In the name of duty, I’ll pump them for information. As Rune had answered so many times over the millennia: “It is done, my liege.”
FOUR
New Orleans
PRESENT DAY
Oh, gods, Rune, so close! Pleasepleasepleaseohgods, yes, yes, YESSSSSS!”
When Jo’s super-hearing picked up a third woman screaming her way to ecstasy—from the same location—her curiosity got piqued.
Time to finish up with the guy she was strangling.
She’d pinned him up against a brick wall, unmoved as he squirmed. He’d come into her territory, carrying a pimp cane?
In Jo’s mind, pimp cane signaled open season. Then the fucker had used it on a prostitute, a girl younger than Jo. The chick huddled on the curb, cheek swelling as she watched Jo delivering punishment.
“You gonna come back here?” Jo asked, though he couldn’t answer. She squeezed till things broke; this guy’s windpipe was crushed. “Huh?”
Staring at her eyes, he tried to shake his head.
“You do. You die. Get me?” He attempted a nod. “And if you ever hit a woman again, I’ll come for you. You’ll wake up with me hovering over you in your bed, your very own nightmare.” She flashed her fangs and hissed.
He started to urinate—occupational hazard—so she tossed him across the adjoining parking lot.
The girl gazed up at Jo. “Thanks, Lady Shady.”
My moniker. Somehow Jo’s alter ego had morphed into some weird-ass villain protector of prostitutes. Could be worse. “Yeah. S’cool.”
As Jo dusted off her hands, she heard another scream. “Rune! Rune! YES!”
All three ecstatic women had called out that Rune guy’s name. This I gotta see.
Though the girl was watching her, Jo went into ghost-mode. Invisible and intangible, she headed down Bourbon Street toward the screams, her feet never touching the ground.
Since she’d arrived in the city a few months ago, she’d been doing a lot of spying. The uncanny things—and beings—she’d witnessed here had lit a hope in her she hadn’t felt in years.
No longer did she gaze at the stars, losing herself in dreams of having her brother back with her. No longer did she pass endless days and nights¸ zoning out with comics or TV.
Jo was zoning in.
A wasted pedestrian stumbled through her, and shuddered. So did she. Tourists were rank. They sweated like crazy, gorged on mudbugs and garlic bread, and boozed to kingdom come, like pre-detonated puke grenades.
Would she puke if she drank from them?
She’d never bitten anybody. The smell—of whatever the guy had eaten for dinner, or the starch from his collar, or the slobbery pets he’d cuddled—warded her off. Or worse, he’d reek of cologne.
Axe cologne.
How could she put her tongue on skin saturated with that crap? Until someone invented a fang condom, she’d continue stealing from the blood bank.
A few blocks off Bourbon, she came upon a high-walled courtyard. A water fountain splashed within. The woman was screaming even louder; the sound of slapping skin quickened.
Hmm. Maybe Jo could possess one of the participants, live vicariously through her. Aside from an initial shudder, the “shells” never knew she was inside.
Or Jo could pick their pockets. Her rent-by-the-week motel room was filled with loot. She pretended each stolen prize was a gift to her—a bridge to get to know someone better—just as she pretended each possession was a visit.
A connection.
Having never made a friend before, how could she know the difference?
Her compulsions to steal and to possess others had grown worse lately. Maybe she needed a real connection. She’d had so little real interaction she wondered if she’d been resurrected at all.
Sometimes, she had nightmares about floating away. Who would even notice her absence?
As Jo eased toward the entry of the courtyard, a fourth woman’s voice sounded: “It’s so good, Rune! My gods in heavens! YES! Never stop, never stop! Never, NEVER!”
Jo floated to the cracked-open wooden gate, peeking around to see a wicked scene.
A half-dressed blonde was pressed against the ivy-covered courtyard wall by a tall dark-haired man with his pants at his thighs. The woman’s lithe legs wrapped around his waist as he bounced her.
Must be Rune. What kind of name was that?
Three other stunning women were sprawled naked on a lounge sofa, heavy-lidded as they watched him pounding the fourth.
This guy had just screwed them all? Line ’em up and knock ’em down? Ugh. Forget possessing any of them.
Jo floated to the side to see him better. He looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties, and apparently he had serious stamina. He was attractive, she supposed. His eyes were nice, the color of dark plums, and she liked his thick black hair. It was carelessly cut and longish, with random small braids. But he had rough-hewn features—a fighter’s crooked nose and a too-wide jaw.
His long, lean body, however, was smoking hot. He must be nearing seven feet tall, would tower over her five and a half feet, and every inch of him was ripped. A thin shirt highlighted his broad chest and chiseled arms. His bared ass was rock-hard. His powerful thighs would nicely fill out those black leather pants bunched above his knees.
He had a bow slung over his back and a quiver strapped to his calf. A knife holster was clipped to his wide-open belt.
She shrugged; she’d witnessed weirder things on Bourbon Street. If he pulled out a little more, she’d be able to see his dick—