Chapter 2 The Detective Who Didn't Flinch

Detective Clive Morrow

I've never seen a vampire try to look surprised before. This is a true art: a precise gaze, lips slightly open, and the hands unsure. Iris Laroque, or whatever her true identity was, probably rehearsed this performance for a long time. She stood in the doorway, silk robe shimmering, awaiting my answer with a smile, while I smelled blood.

"Javier Briar," I said, watching her face for the micro-expressions that even immortals couldn't fully control. "Twenty-eight, bartender at Saint's Corner. His roommate reported him missing this morning when he didn't come home last night or show up for his shift today."

Nothing. Not even a flicker of her eyelids. Impressive.

"I'm afraid I don't know anyone by that name, Detective." Her voice carried the faintest whisper of an accent I couldn't place—French, maybe, but older, from a region whose dialect had been smoothed away by time. "Why would you think I might?"

I followed her into the parlor, a room that belonged in a museum. Genuine Louis XV chairs flanked a marble-topped table that had probably witnessed the Louisiana Purchase. The paintings weren't reproductions—I'd bet my pension on it—and the crystal decanters on the sideboard caught the light from a chandelier that had likely started its life burning candles, not electricity.

"He was last seen leaving the Foundation Room at the House of Blues," I said, choosing a wing-backed chair that gave me a clear view of both Iris and the doorway. "Witnesses say he left with a dark-haired woman in an expensive dress. Security footage shows them heading in this direction."

A lie. There was no footage, and the only witness was a homeless man who'd sworn the woman's eyes had glowed red before I slipped him a twenty. But Iris didn't know that.

She moved to the sideboard, her bare feet silent on the antique Persian carpet. "Would you prefer coffee or something stronger, Detective? I have an excellent bourbon."

"Coffee, thanks." Alcohol dulled the senses.

As she busied herself with an ornate silver coffee service, I studied her movements. She didn't simply inhabit this space; she owned it down to its foundations. Every step, every gesture spoke of someone who had walked these floors for far longer than the twenty-six years Iris Beaumont had officially existed. I'd done my homework. Iris Beaumont, granddaughter of Isabelle Beaumont, great-granddaughter of Irene Laroque. All the same woman. All the same predator.

I'd been tracking the Midnight Coterie for three years, ever since my partner Eliza disappeared while investigating a series of ritualistic killings, only to return months later with no memory and a new habit of avoiding sunlight. The brass called it trauma and suggested she see the department shrink. I gave it a different name, which then sent me on a quest to explore ancient texts and secretly meet with those who practiced banned arts.

"Your home is remarkable," I said, running my finger along the arm of the chair, feeling wood that generations of hands had polished. "How long has it been in your family?"

"Since 1857," she replied smoothly, her back to me as she poured coffee into a china cup so delicate it looked like it might shatter under the weight of the liquid. "My great-great-grandmother was quite the visionary investor."

"Must be nice having such detailed family records." I accepted the coffee, our fingers brushing momentarily. Hers were cold. "Most people can barely name their great-grandparents, let alone know what properties they purchased."

Her smile tightened almost imperceptibly. "My family values its history, Detective."

"So does mine. My mother says We carry our ancestors in our blood." I sipped the coffee, maintaining eye contact over the rim of the cup. "Though I suppose that means different things to different people."

Something flickered in her eyes—recognition? Alarm? She recovered quickly, settling into a chair opposite mine, crossing one long leg over the other, the silk of her robe parting just enough to be distracting—a deliberate move. Suspects had done this before, distracting people with their sexuality. Iris probably developed that reflex over centuries.

"You mentioned a missing bartender," she said, redirecting. "I still don't understand why that would bring you to my door at this hour."

"Process of elimination. I'm checking all leads." I placed the coffee cup on a side table inlaid with mother-of-pearl. "You were at the House of Blues last night, weren't you?"

Her expression remained neutral, but I caught the slight tension in her shoulders. "I was. I occasionally enjoy their VIP room. The music is tolerable and the crowd less... overwhelming than other venues."

"Did you notice the bartender? Tall guy, dark curly hair, tattoo of a compass on his forearm?"

"I'm afraid I pay little attention to the staff." She adjusted her position, and I noticed a small bloodstain under her manicured nail she'd missed in her cleanup. An amateur mistake for someone so old. "Though if you showed me a photograph, perhaps it might jog my memory."

I reached into my jacket, retrieving a photo of Javier I'd taken from his social media page. Our fingers touched again as I handed it to her, and this time I noticed how she lingered, studying my hand. My sleeve shifted, and the edge of my tattoo, an old binding symbol, was exposed. The ink was mixed with graveyard dirt and blessed silver, designed to ward off possession.

"Hmm," she studied the photo with practiced indifference. "He looks vaguely familiar. He might have served me a drink, but I didn't speak with him beyond placing my order."

"And you came directly home after leaving the club?" I asked, watching as her gaze flicked momentarily toward the ceiling. Upstairs. Javier's body was cooling, if my instincts were correct.

"I did," she replied. "Alone."

Lying to a police officer was such a mundane crime for a creature that had likely witnessed the Civil War.

"Interesting." I leaned forward slightly, elbows on my knees, invading her space just enough to make her uncomfortable. "Because a valet at the Roosevelt remembers helping a woman matching your description into a cab with a man matching Javier's description at 1 AM."

Another lie. But effective. The faintest tremor passed through her hand as she returned the photograph.

"The Roosevelt has dozens of dark-haired women passing through its doors every night, Detective. And I'm afraid your valet is mistaken."

"Possibly." I smiled, the expression not reaching my eyes. "People make mistakes. Memory is unreliable. Especially after traumatic events."

Her eyebrow arched delicately. "Are you suggesting something traumatic happened to this bartender?"

"I don't know yet. That's why I'm investigating." I glanced around the room, my gaze lingering on a small framed daguerreotype partially hidden on a bookshelf—a woman in the 1850s clothing with Iris's face—another mistake. A predator couldn't afford to be sentimental. "Though in my experience, when young men go missing after leaving with beautiful women, the outcomes are rarely positive."

"Are you always this suspicious, Detective Morrow?" She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward to mirror my posture, bringing our faces closer together. Her perfume's scent, jasmine and a deeper, ancient, expensive aroma, reached me.