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Agent of S.T.A.L.K. in New Orleans

By: Five_Eight



Happy holidays to all. This story is my seasonal gift to the many fans of S.T.A.L.K. and those of Clive & Nova in particular. It is the third in a series and continues the relationships and situations introduced in AGENT OF S.T.A.L.K. IN PRAGUE and AGENT OF S.T.A.L.K. IN LOS ANGELES. To fully appreciate the nuances of NEW ORLEANS readers may want to check out the previous adventures related in PRAGUE and L.A. but that is a recommendation only and not a necessity. All three stories are complete, self-contained and designed to be independent of each other. I hope everyone enjoys Clive & Nova's yuletide escapades in the French Quarter---they will return for a fourth round of gratuitous sex and violence on Valentine's Day to run amok in Berlin. Until then 5/8 is keeping his fingers crossed for peace on Earth and goodwill to all.

~~~~~~~~~~

Alisa Dwyer wore sunglasses with white frames and nothing else. On the couch of a makeshift photographer's studio she sucked two well hung dudes. 

Enrique knew from experience she had a smelly pussy, but could deep throat a fire hydrant. Alisa had posed naked for his camera exclusively for the last five days. Once he'd screwed her twenty times, Enrique's roving eye sought a new star for his lens and his bed. When the softcore photo session with Alisa and the two studs veered into hardcore territory, Enrique didn't give a shit. The moment she quit posing on the couch with dicks in her mouth and started sucking to keep them hard during the long shoot, he quickly became convinced Alisa would enjoy major success in porn if she made the leap from model to actress. 

He set aside his Nikon temporarily to switch on his new Sony hi-def video camera mounted on a tripod, encouraging his subjects to 'go with the flow and let what happens happen.' The camera eye adored Alisa. She shone as the focal point of the video, alternately swallowing each cock to the base before urging the two men to mount her front and rear. She was a small girl with small tits and a tiny-mouthed pussy, which made her very tight. Enrique had no inkling little Miss Dwyer's petite frame could envelop such large objects or that she'd grind her buttocks back so enthusiastically to meet the athletic simultaneous intrusion of the tiny openings between her slim thighs. She did some concerted groaning.

This shit is art, Enrique thought, full of glee. 

At first glance Alisa appeared sweet and innocent, but she looked incredible getting royally porked and loving every minute and every inch. He never dreamed she'd transform into an engine of fucking on video, she'd never thrown a fuck like that on him. She would be better served making movies, he mused; with second thoughts of ditching her prematurely. It was Christmastime after all, besides Enrique could get rich by just being her manager. He wouldn't have to take a stab in the dark either, as a photographer he had connections in the filmmaking industry, connections Enrique could barter into a manager's salary. First thing in the morning he'd get on the phone to Van Nuys. Not a single agent returned Alisa's calls in the time she crashed in his studio so he might be able to cut a piece of that action for himself too.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! 

They met at a rave club, the Skin & Blister, Enrique always trolling for new models. His hunting ground of nightclubs and universities teemed with slender nubile talent, the type he favored. Though thirty three, Enrique could still pass for a college senior, his usual tactic. Masquerading as a student, he'd allege some project or other to finish for class requiring a young female to disrobe. 

He didn't have to concoct any fables get in Alisa Dwyer's panties, she gave him a good reason. She sucked him off in a gloryhole at the Blister before they met face to face. He let her know he wanted to see more of her and she said sure. Under the flashing dance lights Alisa resembled a lot of Goth girls with jet black or burgundy hair, pierced, skinny, wearing tons of eye shadow. Enrique immediately took to her waif-like quality and took her home from the club that night. She wore a spiked choker and wrist bands with shiny black vinyl high-heeled boots, halter top and miniskirt. An elaborate tattoo of a peacock dominated the left side of the small of her back. Alisa's belly button and delightful blunt nipples were pierced.

Back at his studio after the rave Enrique's hand explored under the vinyl miniskirt to determine if she had anything else pierced. He found Alisa's sheer panties unexpectedly slick with wetness but no piercings. She jumped like an electrical impulse hit her when he touched her clit and gurgled with appreciation as he fingered the inside of her pussy. Enrique had pushed her head into his lap and soon learned the full capabilities of Alisa's throat, hampered previously by the wall of the gloryhole. The scent of her arousal filled his studio every time he fucked her, a heady aroma of female tang empowering him to hump like a wild bull. On their first night (on the same couch she fucked on now) he incubated his dick in her for hours.

The next evening Alisa went out and returned from who knew where (ex-boyfriend or some other jilted prick) with her clothes and shacked with Enrique in the intervening days. For close to a week he'd been sitting on a gold mine of a slut who gave primo blowjobs even if her pussy did have a tendency to smell a little, intoxicating or not.

He got a strong whiff coming from the couch where the two studs labored to bring the proceedings to a conclusion. They drained their rods on Alisa's anxiously smiling face, their come dripping onto her pear-shaped breasts. Fantastic footage, and Enrique kept shooting stills throughout. He couldn't wait to replay the video, he'd market that puppy for damn sure. And Alisa. Then he'd get him a real studio and new equipment and, eventually, a new girl. He fucked seventy percent of the girls who modeled for him. With more cash flow he'd definitely improve his percentage.

At the end of the shoot Alisa talked quietly with the models while Enrique fussed with his Nikon. Watching her screw them stimulated him very much and he yearned to get her showered and into bed as soon as possible. To his consternation she did not bid the two studs goodnight and slip routinely between his sheets. She announced instead she'd be departing with them as soon as she packed her things. The male models nodded like a pair of robots with glazed, faraway eyes.

Alisa foiled Enrique's newly-laid plans when she meted out his comeuppance. Had she suspected he intended to dump her in the near future? Whatever, he couldn't let his goldmine girl go without putting up a fight. He gave no thought to the two dudes posing a physical threat to him, they seemed in a trance, docile as cattle on their way to the slaughterhouse.

Enrique got into a screaming argument with Alisa trying to change her mind. Her eyes glowed red when she approached him across the room. He stepped sideways when a wide smile on her face revealed exaggerated canine teeth. Enrique tried to run and got as far as the couch, frozen like a deer in headlights. She embraced him and her fangs punctured his neck, each of his heartbeats brought him one closer to death. His last fading thought was not of the movie but that Alisa had slept during the daytime. As blackness overtook him only the smell of her pussy remained.

~~~~~~~~~~

André Delaflote knew what he wanted most for Christmas. Deirdre Beauchamp and what nestled at the top of her thighs. She got him horny as hell. As an affable but overweight man of twenty two, he was accustomed to the constant state of being horny. He didn't get enough physical attention from the opposite sex. A friendly, outgoing guy like him got attention; Delaflote was every girl's buddy except he didn't want buddies, he wanted fuck buddies. Deirdre redefined the word horny to him, escalating his hormonal appetite to new levels, she made him just think he used to be horny in the past. 

Her braless tits bounced sweetly under her T-shirt as she danced on top of the D.J. booth along with several other girls. Standing directly under her on the dance floor, Delaflote spent half an hour looking up her skirt, mesmerized by the tiny white thong that failed to completely contain Deirdre's plump private parts. When the D.J. had turned on flashing lights mounted in the booth, the beams aimed at the ceiling illuminated the girls from below, making it easy for Delaflote to watch her panties get progressively wetter as she danced song after song. What started as a narrow and vertical line of dampness grew into a Rorschach blotch. The girls shaking their asses on top of the booth knew exactly what they were doing. Guys on the dance floor could see everything under their skirts and, for the thrill, many of the girls got up there not wearing panties. Although Deirdre hadn't gone commando she drove Delaflote insane with lust, he feared his erection would poke a hole in his cargo shorts. Somehow, some way, he had to have her!

He thought how his friend Enrique would handle a similar scenario and acted accordingly. Although he didn't have Enrique's good looks, Delaflote was a photographer with a business card to prove it. When Deirdre tired of teasing the spectators he held out a hand to help her down. On purpose he slid a hand up the cheek of Deirdre's ass while assisting her clamber off the booth. With an embarrassed smile he introduced himself by giving her one of his cards.

"Call me Andy." 

"Deirdre Beauchamp."

He paused before saying, "Ever done any modeling before?"

"Never, I think I'm fat."

"That's crazy thinking, you've got what it takes."

"I do?" Deirdre asked, obviously flattered. Her doe eyes were blurry, she'd probably taken some Ecstasy earlier. He knew Ecstasy made girls unusually horny, if he could get her alone he could surely hit a home run with her.

"That's a great outfit you have on, skirt and T-shirt with the little Santa Clauses, photogenic as hell. You should consider modeling it for me. Twenty five bucks an hour."

"Because of all the shopping I've done I'm really broke so I could use the money. Could we do it tomorrow in the afternoon maybe?"

He needed some of what her panties barely concealed right now, not tomorrow. "You're dressed already. It's still early; why not duck out of here for an hour or so to pose for some test shots? I've got a bottle in my apart, uh, studio. We keep our buzz on, shoot a roll of film and we're back." 

That's the way Enrique engineered deals like these for himself. 

Much to his surprise she volunteered to leave the club with him. At his place this hot, stoned chick would need little convincing to take off her clothes and help exercise his bone. By a miracle Delaflote was in there. 

Deirdre was a nineteen year old student with pale blonde hair and nice big tits and ass. She seemed disappointed upon seeing his car and then his apartment, but his camera and array of lenses impressed her. He filled two glasses from a refrigerator box of wine gone sour weeks ago; neither of them had a second sip after the first bitter swill. Deirdre she struck a few poses in front of a white wall he used as a backdrop. After a few shots he suggested she drape herself on and around the couch and look sexy. He coached her through half a roll of film before asking her to bend at the waist supporting herself with her hands flat on the cushion. In that position her panties peeked out from under her skirt. Nice, but not nice enough yet. He'd fix that.

