ignorant of each other and Bad Seed’s existence, let alone their own participation—were now dead or entombed in prisons. E and Dante were the only two still roaming free.
Ronin looked up and over the heads of some of the people encircling him. He saw Dante a block ahead of him, stopped in front of the light-filled and glittering Harrah’s, next to the black iron fence near the entrance.
Muscles tightening in anticipation, Ronin slowed his pace, allowing his camouflage group to trundle across the street without him. A vendor sat on a metal folding chair next to a street-light, his wares—colorful MARDI GRAS! T-shirts, plastic beads, and other bits of cheap jewelry—displayed on a sheet spread out on the sidewalk.
Ronin stopped and looked over the vendor’s goods, pretending a mild interest. What was Dante doing? he wondered, his gaze skipping from DRUNK ON BOURBON STREET Ts to ’gator charm bracelets. Meeting someone? Planning to play the slots?
“This one be real pop’lar,” the vendor, a black man in his midtwenties, said eagerly. He held up a shirt reading SHOW ME YOUR TITTIES! “Fresh batch. I keep sellin’ out of ‘em.”
“Ah,” Ronin murmured. “No doubt.” He glanced up the street.
Dante leaned against the fence, his hands gripping the railing behind him. He stood near the double-globed streetlight, but not directly beneath it, his face hood-hidden. Light danced across his leather pants and winked from his rings and hoops and bracelets. His head was bowed, his shaded gaze on the sidewalk.
People flowing in, out, and past Harrah’s glanced at him. More than a few paused and stared until nudged into motion by a less-dazzled companion.
“Maybe this one’s more to your liking? Sir?”
Ronin forced his gaze away from Dante. The vendor held up a shirt proclaiming LAISSEZ LES BONS TEMPS ROULLER. Let the good times roll . Ronin nodded.
“That one. How much?”
“Ten, sir. Cash only.”
As Ronin tugged his wallet free of his hip pocket, he darted another glance up the street. Two men in jeans and Saints sweatshirts paused near Dante. They leaned in close to one another, hands gesturing, their conversation intense. One pointed across Canal street toward the French Quarter. The other shook his head, then looked toward the casino.
Dante lifted his head, his pale hands pushing his hood back. He slid his shades off and looped them through his studded belt. The mortal froze, mouth open. A smile tilted Dante’s lips, wicked and oh-so-inviting. The man gripped his friend’s forearm and squeezed. Swinging his head around, the friend looked and went still also, mesmerized by the moonlit slice of sexual fantasy leaning against the fence.
Ronin looked away. Excitement shook his hands as he slid a ten out of his wallet and handed it to the vendor.
Dante was hunting.
Snatching the T-shirt from the vendor’s hands, Ronin tucked one end of it into his hip pocket and started up the sidewalk. He forced himself to walk slowly. He still couldn’t afford to call attention to himself, especially near a hyper-alert and, undoubtedly, territorial vampire on the hunt.
Both mortals had recovered enough from their first glimpse of Dante’s breath-stealing beauty to sidle in on either side of him, their bodies nearly touching. Their hungry, somewhat predatory, stance amused Ronin. They spoke to Dante, smiling, their gestures friendly. One displayed a wad of cash.
Ronin paused at a store window. He was close enough now that Dante would feel his presence if he wasn’t careful. He tamped his aura down tight, stilled his questing mind. Blood surged through his veins electrified, adrenalized. For a moment, his thoughts spun, and he shook his head, perplexed. What had come over him? He prized control—the essence of strength and self-rule.
Dante. True Blood. Vampire aristocracy.
He looked up the street again. Dante walked away with the mortals, one still on either side of him. The men glanced at each other.
Ronin looked up and over the heads of some of the people encircling him. He saw Dante a block ahead of him, stopped in front of the light-filled and glittering Harrah’s, next to the black iron fence near the entrance.
Muscles tightening in anticipation, Ronin slowed his pace, allowing his camouflage group to trundle across the street without him. A vendor sat on a metal folding chair next to a street-light, his wares—colorful MARDI GRAS! T-shirts, plastic beads, and other bits of cheap jewelry—displayed on a sheet spread out on the sidewalk.
Ronin stopped and looked over the vendor’s goods, pretending a mild interest. What was Dante doing? he wondered, his gaze skipping from DRUNK ON BOURBON STREET Ts to ’gator charm bracelets. Meeting someone? Planning to play the slots?
“This one be real pop’lar,” the vendor, a black man in his midtwenties, said eagerly. He held up a shirt reading SHOW ME YOUR TITTIES! “Fresh batch. I keep sellin’ out of ‘em.”
“Ah,” Ronin murmured. “No doubt.” He glanced up the street.
Dante leaned against the fence, his hands gripping the railing behind him. He stood near the double-globed streetlight, but not directly beneath it, his face hood-hidden. Light danced across his leather pants and winked from his rings and hoops and bracelets. His head was bowed, his shaded gaze on the sidewalk.
People flowing in, out, and past Harrah’s glanced at him. More than a few paused and stared until nudged into motion by a less-dazzled companion.
“Maybe this one’s more to your liking? Sir?”
Ronin forced his gaze away from Dante. The vendor held up a shirt proclaiming LAISSEZ LES BONS TEMPS ROULLER. Let the good times roll . Ronin nodded.
“That one. How much?”
“Ten, sir. Cash only.”
As Ronin tugged his wallet free of his hip pocket, he darted another glance up the street. Two men in jeans and Saints sweatshirts paused near Dante. They leaned in close to one another, hands gesturing, their conversation intense. One pointed across Canal street toward the French Quarter. The other shook his head, then looked toward the casino.
Dante lifted his head, his pale hands pushing his hood back. He slid his shades off and looped them through his studded belt. The mortal froze, mouth open. A smile tilted Dante’s lips, wicked and oh-so-inviting. The man gripped his friend’s forearm and squeezed. Swinging his head around, the friend looked and went still also, mesmerized by the moonlit slice of sexual fantasy leaning against the fence.
Ronin looked away. Excitement shook his hands as he slid a ten out of his wallet and handed it to the vendor.
Dante was hunting.
Snatching the T-shirt from the vendor’s hands, Ronin tucked one end of it into his hip pocket and started up the sidewalk. He forced himself to walk slowly. He still couldn’t afford to call attention to himself, especially near a hyper-alert and, undoubtedly, territorial vampire on the hunt.
Both mortals had recovered enough from their first glimpse of Dante’s breath-stealing beauty to sidle in on either side of him, their bodies nearly touching. Their hungry, somewhat predatory, stance amused Ronin. They spoke to Dante, smiling, their gestures friendly. One displayed a wad of cash.
Ronin paused at a store window. He was close enough now that Dante would feel his presence if he wasn’t careful. He tamped his aura down tight, stilled his questing mind. Blood surged through his veins electrified, adrenalized. For a moment, his thoughts spun, and he shook his head, perplexed. What had come over him? He prized control—the essence of strength and self-rule.
Dante. True Blood. Vampire aristocracy.
He looked up the street again. Dante walked away with the mortals, one still on either side of him. The men glanced at each other.
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