long to see if they’re on the streets now or not.”

“Because it may be important, and because . . .

“Yes. Time. It may, once again, be of the essence,” Jackson told him, nodding. “Let’s move!”

And so they did.

Angela

                The woman on the medical examiner’s slab had been in her early forties, Angela thought. Fit, with a form that had been neither heavy nor slim, but that of a woman of about one-hundred and forty pounds who had stood at about five-feet-four. She had slightly graying brown hair and an attractive face—except for one thing.

                Angela had never seen a human being appear so incredibly white.

                “It’s the fact that she’s been drained of just about every single drop of blood,” Dr. Marston, the M.E., told Angela.  The medical examiner was a serious woman in her late thirties, renowned in her field for her ability to fathom a cause of death in every circumstance, pushing for further lab tests when the customary tests failed to give her answers, and she knew that the answers were out there. Now, she evidently knew what Angela was thinking.

                “Sad, so sad,” the ghost of Alain Laurant said softly, standing at Angela’s side.

                There were fang marks on the woman’s neck—just as one might expect from a “vampire” attack.

                Alain didn’t expect an answer from her. Through just about two centuries, Alain had learned that those who saw the dead were few and far between—and they didn’t share their unusual talent with others lest they find themselves locked up.

                “But . . . could those little pricks have—” Angela began.

                “No, but there are machines that can be easily bought that could have been used,” Dr. Marston told her. “Readily available for those who legitimately work in phlebotomy, those who need plasma extractions, and so on. As to why, I have absolutely no idea, but still, whoever did this . . .”

                “Knew something about blood extraction,” Angela finished for her.

                “Exactly.”

                “Thank you,” Angela said, turning to her. “That helps tremendously. We can narrow down a field of suspects.”

                “You have a field?” Dr. Marston asked her.

                “Right now? The entire city and beyond,” Angela admitted, “but thanks to you, we do have some criteria.”

                “I am very glad to be of help,” Dr. Marston said, meaning her words sincerely.

                Angela thanked her again, leaving the morgue with Alain right behind her. She pulled out her phone to call Jackson and discovered he was already on his way to meet her.

                She pretended to keep speaking on the phone so that she could tell Alain, “We’ll head to the police station now. They’ve got a computer I can use to start getting on what we’ve learned. I’ll—”

                “I need you to drop me on Bourbon Street,” Alain told her.

                “Oh?”

                “I want to see if I can pick up any chatter. From there, maybe I’ll head out to Magazine Street, or Frenchman Street . . . you know! Try to hear what I can hear!” he told her. “Trust me,” he said grinning. “I’m no good on a computer!”
               “I will drop you!” she promised him, opening the car door on the passenger side, pretending to set something down so that he could slip in easily. He could, of course, slide into the car on his own. He’d told her once he’d gotten really good at hitchhiking around the city when he wanted. Still she knew, it was easier for him to take a seat if she opened the door for him.

                “Labor Day weekend!” he murmured. “There was no Labor Day in my day. But then again, in my day we came to the point where we all faced the Battle of New Orleans, and our fellow, Jean Lafitte, proved his worth—to a different Jackson!” he added, amused by his own name play.

                “And the battle was won, January 8, 1815!” Angela said, causing him to smile and nod. She was glad her spirit friend had died later in life. He had been, she was certain again, a good man.

                “I’ve got to get back out to Chalmette Battlefield again one of these days—and the park named in honor of our Lafitte!” he said, nodding. “But not today. Today . . . I’m going to get some good gossip, I promise you, word on the street!”

                “And thank you,” she told him.

                He indicated the side street where he wanted her to stop. She did so and he made a face as he “exited” his ghostly form through the car door.

                Smiling, she headed on the police station and greeted those with the force there that she had come to know through the years. Captain Orbach met her quickly and showed her to a small office where she could get on a computer herself. 

                Naturally, she wrote to her techs back at her own headquarters to give them what she knew before getting started herself. Then she plunged in, looking for area stores where the necessary machinery might be purchased along with credit card receipts.  She also searched for those in the area who had training in phlebotomy in any way, who were in medicine and might have knowledge of using the machines and doing comparisons wherever she could. There were records she couldn’t reach easily, but a call to headquarters and the Director could get her just about anything she needed. The records she wanted to access were public, and she wouldn’t be moving into circles that might be construed as illegal in any way.