"Look over your shoulder at me, good, straighten your legs, much better." 

Much better indeed, now he viewed the wet splotch discoloring her panties in its entirety. Deirdre's asshole was visible on either side of the thong between her buttocks. That was a Christmas present he'd have to unwrap early! He thought he'd come in his pants. 

Time for the big question. Delaflote cleared his throat and asked casually, "How would you feel about doing some nudes?"

"Like this?" she said, pulling aside her thong to display the chubby lips of her pussy.

Delaflote busily snapped away. After loading another roll of film he stepped close to Deirdre, hooked a finger in the wet crotchpiece of her panties and drew them to her knees. Her pussy wasn't as fragrant as Enrique's new girlfriend's; one night Delaflote visited the studio after he'd fucked Alisa and could smell her as he walked through the door; that perfumed garden of hers served as an aphrodisiac to be sure, but a bit extreme for even his taste. 

He cautiously spread Deirdre's buttocks, the socket of her asshole looked like a spent piece of pink bubble gum stuck in the center of the valley of her bottom. The fleshy lips of her pussy parted like butterfly wings. Unable to resist being so near Deirdre's goodies, his tongue flicked out of his mouth to taste her. At first she groaned, but then squeezed her buttocks together in emphatic negative body language and hobbled away from him tugging her panties back into place.

"I don't mind showing my body to the camera, Andy, but I agreed to let you shoot photos of me, not fuck me."

"But it felt good, I know it did."

"Doesn't matter. How about paying me for the time I've spent?"

"But it's just five after eleven, we haven't been here for an hour yet, only thirty or forty minutes.

"That should be about fifteen bucks."

"Okay, fine," sputtered a crushed Delaflote, so close and yet so far. "Let me write you a check."

"You planned to pay me with a check?"

"That's how businesses do things." 

She spied the canister containing the roll of film he'd shot of her. "And this is how I do things," Deirdre said, marching over to his coffee table to seize the canister and stuff it in her purse. She shrugged into her long rabbit-fur coat and muttered, "I'm outta here."

"What about my film?"

"What about my money?"

"Hold your horses and I'll write a check right now."

"Give me cash next time you see me at the club. You can get your dirty pictures back then."

He protested but she turned a deaf ear on his intellectual property rights. She stormed across the room.

"Don't you want a ride back?"

"It's close enough to walk," she said at the door. It shut with a slam and he never saw Deirdre or his film again.

Damn it! How had it all gone to shit so quickly? The bitch was dying for some dick. What now? Rosy Palm and her five daughters. No way in hell! That would be a last resort and faint relief at best, he needed something wet and warm and squirming. There might be some chicks hanging out at Enrique's studio, he'd go over there and try to hustle one of his extras, he wouldn't mind. Enrique was his friend. He had excess pussy swarming around him.

The studio was two blocks away, Delaflote decided to ride his ten speed to save gas. As he pedaled up the sidewalk he saw two dudes and a hot babe with wavy red hair getting into a white Firebird parked outside Enrique's place. He started to cry out, the chick had to be a model, but the car rumbled away down the street in the other direction. Delaflote chained his bike to a pecan tree and climbed the stairs to the studio. His brisk knock caused the door to swing ajar. He called out and received no response so he shuffled inside with his hands in his pockets, bobbing his head unconsciously. A lingering odor of recent sex hung in the air the same as the night he met Alisa. Where were she and Enrique, and who were those two musclemen the redhead got into the Firebird with? Still calling his friend's name he walked toward the pair of bookcases forming a partition to block off the studio from the door. The source of the unmistakable smell of Alisa's pussy got steadily stronger, at least she must be nearby. 

Enrique's name died on Delaflote's lips when he saw him slumped on the couch. He knew he was dead and not passed out before seeing the pair of holes leaking bright red blood from his neck. No sign of Alisa, but she wasn't long gone. What the fuck? Delaflote started to call the cops, but not from his own phone. He'd call from Enrique's cell anonymously and haul ass before the cops arrived except he'd be leaving his fingerprints at a murder scene. Enrique's cell was probably in his pants pocket anyway and Delaflote wasn't going to touch a dead body either, in shock but not enough to do anything stupid. Fuck it! He'd call from a payphone if he had any change, leave the front door wide open, one of Enrique's models would find the body soon enough and report it to the police. He hated to be callous, but desired no further encounters with cops, not after that bullshit last fall. If he reported the death they might jail him as a material witness for days, knowing how his luck ran. No, someone else could clue the cops in, he would beat feet; let someone else spend Christmas locked down.

He only got a few steps when his eyes came to rest on the photo gear strewn all over the studio. If he left the door open somebody might rip off all this shit. Burglary rates peaked this time of year. Delaflote figured if anyone took anything from here it might as well be him: it didn't disturb the murder scene; and Enrique wouldn't miss it. Of course if the police ever came to interview him about Enrique it wouldn't be prudent to have his recognizable Nikon lying around his apartment, but the Sony hi-def video camera he knew to be a recent acquisition, not linked as easily to Enrique as his mainstay camera. The cops would be in the know on that score; Enrique had had more trouble with them than Delaflote. 

When he folded the tripod legs he discovered the videocam still running, filming everything. It may have captured Enrique's death, evidence the cops definitely would want. He almost abandoned it but for one damned good reason; he'd stepped into the frame inadvertently when he'd gone to the couch. No telling which way the parish lawmen would jump when they got a load of that. For his own safety Delaflote had to steal the videocam now. He could've merely taken the tape, but that presented the problem with fingerprints too; might as well take the whole rig and get some use out of it. Rattled, he hustled out of the studio with the camera on the collapsed tripod without thinking about grabbing the charger for the Sony until wheeling his bike inside his apartment. Judging from the timer, fifty five minutes elapsed since the beginning of the video on a two hour battery. Delaflote pressed rewind and rooted around for a cable to allow him to watch the replay on his television. Discovering Enrique's corpse banished all thoughts of horniness from his mind---until the tape began to show Alisa on the studio couch doing the wild thing with the two Firebird dudes! 

She boinked like a champ and after a few minutes Delaflote found himself so engrossed in the footage he stroked his cock in his fist without remembering unzipping. He'd pleasured himself twice by the time the two guys in the video came on her face. After a minute the men and Alisa stepped out of the frame and the videocam held a long static shot of the couch with quiet voices in the background and the metallic sound of Enrique fiddling with his Nikon. Then Enrique began to shout at Alisa, suddenly they entered the frame, she had him by the neck. Watching the vampire kiss of death startled Delaflote no more than a death in a Dracula movie, except he knew Enrique's true fate. He wasn't back in a dressing room now reading over his next lines in the script.

On the tape Alisa rose from Enrique's body licking at her bloody lips. She began shaking her hair, moaning as her body spasmed and her limbs jerked. Before Delaflote's eyes Alisa's features started to change, her straight black hair became wavy and red. The complete bone structure of her face transformed into one of a different girl, her breasts increased in size and she grew taller, grew into the same girl who got in the car outside. Still hot, but not Alisa, not after what he'd just seen. The new girl rubbed at her arms and stared down at her new body. Apparently satisfied she said aloud to herself, "It's good to be Stephanie Mercer again." She talked with a different accent too, British. Then she stepped out of the frame, her exit leaving Enrique sprawled in death to dominate the shot. Delaflote fast forwarded to where he stepped into the picture. 


Agent of S.T.A.L.K. in New Orleans



He'd stumbled onto the murder five minutes after it happened.

He needed to give the tape to the cops, but knew he couldn't, even if the video exonerated him of any wrongdoing. 

He'd removed vital evidence from the scene of a crime by stealing the videocam like a common thief. 

He had to tell them no matter what, needed a story that disclosed all the facts but didn't associate him with incriminating video footage and stolen property. In the morning he'd go to the precinct house and tell the authorities he'd seen Alisa leaving the studio with two men, altering the exact time he saw her transform into the redheaded girl, substituting she changed into a different person on the sidewalk and referred to herself by a new name. Furthermore he'd inform the cops no one answered his knock on Enrique's door last night. None of his prints would be at the crime scene, the door swung open from his knuckle hitting it, he'd had his hands in his pockets while inside the studio, the only thing he touched was the videocam and he'd left the door open when he left. As far as the cops were concerned he'd gone home and returned in the morning. Tomorrow he'd claim he discovered the body if no one had found it yet.

Yeah, that lie should work! He'd relay the rest of the facts as he knew them concerning the culprit Alisa Dwyer/Stephanie Mercer. To rise above police suspicion he'd tell them about the white Firebird, the two companions, recommend they check the Skin & Blister to locate Alisa. The mere thought of her made him rewind the tape to watch the little slut in action again. 

