Bitten in the Big Easy

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An Excerpt From: BITTEN IN THE BIG EASY

Copyright © DELILAH DEVLIN & PAISLEY SMITH, 2011

All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc.

Butterfly

Paisley Smith

Flipping open her cell phone, Narcissa shot her sister a text. Am here. Where r u?

She looked around the bar once more, just to make certain Elena wasn’t already here scoping out prey. Two guys, obviously tourists, sat under a television, watching a baseball game. Another man removed a business card from among the thousands thumb-tacked to the wall. Blandly curious, Narcissa focused until the words on the card converged into clear view. Madame LaVeux’s Escort Service. “Everybody’s looking for something,” she muttered aloud as her gaze paused on a café au lait-skinned beauty sitting alone at a table.

Immediately, Narcissa’s attention riveted to the woman’s luscious pair of tits straining to be contained in a tight tank, with cleavage up to her chin and dark, suckable nipples visible through the mass of corkscrew curls meandering around the swollen mounds. Curvy and succulent, the woman stared back, her eyes glimmering gold in the spotlight coming from the area where the band played.

Narcissa gave her a smile and lifted her glass in silent salute. The unsmiling woman gave her one knowing nod. But she wouldn’t be Narcissa’s dessert. The Creole babe was exactly Elena’s type. Narcissa couldn’t help but shimmer with smug pleasure. Wouldn’t her sister be thrilled that she’d saved one for her—for once?

But there was something about the woman that—

“Our bass player’s gonna sing the last one,” a voice rang out over the crowd. “Give it up for Butterfly Baudelaire!”

Narcissa’s attention flicked to where a four-member band moved about on a small raised platform. The group’s bass player, a black-haired hottie, changed places with the lead singer, sidling up to the microphone then checking the knobs on her instrument. Wearing a black tank that showed off her squared shoulders and muscular, half-sleeve-tattooed arms, and a pair of shiny tight pants that fit her long, lean legs like a snake’s skin, everything about this little Butterfly called to Narcissa.

Now, this one is my type.

Wide belts draped around the girl’s boyishly narrow hips. A super-short haircut and black combat boots completed the butch beauty’s ensemble.

“Two, three, four!” She counted the band off with authority as her fingers plucked the bass strings, kicking off the first measures of a heart-thumping, bluesy song. Butterfly practically caressed the mic with her lips, leaning her head to one side so that her black bangs fell across her eyes, before opening her mouth to sing. Her voice rang out, raw and sexy, as gritty as Bourbon Street itself.

Intrigued, Narcissa watched, propping one elbow on the bar and crossing her legs so that her knees aimed at the sultry singer. And then Butterfly’s stare lifted and pinned Narcissa, unfurling through the vampire like the intoxicating warmth of the absinthe flowing into her body. Like blood.

Just the thought of disappearing into a darkened corner with this lip-smackingly Sapphic songbird made Narcissa’s barely there panties dampen. And not just that. Now she had a raging fang-on.

A trickle of perspiration trailed down the side of Butterfly’s face and Narcissa licked her lips at the thought of letting her tongue follow that salty trace right down to—

Bite marks?

Narcissa peered, drawing the wounds into focus. The mark was days old, the purplish indentations where teeth had pressed into Butterfly’s ivory skin barely visible, but there nonetheless. Instinctively, Narcissa’s tongue touched the point of one of her fangs.

She ought to retract them, to look away from the provocative spectacle on the stage. But she didn’t want to. Besides, this new New Orleans belonged to Anne Rice and Charlaine Harris and their multitudes of vampire aficionado fans. A high percentage of the people traipsing up and down Bourbon Street sported fangs, albeit fake ones.

No. If the little Butterfly liked to be nibbled on, then Narcissa was not about to be shy about the fact that she possessed the proper equipment with which to do it.

Gilded Cage

Delilah Devlin

Elena’s secret wish, the one she’d shared only with a priest before she’d ripped out his throat, was that she would ascend to heaven after a very long stay in purgatory. Something the priest had said was impossible due to the horrendous list of sins she’d confessed.

No matter that she’d been forced into this undead life. The moment she’d opened her mouth and accepted Narcissa’s blood, she’d forever outlawed her soul.

At least she’d have good company.

She slipped her phone from her back pocket, sliding down the split screen to check for messages. Nothing since the last text from Narcissa. Am here. Where r u?

Elena grinned and snapped her phone together. The message was from an hour ago. She wrinkled her nose. So she was late. Again. What was an hour to a vampire?

She approached the doors to the Absinthe House, smelled the citrusy, medicinal scent of the liquor for which the house had been named, hints of the burnt sugar lit atop the drink. The odors of sweat and perfume, fresh alcohol from opened bottles and stale liquor oozing from the pores of patrons kicked up her heartbeat.

She dragged in the smells, discovered one intriguing aroma among the snarled pack and zeroed in on it—lush, sweet musk. Feminine. Dark.

The senses she’d honed over time found the sinner. Her gaze tracked over the tables and the people seated at the bar, landing at last on a woman whose unblinking eyes stared right back.

Cissy could wait. This one was too delicious to pass up. The woman’s hair was a mass of shiny corkscrew curls, which tumbled past her shoulders in shades of dark brown, blonde and red. Her skin tone was a milky latté. Her eyes were golden and tilted upward at the outside corners; long, thick lashes sweeping downward to cast shadows against glowing cheeks before rising again so that their glances locked.

The vixen’s mouth sent a thrill through Elena’s body, cinching her nipples, hardening her clit. Her hips swayed a little deeper as she approached. Draga, esti mina. You’re mine.

The woman’s head canted slightly, as though she had heard her, which surprised Elena. Most humans couldn’t hear the suggestions although they acted upon them, thinking they’d formed the thoughts themselves. Perhaps she was a sensitive, one with psychic gifts. There were many in this city.

Elena stopped beside the table. “Are you expecting anyone?”

A glance flitted over Elena’s slim frame. “I think I’ve been waiting for you.” Her voice oozed like caramelized sugar onto Elena’s skin.

Satisfaction shivered through Elena as she sat in the empty chair opposite the woman and let her own gaze trail lower. Her heart fluttered at the sight of the temptress’s breasts—nipples like dark moons shadowed her gold tank, the tips protruding, lengthening as Elena stared.

Elena’s mouth watered; her tongue scraped the edge of an eyetooth, drawing blood. Her belly growled again, but the music and sounds of conversations flowing around them masked the insistent sound.

The dark-skinned woman lifted a hand from her lap, one long, slender finger beckoning a waitress. “Would you like a drink?”

“Perhaps later.” Elena smiled, dipping her eyelids as she gave the sultry beauty a look that said without words what she hungered for.

A slight, feline smile curved the corners of her generous mouth. “Then we’ll leave. My apartment’s not far.”