                Because whoever was doing this had to have a certain skill—maybe not rocket science skill, but enough to know how to obtain large masses of blood in such a controlled manner.

                She’d stumbled upon several people in a chat group who had drawn her attention, one talking about a meeting, about the group being from the area, and having special “bloody” fun because they knew all the whacky stories that might be among the legends of New Orleans.

                She scratched out a few notes; compared her list of screen names, and delved into records for labs, urgent care centers, hospitals, and more. And when she did so, she discovered she just might have names for the “witches” practicing a strange trade in the streets of New Orleans. There were three names that aligned with knowledge of phlebotomy and the group that was ready to have a “bloody good time.” She’d discovered a man working at a lab who had started med school but never finished, getting an online certificate on the web instead. He was Judd Gantry. There was a woman named Celia Osprey in the group; she was an LPN at a local urgent care center, and one more woman, Sheila Hapsburg, a nurse practitioner for a local doctor. And if Angela was right, the three with their slightly twisted screen names were planning on getting together that night. All she needed to do was figure out when and where.

                But she stopped when she saw her dignified spirit friend Alain making his way through the station, looking for her, seeing her, and hurrying through the glass door to reach her. “I heard something, but we need to move!” he told her.

                “What is it?”

                “Please, get the car . . . I mean I could be wrong; it could be nothing. But I think that they’re meeting at the old cemetery the minute darkness falls. Please, we need to go!”

                “Alain, they close the cemeteries at night. You can take ghost tours, but—”

                “Angela, please, this isn’t a tourist cemetery! There’s an old potter’s field that’s just a stone’s throw from the Chalmette Battlefield. Please! I mean, I don’t know if I’d call out the troops, but there was a nurse getting off duty, and she was talking about a ride she was taking, that she had to get moving, she was meeting friends that night. And Angela, she was carrying a strange bag with her and—”

                And Angela was up. She wished Jackson and Jaden had gotten back, but she was armed. And since she didn’t believe in real witches, she wasn’t going to get close enough to anyone to get a needle thrust in her arm to knock her out.

                “Let’s go!” she told Alain.

                In leaving, she told the captain she’d be back and where she was going, just to check out a strange intuition. Of course, as she drove—Alain’s spirit at her side—she called Jackson to tell him where she and Alain were headed.

                “All right, we’ll meet you out there,” Jackson told her. “But this is something that Alain heard on the street—”

                “That coincides with people in a chat room that makes it appear they’re all getting together just as a social thing,” Angela explained. “But these are people who know what they’re doing with the kind of medical machine that removes blood in the way that blood was removed from the poor creature drawn out of the Mississippi!”

                “We’ll get there as quickly as we can. We were on Royal Street, looking for that group we saw playing the other night,” Jackson told her.  

                “Did you talk to anyone?” Angela asked him.

                “They weren’t out on the street. We’re heading to the car.”

                “See you at the cemetery,” Angela said, and they ended the call.

                “Old potter’s field,” Alain said as they ended the car. Then he shrugged and looked over at her. “The St. Louis cemeteries . . . they didn’t come into being until 1789. People call it the oldest extant cemetery in New Orleans. But people died before then; there were burial grounds long before, and . . .”

                “I know. They originally buried people at the St. Peter’s Street cemetery,” Angela told him. “And there are rumors that many people probably remain beneath the ground beneath homes, restaurants, bars—”

                “Many not many many!” Alain said, smiling at her, “but there have been circumstances in building homes, add-ons, pools . . . when remains have been discovered. The dead had to make way for the living. And way back then, St. Louis Cemetery was out of the main city, to keep the essence of death far from the main flow of human life. Way back, the French created a settlement here when the ground was unwelcoming, when flooding was frequent. And in my mind, New Orleans became an amazing city, through three flags, through trials and tribulations, wars, slavery, freedom—and to this day, a time when men and women of good heart and decency still try to create a world in which all are equal. So with that said, you still have . . .” He looked at her and shrugged, a frown on his face. “Humanity, those ill within their minds. In this case—witches!”