When the camera battery died he went to bed and masturbated.

~~~~~~~~~~

The last two times Clive Mercer flew to America, Nova Nobarro met him at an airport. This second time he looked just as good to her from a distance as the first, wearing a black suit and shirt again and lugging those big Halliburton suitcases of his like they weighed nothing. She wondered if he'd packed his black high top tennis shoes. His British accent and the way Mercer carried himself got her panties damp. She knew he knew, she made no secret of her attraction to him when they initially met, making this meeting awkward. For her anyway.

His no-nonsense manner put Nova at immediate ease, a pillar of confidence and strength. First off, he hugged her. "Sorry to hear about your brother, Nova. Hell of a Christmas."

"Thank you for flying in from Prague."

"I flew half the trip as last time. I'm back in England now, only a short hop from New Orleans, half a day closer than Los Angeles."

"But I interrupted your holiday plans."

"What plans?" he asked. "I had none to interrupt."

"You don't know how much your being here means to me, Clive. I got your email address from Molly; I hope you didn't mind." 

"What we went through in California makes us old friends now."

"I wasn't sure you'd come after I said I couldn't afford S.T.A.L.K.'s large fees. Not on my salary."

"I told you not to worry about that when we talked on the phone. What good is having a friend who can't get you a discount where he works?"

"A ninety nine per cent discount seems awfully friendly."

"I'd wager the vampire responsible for your brother has a reward on her head somewhere S.T.A.L.K. can bilk out of somebody."

"Will they defray your expenses?"

He lifted his suitcases and they began to walk through the terminal. "I can afford it if they don't pay me a single bob, Nova. S.T.A.L.K. wrote me a check for half the bounty collected on the kill I made in Los Angeles in October; you remember how substantial that was." 

"That doesn't decrease the amount of your own money you're spending on this trip. As far as the bounty's concerned, I saw what you did, Clive, it took balls. You earned every farthing or whatever they call pennies in England."

He shrugged off her compliment. "Will there be a funeral here, or in L.A.?"

"A cremation ceremony in L.A. once the New Orleans homicide division releases Enrique's body, if they ever. Today makes four days." She paused, "Since . . ."

"What's jamming everything up?"

"An ongoing murder investigation classified as paranormal makes for more details."

"Any leads on the identity of the killer?"

"All the police will tell me is the night of the murder a friend, a photographer like Enrique, saw a woman and two men leaving his place. This friend knows her name, where she hangs out, et cetera."

"What is her name?"

"They won't say more than it appears to be a vampire kill." 

"And the bloke's a photographer, huh?" Mercer asked, sounding very interested. "Have the police talked to the woman?"

"They won't say."

"I guess there's no word on the two men either. Did the coppers lean on your brother's friend to get the information out of him?" 

"No, he came forward on his own, but apparently the cops have zero faith in this guy after he delivered some crazy story to them. Something about her changing from one girl into another."

"Shapeshifter." Mercer perked up like he welcomed the news.

Nova wondered why, but asked, "Is there such a thing, can shape-changing actually be done?"

"'Fraid so. Fortunately it's not as widespread as you'd think. Many vampires, demons, werewolves and you-name-it have the ability. In essence that's all lycanthropes are: shapeshifters, but they're on the lowest rung of the ladder, humans becoming wolves during a full moon. Higher up the preternatural ladder shape-changing gets a lot more sophisticated than that."

"So a supernatural killer can commit a murder, shapeshift into a new person and walk away?"

"That's oversimplifying it, but often absolutely true. The F.B.I. profiles on those creatures enabled to change their shape indicate there's always one or two forms they grow attached to."

"Then sooner or later someone recognizes them?"

"In a lot of cases on record, yes, but unsolved paranormal murders far exceed the files closed. I want to talk to this crackpot who claims to have seen the female transform. Do you have any kind of address or number for him?"

"The parish cops grudgingly gave up a name, André Delaflote, goes by Andy. They wouldn't give out his address. I got that by having my guys in L.A. run a check on his name."

"Paid him a visit yet?"

"Nope. L.A. called me with his address on my way to the airport." 

"Good. Let's get underway by chatting up this Monsieur Delaflote. Obviously he's the best lead in lieu of any other witnesses. You say the coppers believe it's a vampire kill yet they sent him packing because they didn't like his shapeshifter story?"

"Like I told you, they didn't say much, their lips were tight. Mostly they alluded to Andy's a bottom-feeding, run-of-the-mill lowlife."

"So many of the best leads are. Maybe his story scared them."

"It sounds as whack to me as it does to the cops."

"But you know better, Nova. It's similar to people's rationalizations about UFOs. They don't want to believe in ghosts and vampires and werewolves either. Unless they've ever encountered one in real life, they can write them off in their minds as not existing, like UFOs."

"Do you believe in UFOs, Clive?" 

"Spent six years on Jupiter," he said with a straight face.

Nova laughed for the first time she recalled in days. "You liar, you did not."

"I'm exaggerating. Honestly, the little green men only detained me six months."

In the middle of New Orleans International Airport she stopped and kissed him because she couldn't help herself. Thank God he answered her cry for help. To Nova's surprise Mercer didn't break off the kiss quickly, the way he'd done her kisses when they met two months ago in Los Angeles. Had something changed him in the interim? Too early to tell. A romantic interlude would be nice, but played a back seat to finding and staking her brother's murderer. Nova hadn't traveled from L.A. to New Orleans for a white Christmas, she wanted a blood red one.

Mercer evidently thought similar thoughts. "And the local coppers wouldn't say they got a line on the girl in Andy's story?" 

"They let me know they were developing the few leads they had and couldn't discuss it while under investigation. Enrique was my brother but being the deceased's sister doesn't cut any ice with these parish detectives even though I'm a cop too."

"Andy had a suspect's name, her description and where to find her. There may be other evidence they're not telling you about too, if they even know about it."

"What other evidence, Clive?"

"I misspoke. More rumor than solid evidence I should have said."

"Quit holding out on me. What rumor?"

"It's so fantastical I don't believe it. Best I keep it to myself, Nova, than raise false hopes in you." 

"How do you know so much about my brother's death?"

"The moneyed tentacles of S.T.A.L.K. sometimes reach into high places."

Nova smacked at his arm playfully. She groused, "That's vague enough to qualify as avoiding my question, Clive."

"When it comes to S.T.A.L.K.'s ways and means I'm afraid I have to be. But surely the New Orleans police wouldn't sit on a mountain of information like that."

"I didn't say they were. Just because they won't share much with me doesn't mean they're dragging their feet."

"We're opening our own line of inquiry anyway, but it'd be helpful to have their input."

They reached Nova's rent car in the vast parking lot. He stowed his bags in the back seat. Once out of the airport and on the highway, Nova reopened the topic of the rumor.

"Clive, don't be so secretive about 'other evidence.' Tell me."

Mercer gave a roundabout answer. "I'm in New Orleans on my own accord but even so, S.T.A.L.K. has a vested interest in supernatural murders anywhere in the world. They're plugged into a lot of strange sources: paranormal, occult, not all of them reliable. They got hold of a rumor there's proof of the identity of the vampire who killed Enrique. A succubus." 

"What's her name?"

"Which one do you want? She goes under various names, she's a shapeshifter."

"I hope you have something we can use. I don't have many leads to exhaust."

"S.T.A.L.K. furnished a few addresses, hangouts like coven groups and Satanic churches, if I fancy stirring up trouble."

"Are you feeling troublesome?" 

"More than usual. A powerful succubus active anywhere on the globe has the likelihood of being Stephanie."

She took her eyes off the road to look at him. "Your daughter?"

"Right! I told you about her last time in Los Angeles." 

"So the reason you flew to the States so fast and all attendant had nothing to do with my brother," asked Nova, "but because you suspect Stephanie might be the succubus-in-question?"

"I didn't even know Enrique Nobarro. I came because of you."

"Me and the possibility of the killer being your daughter?"

"The possibility of your brother and my daughter getting acquainted in New Orleans is rather remote, Nova! To put things in perspective: I am interested in every succubus operating worldwide. Any one of them has the potential to be Stephanie, simple as that."

Her silky black hair spilled in her face when she slowly nodded, "I understand." Mercer still wasn't telling her everything.

His voice softened. "At any rate are my reasons so important? I'm here like you want, aren't I?" 

"I don't mean to be touchy," Nova said. She felt letdown now, he'd had an ulterior motive, an incentive without a damned thing to do with her. She hoped Mercer raced to her side out of . . . what? Certainly not love, but maybe a kind of British gallantry, except now she knew the truth. Mercer listened to her silence and made a clumsy effort to redirect the conversation only to hit another of Nova's sore spots.

Without much enthusiasm he asked, "What's your latest boyfriend's name?"

"I haven't been seeing anyone, Clive, not since Halloween."

"Men up and down the west coast must be rioting by now."

He was trying to cheer her up. She gave him a forced smile. 

He gave her a bleak look. "It doesn't have anything to do with me. Does it?"

"No, it's got something to do with me. The night at the Kirkbride Hotel had an aftershock."

"Very sorry to hear that. In what way?"

"Not what you imagine," she said. At least she hoped he didn't think she filled her sex life with gangbangs. 

"There are any number of possible traumatic after effects. What was I supposed to be imagining?"

"I'd acquired an appetite for multiple . . ." she stopped before she finished. Mercer would know what she meant.

He touched her shoulder gently. "I'd prayed the incident hadn't scarred you."

"Not so much scarring as questioning my life, my judgment."

His voice filled with concern. "How so?"

"I've been examining the woman I am and not liking her a bit." 

"Are you feeling suicidal?"

Another forced grin. "Not hardly. But I need to change my way of thinking and the way I live."

"Don't let self-manufactured guilt force you into hasty decisions."

"Is guilt what it is?"

"You can't blame yourself, Nova. You were held spellbound by an incubus in California. Molly and I are the only ones who saw what happened and I didn't see much."

"You saw enough."

"You were under duress and I understood the circumstances. What you did in a trance and what kind of woman I know you are belong in different categories, completely unrelated."

"But they are related, Clive, don't say what I did with those men in that hotel suite was meaningless to you. You're the only person I care about what it means to." 

"Maybe it's not meaningless to me, but I don't care what it means, if that makes sense. They're not the same." 

What about his erection when it all took place, Nova asked herself bitterly. She said, "Thanks for saying that," trying not to feel letdown again. Absently she touched the diamond-studded crucifix on a silver necklace. Mercer had clasped it around her neck when he'd given it to her two months ago. She'd not taken it off since. Why call him into this at the first hint of vampires? She knew that question had two answers.

~~~~~~~~~~

Mercer wanted to interview Delaflote before stopping by the hotel she'd registered them in. He didn't ask Nova if she booked separate rooms, adjoining rooms, or just one. No use causing any unnecessary drama, she moped about anyway, understandable under the conditions. He'd learn the domestic house rules soon enough. Two hours after Nova met Mercer for the first time, she sneaked into his connecting motel room naked except for a tiny pair of knickers. He rebuffed her variety of efforts to go to bed with him in Los Angeles. Could he still continue doing so in New Orleans? Would he resist her slinking into his arms now? He became aware he flattered himself, getting the cart before the horse; Nova might not even attempt any monkey business. 

