Chapter 4 Predator’s Mirror

Detective Morrow

The air between us changed, charged with something beyond the cat-and-mouse game we were playing. Her pupils dilated slightly, and I wondered if she could hear my heartbeat quicken. Not from fear—I'd moved beyond fear of her kind years ago—but from something more primal. More dangerous.

"Let's just say the Midnight Coterie has been on my radar for some time," I said quietly, watching her face freeze into perfect stillness. "Though this is my first opportunity to speak with a member directly."

Her recovery was impressive—a slight widening of the eyes, a soft laugh that would have sounded genuine to anyone who hadn't spent years studying her kind.

"I'm not familiar with that organization," she said, feigning ignorance. "Is it some sort of social club?"

"In a manner of speaking." I reached for my coffee again, using the movement to slide my sleeve up further, revealing more of the protective symbols inked into my skin. "They've been around since the city's founding. Very exclusive membership. Historical preservation, I believe, is their official purpose."

The room's temperature seemed to drop several degrees. Iris maintained her composure, but her eyes had gone flat, calculating. The predator was no longer playing.

"You seem to have an unusual interest in local history for a homicide detective," she said, her voice lower now, the cultivated warmth replaced by something ancient and cold.

"Homicide?" I raised an eyebrow. "I don't recall mentioning anything about homicide, Ms. Laroque. This is a missing person's case."

Her mistake hung in the air between us—a pivot in the perfect facade.

"A natural assumption," she recovered. "Why else would a detective be investigating a missing bartender with such... intensity?"

I placed my empty cup down and stood, forcing her to look up at me. "Maybe because bodies have been turning up drained of blood across the city. Or perhaps because witnesses describe seeing a dark-haired woman in the vicinity of several victims, there could be certain patterns emerging that suggest someone in the Coterie has broken the rules."

She rose to her feet in a single fluid motion that no human could achieve, bringing us face to face. No pretense of humanity now. Her eyes had darkened, pupils expanding until only a thin ring of color remained.

"You're playing a dangerous game, Detective," she hissed. "Knowledge like yours has consequences."

"So does killing humans within city limits," I countered. "I thought the Coterie had strict rules about that. Self-preservation and all."

Something flashed across her face—confusion? Genuine surprise? She was an exceptional actress, or something more complex was happening here.

"Whatever you think you know—" she began.

"I know there's a dead man in your bedroom," I interrupted, finally getting to the reveal. "I can smell the blood from here. What I don't know is whether you're breaking the Coterie's rules intentionally or whether something else is happening." I took a calculated risk. "These blackouts you're experiencing—they're new, aren't they?"

She flinched as if I'd struck her. For the first time since I'd arrived, genuine emotion registered on her face.

"How could you possibly—" She stopped herself, composure returning like a mask sliding back into place.

"I know what you are." I reached into my pocket and withdrew not a badge or a gun, but a small vial of clear liquid. "This is holy water blessed by a Vodouisant mambo, not a Catholic priest. The real thing, not the watered-down tourist version. Would you like to test my theories further?"

Her eyes fixed on the vial, her body tensing almost imperceptibly. We stood in silence, the air between us thick with unspoken threats and unexpected recognition. Predator recognizing predator, though of different species.

"What do you want?" she jeered, her voice barely audible.

"The truth." I returned the vial to my pocket. "Something's happening in this city—something beyond the usual supernatural background noise. The murders are escalating, and they're sloppier than the Coterie would normally allow. Either you've gone rogue, or something is affecting you. Either way, I need to know."

"Why are you assuming it's me?" Her eyes narrowed. "And, why would a human detective care about Coterie politics?"

I smiled without humor. "Who said I was a human?"

Her gaze dropped to the tattoos visible at my wrist, then back to my face, seeing me—really seeing me—for the first time.

"You're hunting something," she drawled. "Something more dangerous than me."

"Maybe." I glanced toward the ceiling. "But right now, we have a more immediate problem cooling in your bedroom. And decisions to make about what happens next."

The façade of a genteel hostess was completely gone now, replaced by the calculating predator I'd expected to find. I was surprised to see uncertainty in her eyes, suggesting that Iris Laroque, known as Beaumont after her marriage to Pete Beaumont in the recent century, an ancient vampire and a member of the Coterie, was perhaps as perplexed by the recent deaths as I was.

"I didn't kill those other people," she said, and the shocking part was that I believed her. "I don't kill. I drink. Though I do have a corpse in my bed, I'm not sure I drained him."

"Memory gaps?" I asked. "Blackouts?"

She stared at me, suspicion warring with desperate curiosity. "I'm not sure."

"Not sure because you don't want to answer. Or not sure because you can't remember. You're not the only one it's happening to." I held her gaze. "And if we don't figure out what's causing it, the bodies will continue to pile up until even New Orleans can't ignore what's happening in its shadows."

Something shifted between us—not trust, exactly, but recognition of mutual necessity. Her hand moved almost unconsciously to her throat, an oddly human gesture from a creature who'd left humanity behind centuries ago.

"Come upstairs," she finally said, turning toward the doorway. "If we're going to discuss this further, you might as well see what we're dealing with."

I followed her toward the staircase, my hand resting on the vial in my pocket. I didn't fear death anymore, so it was not fear that drove me, but rather practicality. The rules of the game we were playing had just been completely altered. Whether that made us reluctant allies or more dangerous adversaries remained to be seen.

One thing was sure: whatever was happening in New Orleans had just become significantly more complicated.