                “And I know nothing of this cemetery,” Angela said, shaking her head. “I have been to Lafayette Cemetery in the Garden District, St. Louis number one, number two, and number three—but I didn’t even know about this one.”

                “It’s near Holt Cemetery which was established in 1879 for those . . . well, as a Potter’s Field. Dr. Joseph Holt and others were involved in the creation of Storyville; they were concerned with the diseases that were running rampant in the city and wanted to get control of . . .”

                “Prostitution?” Angela suggested, amused, but also respectful of the fact that in Alain’s day, it was polite to be circumspect. “I love the city; I’ve studied lots of history,” she assured him.

                “C’est vrai, it’s true. Right, of course,” Alain said, smiling at her. Her ghost was such a dignified older man in his eighteenth-century dress, his decorum in sitting so very straight. And yet he could smile with a sweet charm that told her again that in life, he must have been an amazing and very good man.

                “The Liliana Cemetery is just a few blocks away. It’s much smaller, and still privately owned by the family. Liliana was a girl who got caught up with the curse of alcohol; her father tried what they now call ‘tough love’ on her and cut her off. She turned to prostitution and was very popular in Storyville. When she died, her father’s grief was horrible, and thus he created the cemetery just for her and then friends who died poor. It was held by the family for years and is now owned by a subsidiary company that just keeps up enough maintenance so that the city doesn’t come down on them. Many of the graves are in ground, but there are still a few single above ground tombs, some incredible cemetery art, and special vaults in the cemetery and . . . turn left. We’re almost there!”          

                Angela did as she was directed, quickly pulling to the side of the road. The little cemetery was surrounded by a low stone fence. She decided it was better to park at the side and hop over the little fence than to announce their arrival by driving through the entry.

                Angela took a moment to determine the layout of the cemetery. Most of the people buried here had been poor; the graves were mainly simple and in-ground burials. But the graveyard was also scattered with above-ground tombs, and there were a few rows of the vaults that had created the name for many of the cemeteries of “Cities of the Dead.”

                One vault stood a bit back; and as she watched, Angela saw someone slip into the vault. She thought they were wearing green trousers and a matching shirt . . .

                Just as many people in the medical field wore for their uniforms.

                “That was her, the nurse or aide or whatever with the box, and I think . . . I think it may be some kind of equipment. You know, as the medical examiner was telling us—you, rather, since she didn’t see me!” Alain said.

                “All right, let’s see what’s going on.”

                Angela leapt over the little wall and quickly moved more deeply into the cemetery, reaching the wall of vaults where she could find cover until she knew just what she was up against.

                “I was right,” Alain repeated. “Darkness is about to fall and everything around here—what there is—is closing and . . . something is happening! Can you see?”

                “There’s not much light from the street, but there is the moon and look! On that tomb . . . that big tomb by the vault! Oh, my God!”

                Between two rows of the vault there was a large, free standing above-ground tomb, one that evidently been planned for two people or two coffins. It was evidently old, and now was chipping, graying concrete. But it had been decorated with some kind of black flowers at the edges while it had been covered with a length of black silk.

                People had emerged from the vault that she’d just seen the person enter. Now they were wearing capes, except that one of them was stumbling, helped between two of the others, while someone else was carrying someone who was evidently unconscious.

                Angela controlled her urge to confront them immediately. She needed to see what was going on. She didn’t even know if the person was dead or alive.

                They laid the non-moving person on the large expanse of the above ground tomb. It was a woman. The man who had set her down spread her hair out so that it stretched in long beautiful locks across the area where her head lay.

                Then there was more light, because another of the caped figures stepped forward to light two lanterns, the old kind that had candles within them. Those were set at the foot of the old concrete tomb.

                “Careful, careful,” Alain murmured.

                “I know, I know . . . sh!”

                The person, who had carried the woman now stretched out on the tomb, stood up . And the woman who had been helped along by others was led up to stand by the upper body of the woman on the tomb.

                Then the man who had carried the woman to the slab threw out his arms and announced, “Lily Morgan! We are your friends, your family now. Those sworn to keep you alive; and thus, dear Lily, you must start. We have fixed your mouth that you might dine, and we will guide you to first taste the blood of this disbeliever!”

