He wasn’t sure that he had ever claimed to be one. Growing up potato-poor in Ireland, he had learned that his fists spoke volumes, and that stealing a loaf of bread filled his hungry belly faster than trying to find work that didn’t exist. Then when he’d come to the States with Stella in the twenties, he had taken those lessons and applied them to running with the Chicago mob. In his immortal life, he had set aside crime and violence, and had established a pretty firm personal code of ethics, but that didn’t mean he knew a whole lot about which fork to use and putting out his pinky and shit like that.
So he just agreed with her. “Probably not.”
She gasped. “We had an agreement to meet at seven, and you did not attend our meeting. Not to mention that Dieter informed me you have stolen your drum set.”
“I can’t steal what I already own. Look, I didn’t want to deal with this today. I’m sorry I no-showed on you, but I didn’t want to sit there and answer questions for five hours when I had a wedding to go to. If I have a key to my apartment, and can tell you where everything is, and a couple dozen witnesses can back me up that I’m Johnny Malone, I don’t see what the big deal is. Just take me off the list and we can forget this ever happened. You can even keep the twelve hundred bucks if it will get the VA off my back.” The longer he spoke, the more irritated he felt. Seriously, where did they get off?
“That is not the way it works, as we discussed.” It was clear she was struggling to contain her frustration.
“Well, why do I have to follow their dumb rules anyway? I didn’t vote for any of those douchebags. This isn’t a democracy.”
Her face blanched. “We exist to ensure we continue to exist. Rules are in place to guarantee the safety of each and every one of our kind.”
“I think we’re doing just fine on our own. Here in New Orleans, people don’t give a shit if you’re a vampire. It’s cool to be a vampire, hip even.”
“You tell people the truth?” She sounded shocked to the core, and she actually swayed a little on her heels.
“No, not outright. But if we did, no one would believe us. They would just think we were pretending. Being a ‘vampire’ is part of a fetish lifestyle. People get fang implants and drink blood and dress Goth all over the city—and all over the country for that matter. This isn’t the Middle Ages, it’s a freaking great time to be a vampire. We’re trendy.” He had to say, he loved it. It made life a lot easier than trying to be something he wasn’t. “I think it’s awesome that Saxon could marry a mortal. If she makes him happy, he should enjoy it while he can.” Before Zelda got old and wrinkly and couldn’t lift her crop anymore.
“This is a mixed wedding?” Lizette looked like she might faint.
He frowned. “Sweetie, that sounds racist.”
“We can’t marry mortals. We can’t. It’s the antithesis of everything the VA stands for. I am shocked at the utter disregard for rules and self-preservation going on here. I can only tell you that my report back to my superiors will recommend a full investigation into the coven here and your misconduct.”
Oh God. And he meant that most sincerely. He had just accidentally opened up Pandora’s Parisian box in the form of Lizette Chastain, and everyone he knew was going to kill him if the Vampire Alliance suddenly showed up in New Orleans, taking attendance and inspecting their quarters. “I think coven is a strong word. We’re just a cover band.”
She kept swallowing and blinking, and Johnny was actually starting to worry about her. It looked like she was having some kind of aneurysm, which was of course, impossible. “Can I get you a drink? You look like you’re overheated or something.”
At first she started to shake her head, but then changed her mind. “Actually, yes, I would, thank you.”
“Just stand here for a second. I’ll get you a drink and a chair.” She was actually scaring him a little. He didn’t really know what the hell was wrong with her. Vampires didn’t get sick, but she looked feverish.
It occurred to him maybe she needed to feed, but he could only imagine her reaction to his suggesting she have some blood to drink.
Which left him only the shitty sherbet punch to give her. Gag. Even as he lifted the ladle and scooped it, he wanted to hurl a little. But he poured two glasses in case she really was dehydrated, went under the skirt of the table where Stella had left her messenger bag, and pulled a bag of blood out of it. His sister was always prepared. Pouring a little in each glass, he figured it was enough to cut off the urge to feed, but not enough to make Lizette even realize she was drinking it until she had already swallowed. He sniffed it. There was a slight hint of blood, but maybe she would be so thirsty she wouldn’t question it.