The evidence S.T.A.L.K. had collected interested him more than any romantic angle between Nova and him. His daughter Stephanie was turned into a vampire believed to be a succubus eight years ago. He hunted constantly for her as an agent of Supernatural Terminators And Lycanthrope Killers and she'd eluded him. The chance to find her weighed as much on his mind as Nova's brother did on hers, he didn't know if he could bring himself to kill Stephanie should he ever come face to face with her. He glanced over at Nova clenching the steering wheel, eyes peering through her glasses straight ahead, her lips tight. Even when mad she looked gorgeous, a tiny girl blessed with splendid breasts and an ass like two slightly under-inflated soccer balls mashed together. She wore a smart gray frockcoat over a tight blue sweater and tighter jeans, little white Reeboks on her feet. His mind detoured and his loins stirred to life to the extent he shifted in the car seat for comfort and concealment. Now he'd done it, thinking about romance again. Better than ruminating about his daughter. More important to focus on the job at hand. 

He mentally rehearsed what to ask the man holding the key to the rumor's validity: Andy Delaflote. In addition to S.T.A.L.K.'s evidence they had information Enrique preyed on young girls using the guise of photography. Delaflote may be of the same stripe as Nova's brother. Mercer might go easy on Delaflote when they met, yet not hesitate getting rough, depending on how the chap reacted. When it came to obstacles hindering locating Stephanie, he played a mean, nasty game indeed---as Delaflote would soon learn if he objected to cooperating.

Nova's mood improved the closer they got to Delaflote's. As they pulled onto the photographer's street Mercer said, "I think it best you introduce yourself as Detective Nobarro when we meet this character but I'm afraid he'll associate the name with his friend, your brother."

"I'll pronounce it Novarro, which is what most people think it is anyway."

"Get the shapeshifter girl's name out of him first. Be nice to him, let him know you're in his corner. I'll act as your enforcer."

"Good cop, bad cop?"

"Quite right. I ask the hard questions and you disapprove of my methods, which will probably not require much acting."

"Introducing myself as a detective is misuse of my shield I want you to know."

"I didn't say flash your badge. Identifying yourself as a detective is mere use your title, it's not an untruth."

Nova harangued him. "You're so full of shit, misuse is what it is and lying's what it's called," she said, adding: "I intended to anyway."

They drove past Delaflote's address once to get a feel for the layout, a nondescript rectangle of an apartment building facing the street. Mercer noted eight doors, four on each story, the cheap unpainted stairs and rundown cars parked out front. Nova circled around the block and he requested she park up the street out of view of the apartment, but with the building in sight from the car. 

"As our pretty, petite, harmless good cop I want you to knock and say the stuff American cops say. I'll stand to one side so he doesn't get a glimpse of our bad cop through the peephole."

Tree roots grew under the concrete sections of the sidewalk, tilting them enough to make walking difficult. Mercer stepped into the street to walk with Nova beside him. A man lifted the bonnet of a truck in the apartment parking lot as they trudged up the stairs. Nova's persistent knocking didn't bring a response. They came downstairs disappointed until the bloke tinkering under the bonnet called out to her.

"Andy ain't there, ma'am."

Mercer lagged behind as Nova took the lead and strode up to the man's truck. "Did he move? He promised to take some pictures of me this afternoon." The ease with which the lie rolled off her tongue made Mercer proud.

The man ogled her up and down. "I ain't supposed to say nothing. Since you're one of his models, that's different. Last couple a days he's been staying over at his aunt's."

"Where is that, do you have directions?"