                “That’s it!” Angela announced. She drew her weapon and stepped from the shelter of the tomb walls where she’d been hiding.

                Alain was right behind her.

                “Stop it! Stop it right now! FBI, and you’re all under arrest for murder and attempted murder!”

                She strode angrily toward the group.

                The staggering woman—apparently Lily Morgan, convinced that she’d been turned into a vampire—screamed and fell.

                One of the cloaked figures turned to run.

                “Stop!” Angela demanded. The figure did not do so. Shaking her head, she fired for the person’s calf.

                She was a good aim; a scream brought the person down.

                But to Angela’s surprise, the man who was apparently the leader of the pack began to laugh. And then two things happened at once.

                Alain shouted out a warning.

                “From the vault, there’s another!”

                And she heard a shot. It was a warning shot, one that whizzed by her head.

                Either that, or the person was horrible at aiming.

                But she had a gun, and so did this new arrival—also wearing one of the ridiculous capes.

                “What a sweet treat you will be, the blood of such a beauty! Out vampire nation will love every sweet ounce of the blood you will provide!” he said.

                “Oh, not likely,” Angela assured him. “Have you friend drop his weapon. I really hate killing people, but if I’m forced—”

                “Then another of our number will step from the vault! Toss your weapon down. I can see to it that you’re not in any pain, and through you, others may live!” the leader announced.

                To prove his point, yet another of the cloaked figures stepped from the vault.

                But she wasn’t really outnumbered, and she knew it. She knew it because there was something beyond the bonds of the mortal world that she had and they did not.

                “They’re here, they’re here, Jackson and Jaden!” Alain whispered to her.

                She gave the so-called witches a sweet smile. “Really? You can make this all so much easier for me?” she asked.

                Time.

                She was playing for time. Because of the help she was receiving from a dead man, she knew to play it all out.

                “Come, sweet beauty, come to me!” the leader said. “Come to me, and I will teach you all that can be truly beautiful!”

                She took a hesitant step, hopefully making him believe she was doing as told.

                “Come, come, closer . . . closer.”     

                Tiny step by tiny step . . .

                And then, she could end all pretense. Because she heard Jackson shout out, and she saw he had slipped behind one of the armed figures just as Jaden had stepped behind the others. They had the noses of their weapons pressed to the hooded heads.

                “Yeah, you got it. Drop it. Drop it now!” Jackson ordered.

                With two guns at their heads and another across the tombs, the caped figures immediately did as they had been ordered.

                And even as they did so, a burst of sirens could be heard in the night.

                The leader began to swear; he turned to run.

                “Oh, no, no, no!” Angela said, taking after him in a flash.

                He was fast, but she was faster. She flew against his back, forcing him down to the ground. He tried to fight her. She used all that she had learned in the academy and slammed one elbow against his chin, almost knocking him out.

                “I know who you are!” she said, shaking her head. “You’re Judd Gantry!”

“What? You can’t know—” he said, stuttering.

“Okay, you didn’t cut it in medical school, so you decided you should become a witch? Oh, come on!” Angela said, shaking her head. It was so senseless. The man was young, late twenties, maybe. Dark haired and fit and . . . he should have been able to make a life for himself!

                “What are you, an idiot? Certain people need to let themselves become monsters—then they can get rid of those who need to die!” he told her. “And you think you know! You think you’re the great defender of all, even if they’re horrible! No, no, no, lady, you can’t begin to imagine just how many monsters you may not be remembering! You’re crazy, you’re crazy!”

                She just shook her head again and realized Jackson was standing behind her, and the police were now flooding the cemetery. The hooded figures were all being taken into custody. She let Jackson help her up as an officer in uniform came to cuff the man she’d taken down.

                “The woman on the tomb—” she began.

                “EMTs are on the way,” Jackson assured her. “And that other woman Jaden is helping from the ground . . . she’s been given some kind of major hallucinatory drug, I think.”

                “Oh, my God, we need to—”               

                “Angela, look, they’re already here.”

                And they were.

EMTs were helping the woman who had been stretched out on the tomb, the woman they had called Lily Morgan, and even the figure she’d shot in the leg.

                Jackson looked at Angela, shaking his head.

                “Couldn’t wait for us, eh?” he asked her, but he was smiling.