The mechanic happily provided them. Nova thanked him. Then Mercer and she scarpered.

~~~~~~~~~~

When Delaflote heard a car door slam he peered past his aunt's Christmas tree through the open curtains to peek outside. Some hot Latin chick had parked across the street and approached his aunt's house. A dude exited the car, big guy dressed in black with the stony features of a wise and weary cop. It hadn't taken the law long to find him. The more he looked at the chick the more she looked like a cop to him too. This was fucked up. What did they want, had they found out about the videocam? That must be the reason. He'd brought it with him over here, afraid to leave it at his apartment. They'd figured out he'd lied; surely they'd arrived to haul him off to jail. He'd spend Christmas behind bars eating shitty chicken pot pies and getting the crap kicked out of him, or worse, by gang members.

He started not to answer; but after a polite ring of the doorbell an insistent knocking began. Maybe they'd spotted him watching through the window. Reluctantly he opened the front door.




Agent of S.T.A.L.K. in New Orleans



"Andy Delaflote?" the hot chick asked, too hot to be a cop.

"Yeah," he replied in a weak voice.

"Detective Novarro. This is my associate, Mr. Mercer. We have a few questions. May we come in?"

"I thought the French Quarter police were done with me?"

"Policemen never run out of questions," she said sweetly. 

And she edged him aside walking into the house, the big cop only an inch or two behind. He didn't utter a word or offer to shake hands. Not good. Delaflote felt afraid in his own home, well, his aunt's house. He stammered, "What kind of questions?"

To his relief, the chick said, "About Enrique and the girl with him the night of the murder. Especially the girl. What's her name?"

"Alisa Dwyer."

"You claimed Alisa morphed into a totally different person right in front of you."

"Yeah, but the cops, uh, police weren't interested."

"Mr. Mercer and I are interested. Tell us about her and don't spare any of the details."

He rambled on and she prodded him back on track several times with probing questions, the big man with her silent but menacing, as if waiting to pounce on any lie. When Delaflote got to the part about riding up on his bike and seeing Alisa getting into a white Firebird with two men he repeated the same yarn he'd told the French Quarter cops. "I saw them from half a block away, it was about 11:30 at night, dark and they didn't see me. You're not going to believe what happened next, the other officers didn't."

She smiled, shrugged and said gently, "Try me and see, Andy."

"Well, uh, all of a sudden Alisa started shaking and flinging her hair around and shit, uh, stuff. I thought she might be O.D.ing or having a heart attack or something. Then, before my own two eyes, she just transformed from one person into another."

"How so, Andy?" the woman asked.

"Changed like in a horror movie, transformed. The transformation made her taller, her tits, I mean her bust, got bigger and her hair grew longer and switched color even. Alisa became a totally different girl, not a brunette anymore. It scared the hell out of me."

The hot female cop just nodded like she understood, nothing out of the ordinary, but Delaflote detected a distinct new attitude in the big man behind her, one of intense interest. He spoke for the first time in a voice so suspicious he didn't recognize his British accent right away.

He asked, "What color did her hair change to, Andy?"

Delaflote swallowed, his eyes darted back to the girl, who motioned for him to answer. "Red, sir, Alisa turned into some red-haired gal." 

He noted the two cops exchange a glance among themselves. The lady cop appeared doubtful, but the man seemed certain, without any doubt. Did the woman think he lied? Did the man know about the camera? Was it all leading up to that?

The male cop asked him pointedly, "Did Alisa talk or say anything during this so-called transformation, anything you heard?" 

He shook his head and the big man's voice got harsh.

"That's not what you told the parish police. You said Alisa referred to herself by a different name."

"Yeah, right, I forgot," he stuttered.

The Latina cop noticed his unease and placed a friendly hand on his forearm. "It's okay to forget," she said like a mother comforting a child. "We understand how traumatic the murder of a friend can be. Take some time to refresh your memory."

"But don't take too much time," growled the man. "Who did Alisa identify herself as after she'd changed?"

Delaflote swallowed again, terrified, positive that guilt showed on his face, positive they wouldn't buy his lies. The man crossed his arms with a show of impatience and regarded him like a bug on the sidewalk he planned to squash under the sole of his shoe. Fuck 'em, Delaflote told himself in a stubborn upsurge of courage, he'd stick to his story, jail or no jail.

"Like I reported to the other policemen a few days ago, she called herself Stephanie."

"Stephanie what, any last name?"

"If I remember correctly Stephanie Mercer."

The olive skin tone of the lady cop's face went white; she shot her partner a dirty look. 

He ignored it and asked, "You say all of this happened outside, the girl changing and then calling herself by another name?"

"Yeah!"

"You'd best keep a civil tongue in your head, young man," warned the big cop. He stepped toward Delaflote, his arms uncrossed now and his hands bunched into fists.

The Latin girl tugged at his sleeve to prevent him taking another forward step. They glared at each other and, to Delaflote's surprise, the man stopped. She asked, "Can you tell us more about this Alisa girl, and her relationship with the victim?"

He kept an eye on the frowning man as he answered her. "What can I say? They hooked up and she moved into Enrique's studio with him. They started living together."

"When did they meet, and where?" she asked calmly, but not as calm as she'd been before, her face still a bit pale.

"They met about two weeks ago. At a nightclub."

The man interjected, "Which one?"

Glancing at her partner the Latina chick said sternly, "I'll ask the questions, okay?" She turned to Delaflote, but asked the same thing the male cop had.

"A rave club called the Skin & Blister."

"And it's located where?"

Under the man's watchful hawk-like eyes, Delaflote answered, "Just outside the Quarter on Tchoupitoulas." He informed them he knew how to get there, but not the exact street number.

The lady cop started to ask another question, but the big man cut her off. "I know where it is, lieutenant. It's one of the places I told you about earlier. Don't you recall? We were driving by the airport when I mentioned it."

"Oh, that's right," she said brightly, "I remember now."

Their last bit of conversation sounded odd to Delaflote, the woman acted like she didn't know where to find Tchoupitoulas Street. Every New Orleans cop knew its whereabouts, even the cop with the British accent. He thought that odd too, as well as the fact the woman didn't talk like a Louisiana native, but was too petrified to quiz them about it. He didn't want to piss them off asking questions. 

The female lieutenant said to Delaflote, "How long did Alisa stay with Enrique before the night of the murder?"

"I'd guess less than a week."

The man spoke again. "Were you well acquainted with her?"

"Not too well, I only met her once before my friend was murdered."

The Latina cop said, "Do you think she killed him?"

Now the hard questions had begun, thought Delaflote, be super careful how you respond to them. "If she did, I didn't see it go down. For all I know the two guys may have offed him. She and they left Enrique's apartment before I got there." He needed to repeat the same tale he spun for the other cops. "I knocked after seeing them leave and Enrique didn't answer so I went home and tried him the next morning. I've told the other cops all this."

"Tell us again," the male detective muttered. "What happened the next day?" 

"I got worried, something didn't feel right, so I went back over there. When I tried the door, it was open and I went inside. I found him dead."

"Why didn't you try the door the previous night, didn't something feel wrong then?"

"Give me a break, officer. I'd been drinking the night before, by morning I was sober, thinking more clearly." 

The lady asked, "Describe the crime scene. What did you see when you went inside the victim's apartment?"

No need to lie about anything except what time he discovered the corpse, Delaflote told the whole truth, with additional exceptions like boosting Enrique's video camera and where Alisa transformed into Stephanie.

Again the man badgered him. "Why would the girl shack up with the victim and then all of a sudden kill him days later?" 

"How would I know? Like I said, maybe one of the men put those two holes in Enrique's neck."

"That doesn't make sense. According to you, the girl was the one who morphed into another person, not one of the men." He said to the Latina, "He's lying, at best he's omitting details." 

She replied, "Andy didn't witness the murder."

"He's not telling us everything about Alisa."

"Man, I told you that bitch lived with him for about a week before he died. Who can say why she picked that night to off him? Maybe it was because of the two other dudes. I just don't know! I'm innocent!"

"No one said you weren't, Andy," responded the woman. "But why would she wait, why not kill him the first night if she intended to kill him all along?"

"I'm not a fucking mindreader," he groaned in exasperation, "and I didn't see what happened. I only met her once!"

The man moved forward and shoved Delaflote against the living room wall. "Enrique was a photographer, so are you. Which one of you shot the videotape?"

Delaflote freaked, nearly swallowed his tongue. "What videotape?" 

To his surprise the Latina cop echoed his exact same words. The dirty look she'd given her partner before was nothing compared to the one she gave him now. If looks could kill the big cop would be on his aunt's living room rug as dead as Enrique. But Delaflote didn't have more than a second to dwell on that before the man grabbed him by the front of his Pantera T-shirt, his fist poised to punch him in the face.

"Don't make me ask a second time, you scussbucket!"

Delaflote knew the jig was up. With tears in his eyes and trembling voice he confessed, "I didn't shoot it, Enrique did. The murder was recorded on the video, by accident I think. I admit I stole the video camera from his apartment, but that's all. I didn't do anything else."

The two cops shouted at the same time: "Where's the tape, Andy?"

"It's gone. It got stolen, the night of the murder."

Both cops roared again, talking over each other, but the Latina made herself heard and assumed control of the conversation. She unclenched the big cop's fist from Delaflote's T-shirt finger by finger while asking, "You removed videotaped evidence linking a killer to a murder from a crime scene? What fucking possessed you to do that, you idiot?"

"I got scared, I was drunk, I wasn't thinking clearly," he blubbered.

"Evidence tampering is a felony punishable by years in prison, you fool."

"I'm such a loser," Delaflote wept openly. "I got to Enrique's apartment a few minutes after he was murdered that night and went inside, not the next day like I said originally. I stole his videocam because I accidentally stepped into the frame when I discovered his body, I didn't know it was still filming."

The big man growled, "Have you watched the video?"

Delaflote nodded in misery. "Yes," he croaked.

"Quit feeling sorry for yourself and tell me what's on it."

"It starts out with Enrique's girlfriend Alisa having sex on a couch with two men."

"Is Enrique one of them?" inquired the Latina.

"No, the dudes I saw her get into the Firebird with."

"Did Enrique walk in and catch them in the act?" she asked.

"No. He was in the same room just not in the frame."

"Was he angry, was there a confrontation?" 

He shook his head at the memory. "You can actually hear him on the tape urging the three of them on. Like a movie director."

"So the sex wasn't the motive for killing him?" the lady cop said.

"Not at all. He was videoing the scene and adjusting the video camera angle, zooming in for close-ups, panning back. He also took still photos, I could hear his Nikon clicking away, he changed rolls of film at least twice. The New Orleans Police Department had to take those rolls away from the crime scene as evidence. Surely you two know that?"

This time the man did the talking. "Never mind what we know," he barked at him. "How long does the sex scene continue before Alisa bites Enrique?"

"Quite a while, for most of the tape."

"Then what?"

"After they had sex the two men leave the frame to get dressed. Alisa talks to them in the background while the video camera keeps shooting a static shot of the empty couch. I could hear Enrique messing with his Nikon. He starts talking to Alisa and they got into a loud argument before she chases him into the frame. That's when she kills him. Afterwards is when she transforms into the other girl. Then there's another long static shot of his body on the couch before I came into the apartment." 

"How long does the whole tape run?" the big dude asked him.

"Almost an hour."

The man's eyes darkened at that bit of news.

The woman asked, "Why'd you steal video camera in the first place? Why not leave it and immediately call 911 for the police?"

"I've been in trouble with the local cops before, I thought they'd lock me up. I stole the camera not knowing a murder was on the tape. I was going to turn it over to the police department the next day."

"Going to? Where's the videotape now?" The Latina said, "I want it."

"I don't have it anymore."

"Bullshit," she yelled. "What did you do with it?"

"The night Enrique got killed someone broke into my apartment and stole the tape out of the videocam."

"Who?"

"I don't know, some old guy. He woke me up jimmying the door of my apartment. At first I was afraid it was the police, I watched him from behind my bedroom door, he shined a flashlight on the videocam in the living room. I thought he was going to steal the whole camera setup but he didn't, just fiddled around with it, ejected the tape and left."

When Delaflote said that, the Latina went nuts. This time the big cop had to chill her out or she would've kicked his ass into the New Year. They started arguing among themselves again. Delaflote felt a tangible tension between the two cops, but didn't know what was up between them, something sexual for sure. They obviously knew each other off the job. Who could fault the dude? The little Latin bitch rocked.

"He's lying," she shouted at the other cop. Then she whirled to face Delaflote and grabbed his shirtfront, "I want that goddamn tape. Now!"

Delaflote sniveled in terror. Surely he'd get the fuck pounded out of him before they dragged him off to the cop shop. He wished his aunt would come in from work and stop all this, but she wasn't due home for another hour. To his astonishment the big cop stopped the enraged Latina.

"He may be lying," said her partner, "but not about the videotape."

Delaflote protested, "I am not lying!" 

"The tape exists," the man told her. "I've seen it, or a portion of it anyway."

"What?" she yelled.

"Relax, we'll discuss it in private later. Right now I want to find out more about the thief."

He turned an evil eye on Delaflote, who volunteered, "I took three pictures of him as he walked through the parking lot of my apartment, but I don't know who he is. That's why I moved over here to my aunt's, I was scared shitless."

The Latina snarled in disbelief, "You've got fucking pictures of everything, fat boy: murderers, thieves." She still looked hot even when on the verge of tearing his throat out. "I suppose those pictures got stolen, misplaced or disappeared into thin air too?"

"No, I still have them. I developed the film and they're in the bedroom, the photos."

Now the male cop got excited again, "Let's take a look at them then."

They went into his aunt's guest room and he showed the prints to the cops. The female cop asked sarcastically, "And how did you manage to take these pictures, just happen to have a camera lying around?"

"As a matter of fact I did. I'd hired a model to shoot a layout at my place the same evening Enrique died. The camera was still in the living room when the thief broke in, I'm surprised he didn't steal it. It's valuable."

The woman picked his story apart. "You claimed you got drunk on the night of the murder. Doesn't sound like something a professional photographer would do while shooting a layout."

Delaflote attempted to sidestep her accusation, but had no ready comment. Her partner saved him when he glanced up from examining the pictures. 

"He wasn't too drunk to shoot these photos, lieutenant. In this one you can see a good profile of the thief's face."

Delaflote said, "When the old guy left with the videotape I saw my camera on the coffee table where I'd left it. It still had film in it, so I snatched it up and snapped those pics before he vanished from sight."

"How convenient," the Latin chick sniffed, still sarcastic.

"How fortuitous rather," the other cop said to her, again studying the trio of photographs. "I know who this bastard is."

~~~~~~~~~~

They left a nervous and worried Delaflote at his aunt's house with orders not to leave town, but Mercer confiscated the photographs of the thief and demanded the negatives of the entire roll of film. When Mercer asked if he'd taken any photos of Alisa Dwyer, Delaflote said he'd taken a shot of her the night he met her. Mercer didn't even have to ask for it, the young man handed it over to him without a word. Once Nova and he got into the rent car she launched into a tirade against him.

"You lied to me, Clive, you knew about that video before you set foot on a plane in London. You knew Stephanie killed my brother all along." That comprised her opening statement but there was more, much more.

When she wound down, Mercer explained, "I did what I did to spare your feelings in case things didn't pan out, they still haven't. I wasn't sure Stephanie was involved, I'm still not."

"Sure you're not! You've got videotaped proof. I was bound to find that out sooner or later, what the fuck were you planning to say then?"

"What I'm going to say now, I'm sorry."

"That does a fat fucking lot of good," Nova said, tears streaming down her face. She jerked the car savagely around a corner.

"Take it easy, Nova. I'm here and I'm here to help you."

"Help me, my ass! You're here to help yourself. I thought you flew back to America to comfort me in my time of need." She sobbed so heavily she couldn't speak and pulled the car over onto the shoulder of the highway.

After a while Mercer ventured gently: "We've had this conversation already at the airport."

Nova dug through the pockets of her frockcoat and found a tissue. She took off her glasses and dried her eyes, blew her nose. Then she sneered at him. "How can I forget? You tried to bullshit me with the moneyed tentacles of S.T.A.L.K. and 'other evidence' the New Orleans cops didn't have. But you didn't want to get my hopes up because it might be unsubstantiated. How much more substantial can a videotape get?"

"In this day and age those things can be faked with technology."

"Riiight! Then you took the next flight for New Orleans to check out a fake lead about your daughter." She eased the car back into traffic, adding: "You could care less about the death of my brother. And me."

"That's not true, Nova, you know better."

"Do I? As soon as you accomplished your mission in Los Angeles back in October you hauled ass straight to Prague," she spat, "To do what, paperwork? I gave you every opportunity to stay with me. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to see how high I am on your list of priorities."

"You have no idea how high on my list you are."

She blew a raspberry and stared at the highway, refusing to look at him. They rode in silence for two or three minutes.

Mercer said sadly, "I guess my niece never told you then."

"Told me what? Molly's gotten one lousy email from you since you left. All you did was thank her for the presents she bought you in L.A."

"I asked her to say hello to you for me," he said, eyes downcast. He should have told her about the tape as soon as he landed. Why hadn't he; was he afraid of his feelings toward Nova; hoping she still felt the same way as when he'd left? Not a day had gone by without her cropping up in his thoughts. Now he'd buggered things up but good!

"I read the email, Clive. It said: P.S. Give my regards to Nova," she snorted, still not meeting his eyes. "Regards, not give my best, give my love, but give my regards. Like I was a child, or the family dog."




Agent of S.T.A.L.K. in New Orleans



He said in a whisper, "Nova, I didn't trust myself to say more."

She made another rude sound with her mouth. "What was it Molly never did tell me anyway?"

"I used to be a priest."

She looked at him then, mouth hanging open. "Are you shitting me?"

"That's why I never could bring myself to make love to you. And I wanted to. Badly. I've taken so many ice cold showers since then I'm surprised my skin isn't permanently blue."

Mercer wondered why in spite of all her obvious roiling emotions she chuckled. "You wanted to sleep with me, Clive?"

"Yes."

"Okay, so you used to be a man of the cloth, no problem, but you weren't when you were in L.A."

"No," he admitted uneasily, "I wasn't."

"Why did you leave the priesthood?"

"I helped a pregnant parishioner of mine get an abortion."

"Did you get her pregnant?"

"Not hardly. She'd been raped."

"I'm sorry, Clive."

"The diocese defrocked me, but there were other circumstances."

"I'm afraid to ask what."

"Don't be and don't worry. The circumstances don't involve young men or boys. My marriage broke apart around the same time."

"I thought priests couldn't get married, like nuns."

"I was married before I became a Chaplain in the commandos."

"Oh," she murmured. "If you were a priest, we're of the same faith. Why did your marriage come to an end?"

Mercer sighed, gazing out the passenger window at the buildings passing by. "You may not want to know." He knew if he told her why the argument might start all over again, but he had to, he owed it to Nova.

While he stalled, she said, "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. It's none of my business."

"At this point you mean too much to me for me not to be totally frank."

She reached down and squeezed his hand in hers and said nothing. They drove a mile holding hands.

Mercer finally said, "That was about the time our daughter was attacked by an incubus. He marked Stephanie and she became a vampire herself."

"You told me about it. You killed the incubus, right?"

"Yes."

"Your wife was angry at you because of that?"

"Not really. As I said there were other circumstances. We got married when we were both very young; she never wanted me to become a priest to begin with. I did it partly because of my newfound faith."

"And have you kept your faith since separating from the church?"

"For the most part, yes."

"What's the other part?"

"I thought it would strengthen our marriage. My ex-wife Emily is Irish with an Irish temper. She was always insanely jealous of me."

"Did she think you got your parishioner pregnant?"

"That was one of her accusations, among others. For some strange reason since my middle teens women have always made it quite plain they were, uh, available to me."

Nova started chuckling again. Mercer glanced at her crossly and she stopped. "I apologize for laughing."

He disengaged his hand from hers. "What's funny?"

She reached into his lap where he'd placed his hand and took it firmly back in hers again. He didn't resist. "Just the way you talk."

"What's wrong with the way I talk? Is it my accent?"

"Don't be so uptight, Clive. You're just so . . . so modest. Have you checked the mirror lately?"

"Why? Have I got something between me teeth?"

"Now you're trying to make me laugh, you big lug."

"What's all this rot about mirrors then?"

"You're one of the best looking men I've ever met. Of course women are going to throw themselves at you."

"Thanks for the compliment, Nova, but stop kidding me. I'm a rough old cob." 

"At least you're not stuck up. I was positively jealous of the way all the California girls scoped you out two months ago. If you could act, you could be a movie star in Hollywood on Mel Gibson's level."

"Lord have mercy, sweetheart, I'm forty bloody three!"

"Mel Gibson's a lot older than that."

"Rubbish."

"Whatever. So your wife and you got divorced because she was jealous. Did you ever take any of the ladies up on their offers of availability?"

"Not since I got married."

"And after the divorce?"

"Not very often. Emily divorced me because she was unable to come to terms with Stephanie being a vampire, and me . . ."

"And you what?" she wanted to know.

"Going to work for S.T.A.L.K. It's a dangerous gig."

"So you told me, when you turned down all my invitations to warm you between the sheets. Are you trying to say something's changed your mind?"

"I'm not sure. Between my divorced wife, estranged vampire daughter, S.T.A.L.K. and the leftover dregs of my religion I'm a very conflicted man. I know women are attracted to me but I don't know why I turn them down." He couldn't fathom how he resisted Nova, she was a petite but curvaceous woman, darkly beautiful and radiated an urgent sensuality.

"Well, I know for a fact from firsthand experience you can rule out being impotent or gay. Are you hard right now?" she teased him.

He gripped her hand tightly to keep her from finding out how right she was. "Keep your other hand on the steering wheel."

~~~~~~~~~~

Nova harbored a lot of anger toward Mercer for concealing his true motivation for traveling to New Orleans, but she wasn't as angry now as she had when first driving away from Delaflote's aunt's house. As Mercer opened up during the conversation Nova sensed a vulnerability in him she never dreamt existed. But he'd lied more than once to her since he'd landed at the airport three hours ago and her feelings still chafed despite their recent clowning around in the car. Thoughts of her brother Enrique returned, as did her curiosity about how much information Mercer possessed about his murder. The time had come for him to lay all his cards face up on the table concerning the crime for her to see.

She asked, "Since you're in such a forthcoming mood I want you to tell me everything S.T.A.L.K. knows about my brother's death and your daughter's presence in New Orleans."

"I should never have tried to keep anything from you. Where do you want me to start?"

"How about with the videotape you've seen of the murder. Did you bring it with you?"

"There was nothing to bring. All I've seen is what I received in an email titled 'Father' on my computer at S.T.A.L.K.'s office in London four days ago."

"What did the message say?" 

"The text of the message was one word: 'Enjoy!' But it contained a two minute thirteen second video attachment. The clip began with a naked brunette woman administering a vampire kiss to a fully-clothed Spanish bloke. Then the woman transformed into Stephanie on tape."

"Is a vampire kiss what I think it is?"

"It's what we call it in the business, but it's the politically correct term for murder. I didn't suspect the victim might be your brother until I got your email on my laptop at home the next day. When I added them together I made an educated guess the two were related, but the operative word is guess."

"Did you bring your laptop with you?" Nova asked anxiously.

Mercer assured her in a quiet voice, "You don't want to watch the video clip."

"I insist on seeing it!"

"That's not the immediate burning issue, Nova, finding the killer is, whether it's Stephanie or not. Something is not kosher about this whole videotape affair. There's some kind of chicanery going on, but I don't know what. Yet. Why would anyone shoot a video knowing they were taping their last minutes alive?"

Nova had to agree and asked, "Who sent you the email?" 

Mercer said, "Good question, I haven't a clue."

"You mean you don't know? It wasn't Stephanie?"

"When the tech geeks at S.T.A.L.K. traced the email back to its originating I.P. address they found it routed through an anonymous server in China. A guarantee our techs would run into an automatic dead end."

"So the email wasn't sent from China?"

"It could have been sent from anywhere just routed through China. America doesn't allow anonymous servers; they shut the sites down when they find out about them, the Chinese don't. That's why I wanted to interview this Delaflote character first thing. Since he told the cops the story they passed on to you I thought he'd sent the video clip. Now that I've seen the photos of the tape thief I'm positive the email came from Louisiana. Delaflote's not only stupid, he's a patsy. The people who edited the original tape and emailed the clip couldn't've known Delaflote would steal it."

"He said Enrique shot the video though. Is he lying?"

"Probably not. When Delaflote stole the video camera, whoever is responsible for the email had to steal the tape back from him."

"That's confusing. Why did Stephanie or Alisa or whoever killed Enrique not take the videotape with her when she left the murder scene?"

Mercer shrugged. "Another good question, and one I'd like to know the answer to. But it gets worse."

"How?"

Mercer explained, "If the murderer is a succubus she feeds off male sexual energy, such a creature could enslave a man with him being virtually unaware of it. After I watched the clip it was obvious the Alisa girl committed the crime. But after Delaflote described the entire hour of footage it sounds like Alisa's change of heart came as an unexpected shock to your brother."

"Call her Stephanie if you want, Clive, it doesn't bother me."

He replied, "I'm still not convinced it's my daughter."

"Did she look like her on the video?"

"Spitting image. It shocked me very much, my boss too. At first he forbade me to check things out. After I heard from you cinched the matter as far as I was concerned. I informed my boss I'd go on my own whether he approved or not. That's why S.T.A.L.K.'s not paying me unless the trip yields results. He wanted to send someone else."

"Why?"

"Too much personal involvement with not only Stephanie, but with you."

His admission lent Nova some small comfort. "You're here though. What did you tell him?"

"That I'd resign and fly to Louisiana anyway and take out anyone, including S.T.A.L.K. agents, who interfered with me."

"Isn't that dangerous?"

"Dangerous to some people is little more than a way of life to others. Like me. What else is new? My boss relented without too much more argument. I'm the best man S.T.A.L.K.'s got."

Nova didn't laugh. Mercer wasn't vain about his looks but he was cocky about his ability. She'd learned that when they met during his first visit. He'd been absolutely ruthless then; she'd witnessed him hold his own against two men bigger than he in a fistfight and kill a vampire with little more effort than buying a candy bar from a vending machine. Also he showed a willingness to kidnap and torture two other men he thought concealed pertinent information about a murder he took upon himself to investigate independently of the official police investigation.

"So who's the thief you recognized in Andy's photograph?"

"A right scrote, that one. The famous vampire rights lawyer, Geoff Guillory."

"Even I've heard of him. He's very rich and very powerful."

"Gilly's also human," Mercer grunted, "Or I'd have terminated him a lot of years ago."

Nova knew Mercer had a license to destroy supernatural creatures, but no man or entity had license to kill human beings legally except the government. She couldn't help but grin. "Terminate with extreme prejudice as our C.I.A. cousins say?"

"Exactly," the man in the front seat beside her declared. "With my bare hands."

"What's a big wheel like Guillory doing stealing a videotape from a shabby apartment in the middle of the night from a cheap operator like Andy Delaflote?"

"Dunno, Nova. But Gilly's part of the puzzle you and I will piece together before we leave New Orleans."

The last time Nova heard Mercer refer to someone by a truncated nickname instead of their given name, Mercer killed the man.