                She hesitated. But Jaden, the local lead on the case, had moved away to give instructions to a few of his officers.

                “We weren’t sure that anything was happening! I just came out to see if there was anyone out here, and then . . .”

                He laughed, pulling her to him. “And you might have saved a life in those few minutes, so . . . yeah, we got through this a lot. But you tend to prevail. So now . . . “

                It was her turn to laugh.

                “Paperwork!”

                “It always exists. And then. . . well, we’re going to need to find out how far this thing has stretched. The media will be on it. Jaden is already worried about protecting the city and . . .”

                He broke off, smiling, because Alain had come over by them.

                “Time to give you our deepest thanks again,” Jackson told him.

                “My city, my pleasure. But you know, if you want to hang around in a good cemetery, I’ll be happy to show you my family’s vault and . . . and my own resting place,” Alain told them.

                “You’re not resting a whole lot,” Jackson told him. “Something for which we’re entirely grateful.”

                “I do enjoy being useful! And . . . I see the light sometimes. And I’m tempted. But you two have a habit of showing up back here, I’ve been told. So, I believe I’ll keep up what I’m doing for a few more years. And I do love seeing games on those wide screen TVs in some of the bars!”

                Angela and Jackson both smiled, and Angela told him.

                “Alain, we are both grateful, and more grateful still to know you’re here when we might need you in the future!”

                He smiled and nodded and told them, “I just ran into an old friend who is interred back in one of the old vaults. We’re going to go catch up. Because, thankfully, I can be a big help without all the paperwork!”

                He left them just as Jared arrived to remind them things were being wrapped up there and that, yes . . .

                Paperwork!

                And of course, it took all night.

But in the morning, Angela decided that even if it was only for a very short time, they could fly their kids, Corby and Victoria, along with Mary Tiger, their amazing household assistant, down to the city they all loved so much.

And by late afternoon of the next day, there were no more monsters to catch—for the moment at least. Though, of course, there were the dire warnings they’d received about all the monsters they hadn’t begun to remember yet.

They had learned, long ago, to enjoy every moment that was good, every precious moment spent with family and friends and all that was wonderful in life. It was a short flight, and they could get the family down quickly.

They had picked them up by late afternoon.

That evening, they decided on a carriage ride through the city and then a restful night in the hotel. Because they were going to wake up early and have a full day. They planned to first go to the Audubon Aquarium of the Americas, loving everything they saw—even though they’d been there before—and then on to the Audubon Zoo. The two were Angela’s favorite things to do in the city with young people.

At the zoo when Angela shook her head and smiled, she started to explain to Corby and Victoria why she loved it so much.

“I came as a kid. And then when I was a little older, my dad showed me a movie called ‘Cat People,’ with David Bowie . . . oh, I guess, you don’t know who—”

“Ah, Mom, c’mon! Yes, we know who David Bowie is!” her teenaged son assured her, and she and Jackson just laughed. “And we want to see that movie, too. Even if it is old!”

They had a great time because the zoo was as wonderful as the aquarium, just like so many more of the city’s amazing museums and attractions.

“Tonight,” she said later to the kids, “we can head out to the Adventure Quest and Laser Tag and More or there’s putt-putt or bowling or—”

“Beignets at Café du Monde!” Victoria told her.

“Wow! Very, very touristy,” Jackson said.

“And still really cool,” Corby told him. “There will be music on the streets, too!”

“There will be,” Jackson said, glancing at Angela.

Because Detective Jaden Montrell had informed them that Jackson’s instincts had been right.

Two members of the intriguing group they had watched, the Shadow Demons, had proven to be part of the group determined to be “witches” and create legendary “monsters” had belonged to the band.

The woman who had been unconscious on the tomb, a visitor from New York, Margaret Vestry, who had been about to give her life’s blood to appease the so-called vampires in the group was going to be fine. She had simply been sedated, just as the “vampire” meant to start the attack, a local girl, Lily Morgan, was going to be fine.

And that certainly was wonderful to hear.

Did they have them all? They didn’t know. But for the moment . . .

“Beignets at Café du Monde!” Angela said, and smiling at Jackson she added, “And a chance to enjoy my love for this city that will never end!”