~~~~~~~~~~

As they drew near the French Quarter where Nova had a room in what she'd described to him as a quaint and ancient hotel with a balcony overlooking a courtyard, she asked, "Now you're certain beyond a reasonable doubt Andy didn't email you the video clip?"

"Yes," Mercer said, "for a number of reasons. First off, he's too stupid and doesn't have the ways and means to get my business email address. Second, he's too terrified of coppers to play Zodiac Killer-style mind games with them. Now that I think about it the more I'm bloody positive Gilly sent the email. He could get hold of email addresses at S.T.A.L.K. Delaflote's too dumb."

"May be, but even if he's stupid how long will it take for him to associate Stephanie Mercer's name with yours?"

"Probably never, he's thick as a brick. You only mentioned my name once at the beginning of our interview with him. Most people forget names, especially after the emotional wringer we ran him through."

"True, but Andy was a close friend of Enrique's. That's different than putting Stephanie's last name with yours. Eventually he might make the connection between Enrique's surname and a certain female cop who introduced herself as Detective Novarro."

"I'd not worry about that overmuch. Even if he does link our names with the perpetrator and the victim he's too chicken to report us to the local constables. Speaking of them, I need to pay them a visit some time tomorrow."

"Do you think they'll give up more to you than they did me? You're not even a relative of the deceased."

"That's not why I want to see them. I'm scheming to use them to flush Geoff Guillory out of his hidey hole."

"He's famous, lives in New Orleans and isn't in the phone book?"

"Gilly has residences in Baton Rouge and New York City too, but for being such an outspoken public figure he doesn't leave much of a paper trail. For good reason, S.T.A.L.K. isn't his only enemy. The Supernatural Opposition International League in Geneva would like to cut his nuts off too. They've fought against vampire rights in society longer than Gilly's been championing them."

"Why do you think the police will tell you where he lives?"

"They won't, however once I contact the coppers they're bound to contact him. Gilly will come to me, indignant and up in arms, once he learns what I have in mind."

"Are you going to let me in on it, or is it a secret?"

"I'm going to ask permission to exhume a local grave."

"What on earth for?"

"I'll claim I'm hunting for a vampire's daytime resting place."

"Modern day vampires have better refuges than public cemeteries."

"You and I know that as well as the police do, but it's a legal maneuver and, like it or not, they'll have to respond to my formal request."

"Vampire or no vampire, you wouldn't go through law enforcement channels seeking permission, Clive. You'd have to have a lawyer go through the family of the interred person you want to dig up."

"Not if the whole family's extinct I wouldn't. New Orleans is an old enough town to have graves dating back to the Louisiana Purchase. We'll go to Laurel Gardens cemetery and find a sufficiently antiquated crypt and hope to bring Gilly out of the woodwork."

"Spooky," said Nova, lines furrowing her forehead. "Do you want to go traipsing through a graveyard tonight?"

"Not really, we'll do that first thing in the morning, or I will if you don't care to go skulking amongst the tombstones. You know what vampires do at dusk."

"Crawl out of their coffins and do vampire shit all night."

"I've never heard it put it better," Mercer laughed. "For the time being I'm as hungry as the proverbial horse. Any suggestions on a good place to eat around here?"

"This is my first trip to Louisiana, Clive; you've probably been to New Orleans more times than I have."

"Only once before and that was last millennium. You've been here a few days already, where have you been dining?"

"Mickey D's and Arby's. I haven't had much of an appetite because I've been dealing with a death in the family."

"Do you feel like eating something light? I'm ravenous, but not too choosy. Anything but Burger King is fine with me." 

"What's wrong with Burger King?"

"I don't like ketchup on hamburgers."

"Have you ever considered ordering a burger and having them hold the ketchup?" Mercer made a face and she said, "I can eat. Where do you want to tie on a feed bag?"

Mercer suggested Antoine's on St. Louis Street in the Vieux Carré. They located a multi-level parking garage in the Quarter one street over on Toulouse and walked the block. Mercer started to take Nova's hand in his, but didn't. If she wanted to do any more handholding she could initiate the proceedings, but she did not and, slightly disappointed, Mercer made small talk about how every other establishment along the streets seemed to be a T-shirt or gift shop. Inside the restaurant at the table next to theirs, eight elderly tourists got up and left upon discovering the menu was in French. Nova told Mercer she couldn't read the menu either and he asked her what she wanted. After he'd translated, she decided on a Roquefort salad for an appetizer and he chose Crab Ravigote. Mercer asked the waiter, "Do your pommes de terre soufflés come with the Chateaubriand? Great. Café au lait after dinner si vous plait, monsieur." 

"Clive, you're so continental," Nova enthused, "you speak and read French."

"Being a European I speak a little of a lot of languages, but I'd say French is the only other one outside of English I read and am fluent in." Mercer also could read some German and Russian too, but the Oriental languages were beyond his grasp.

When the food began to show up in stages Nova dispatched each new course with relish. He was pleased her appetite had returned and she loved the puffed potatoes. She said no to dessert, but after their coffees arrived Mercer ordered pecan bread pudding with rum sauce anyway.

After devouring hers, Nova groaned, "The French really know how to eat. That was delicious, but I shouldn't've eaten so much, I bet I gained five pounds before the dessert." 

When Mercer slipped the waiter two one hundred dollar bills for the meal and tip, she asked, "You just paid two hundred bucks for dinner?"

"We'll be reduced to Burger King tomorrow," he joked.

She laughed gaily and said it might be a good idea to walk off their meal so they strolled through the French Quarter hand-in-hand, her idea. They went east on Bourbon Street all the way to Esplanade Avenue at the very border of the Vieux Carré, headed north a block and made their way west on Dauphine back to Toulouse to collect the rent car. People ambled through the streets with alcoholic beverages in hand in front of French Quarter policeman patrolling their beats. The cops said and did nothing to dissuade them from doing so. Jazz, rock and rhythm & blues music spilled from the clubs; many of the strolling musicians dressed as Papa Noel. Most of the buildings were constructed of old weathered brick, the wrought iron balcony railings tied with red ribbons and laurel wreaths for the Christmas holidays. Horses wearing Santa Claus stocking caps or foam rubber reindeer horns drew carriages of tourists through the streets. 

Nova intimated she'd like to take a ride in one and he promised her they would before leaving Louisiana. She observed, "This place is like a Disneyland for adults." A bum in tattered clothing lying in a gutter got to his feet and meandered down the sidewalk talking surreptitiously into a miniature two-way radio attached under his collar. "What the hell was that all about?"

Mercer cracked a smile. "I'd say the undercover cops as well as those in uniform are working Disneyland tonight."

She laughed. "It sure looks that way, this place is weird."

"Weirder than you'd imagine, and steeped in murky legend. This part of your nation has a long history of vampires and other nefarious goings-on."

"Did you just say nefarious?" she chuckled. "You've been watching too many of those old black and white horror movies you're so fond of. I didn't think anybody used that word except Boris Karloff and Vincent Price." 




Agent of S.T.A.L.K. in New Orleans



"Don't leave out Clive Mercer. I'm an old creaker just like they are."

"Were," she corrected him. "They're both dead. Besides you're not old," she pressed herself close to him, "and I'm glad you're not dead."

I could be tomorrow, he thought, but refrained from saying it aloud, he didn't want to spoil her good mood by reminding her.

They strolled another block. She asked, "Want to stop and have a drink? I'm paying."

"I'd rather have one at the Skin & Blister."

"You're all business, aren't you, Clive?"

"It's only nine o'clock, by the time we get over to Tchoupitoulas the club should be in full swing."

"Do you really think we'll find Stephanie there? There must be at least a thousand nightspots in New Orleans. To be realistic, after all the trouble she's probably left town."

"Might as well get a little work done while we're so close. Got any better ideas?"

Nova pushed her glasses up on her nose and grinned slyly at him, "Maybe one or two."

Mercer was sorely tempted, but said, "We have the whole night ahead of us. If nothing transpires at the Blister we can retire to the hotel."

"I'm game," she replied, amenable. "Did you bring your vampire proof sunglasses and that big chrome pistol with you this trip?"

"I have the gun in one of my suitcases," he said as they entered the parking garage where they left the car, his words echoing off all the concrete surfaces. "But my glasses got crushed to pieces by a succubus in Prague a little while back."

"Won't S.T.A.L.K. replace them? I'd think those sunglasses would be standard issue equipment for you guys."

"They are, but they're not only popular, they're expensive and have a tendency to get broken. I tried to get two pair before I departed, but they're still on backorder." 

"You can wear two pairs of shades at the same time?"

He grinned and kissed the top of her head. "Wanted to furnish you with your own this time out. We're dealing with vamps again, I don't want you to ever get put in another trance." As soon as the words left his mouth he sensed furtive movement out of his peripheral vision to the right. 

Thirty meters away a man in an Army fatigue jacket and ski mask stepped out from behind a van. He leveled a machine gun at them. "You two hold it right there. You're coming with me."

"Are we?" Nova said skeptically.

"Down!" Mercer cried and thrust her off her feet and ran in a broken pattern toward the man.

Probably not expecting resistance the man began to fire the automatic weapon. The noisy chattering bounced around Mercer and Nova like a pinball as bullets stitched across the ground and pocked the bodies of cars. Mercer threw himself flat, lead whizzing by, and rolled between two parked SUVs. He jumped up in a crouch, straining to see through the windows of one vehicle for the gunman. With a quick glance to make sure Nova survived the onslaught, she huddled out of sight with her back braced against a car while drawing a small pistol from her waistband, Mercer scanned the area again for the man and caught sight of him half hidden behind a Subaru. The clatter of the weapon stilled once the clip emptied. Ears ringing, Mercer launched himself in the shooter's direction at a dead run before the bloke could reload or bolt away.

He heard Nova screaming for him to get down and stay down but he ignored her warning, sprinting toward the would-be assassin. Mercer closed the distance separating them rapidly, wishing he had a gun, but his armory was still tucked away in his suitcases. The triggerman's eyes went wide in the eyeholes of his black ski mask at Mercer's speedy approach. He reached inside his jacket as he raced toward him hoping to fool the man into thinking he carried a gun. The fellow momentarily wavered, poised on the indecisive crossroads of slapping another clip into his Uzi or fleeing. He chose the latter, but hesitated long enough for Mercer to bring him down with a flying tackle.

Mercer grunted in pain as one of his shoulders struck the concrete, punching at the bastard's face repeatedly with his left fist. With his other hand he jerked the knitted mask around his attacker's head so he'd be unable to see through the eyeholes anymore. His knuckles connected solidly three or four times. He'd try to break his nose and jaw before knocking his teeth down his throat. A second ski-masked assailant suddenly emerged from a row of parked cars and kicked Mercer in the ribs with the toe of his boot. The other man leveled a pistol at him as Nova began yelling for him to drop his weapon.

The man didn't shoot when he had the chance, maybe out of fear of hitting his partner in crime. Mercer saw Nova racing toward them, her right arm extended straight before her with the little automatic she'd drawn gripped in her fist. Using his feet, Mercer upended the second gunman in a maneuver that sprawled him on his back. For a moment the only sound Mercer heard was Nova's Reeboks thudding against the cement amid her shouted threats. While he thrashed on the ground with the two men she couldn't fire either without risking a stray bullet striking him.

Then an old Ford Taurus station wagon swerved into view, rubber squealing as it rounded the turn from the adjacent row. The driver flashed the high beams and leaned on the horn. A few fearful seconds of panic that seemed to last an eternity swelled in Mercer's gut and pushed bile into his throat as it appeared the driver intended to run Nova down. He might have been signaling his friends, but all the racket he made also served to warn the girl. An instant before the rocketing Ford crushed her beneath its wheels she vaulted out of harm's way onto the long trunk of a parked Cadillac. 

The driver slammed the brakes so hard the station wagon skidded diagonally to a stop. He shouted, "Get in, get in, goddamn it," out the unrolled window. Mercer took a blow in the kidneys from the man wielding the Uzi but struggled to prevent both men from getting into the car, a wave of pain swam through his body. The man clubbed at his head with the submachine gun. Mercer twisted around and successfully wrenched the empty weapon from his hands; the second man he'd knocked down scrambled away unwilling to put up a fight. He lunged for the car and clawed open the rear door. The triggerman tromped across Mercer's chest and legs to reach the waiting vehicle while the driver exhorted him to hurry. He dove into the back seat. The Ford screeched off with his legs hanging outside the door.

Mercer staggered to his feet gasping for breath from the kick in the ribs and the kidney punch. The car sped down a ramp leading to the street and out of his line of vision. He saw an elderly black man in coveralls with the garage name above the front pocket limping toward him and heard Nova shouting, "Are you all right?"

He turned to her as she ran in his direction. When she got to his side he groaned, "Let's get out of here before the coppers arrive."

"What?" she sputtered, dumbfounded. "You don't want to report this to---"

Mercer yanked Nova by the arm and hastened her away from the garage attendant who paused a dozen meters away when he spotted both of them holding guns. 

"Come on!" he hissed. They retreated as quickly as Mercer's pain allowed him.

"That's our car," Nova said as they rushed right by it.

"Forget it! We need to get make ourselves scarce."

"Why? We've done nothing wrong."

"I know but I don't want to be here half the night answering the cops' questions. Go!"

"Where are we going without the car?"

"Holster your pistol and follow me." 

He lumbered toward the side of the building. The open-air garage was comprised of four stories and they were on the second one, about four meters above the street. Mercer peered below and spied a pair of uniformed policemen running down the sidewalk toward the entrance of the car park. Soon the whole place would be swarming with coppers. As the two cops neared the entrance of the garage, Mercer slipped one leg at a time over the concrete half-wall and dropped lightly onto the ground. Pedestrians noticed the submachine gun in his hand and scattered out of his way. Nova followed his lead. When she lighted on the sidewalk beside him she grabbed the Uzi out of his hands, folded the stock, stuffed it inside her coat and held it out of view.

Mercer took her by the hand, bustled her across the street. They made it to the nearest intersection and turned to go west on Burgundy. Once out of sight of the garage, they slowed to a normal pace when they entered the new block not wanting to draw attention to themselves by running. On St. Louis Street they turned north and saw a police car with its siren blaring, probably headed to Toulouse Street. Mercer and Nova watched it hurtle by like everyone else, thankful it didn't stop. He guided her toward Rampart Street. 

"We need to get out of the Quarter," he muttered.

"Obviously. Where to then?"

"We'll take a cab to the Skin & Blister."

"Are you fucking crazy?"

"Yes!" 

"But you're hurt and I'm holding a Mini-Uzi under my coat."

"Keep it there," he recommended, craning his neck in search of a taxi. "There's nothing to be gained by scaring the living daylights out of the locals."

She shook her head in helplessness but kept quiet. Mercer was put out by the shortage of cabs. Close to Rampart Street, he herded her into a dark and deserted alleyway. Nova trudged after him without question. He held his hand out gesturing for the submachine gun. She gave it to him. Mercer worked the bolt action twice clear the breech in case a shell remained in it then ejected the clip. 

"Good thing this only has a twenty round capacity, if it had thirty two that idiot would've eventually gotten lucky and hit one of us."

"Who were those men?"

"I wish I knew, just add them to pile of other mysteries we've got stacking up," he answered, preoccupied reinserting the clip into the Uzi's handle. "This shoots 9mm ammunition and I brought a hundred rounds with me for my Browning."

She wrinkled her nose and Mercer noticed she'd lost her glasses during the assassination attempt. "Clive, why don't you just ditch the fucking Uzi?"

"If the opposition, whoever they are, is using automatic weapons against us, we'll need this kind of firepower against them."

She beseeched him, "Carrying a fully automatic weapon in the United States carries a life sentence, Clive."

"At the rate we're going we might not have much life left to live."

She lamented sarcastically, "But your ammo is in your suitcases. In the rent-a-car. Back at the garage."

"We'll get the car tomorrow after the commotion's died down. The police will never know which one of them in the garage belongs to us. Before you turn over the ignition I want to check under the bonnet."

"Do you think those goons might've rigged explosives beneath the hood?"

"If they're bold enough to try to machine gun us down in public I'm not taking any chances. Do you think you can keep the Uzi concealed under that big coat of yours?"

"Inside a taxi-cab, yes. Inside a nightclub, no."

"Don't worry, we'll stash it before we go into the Blister."

"Worry?" asked Nova, looking askance at him. "What, me worry?"

~~~~~~~~~~

Nova knew Mercer was pissed off because the Skin & Blister club proved to be a complete waste of time: too loud, too dark, too young a crowd and no sign of Stephanie.

Nova was pissed off too. At Mercer. He'd insisted upon lugging around an illegal machine gun, lied to her numerous times about his reasons for being in New Orleans, avoided the police after a shooting incident, dragged her into this shitty rave club in search of a woman who'd no doubt left the state days ago after murdering her brother and, now, he'd had the gall to suggest they continue their fruitless search to even more nightclubs after she'd made it very clear, in spite of all this, she wanted to return to her hotel and spend the rest of the night in bed with him getting reacquainted. He'd indicated back in the French Quarter he wouldn't be averse to fucking her brains out either, something he'd refused to do when they first met. She didn't know how much good he'd be tonight though. His shoulder had gotten hurt during the fight with the two gunmen, the way he made a face every time he touched his side, he obviously had a couple of broken ribs from when one of the men kicked him with a steel-toed boot, yet he refused to go the emergency room. To top everything off, she'd lost her glasses and suffered a splitting headache from squinting and listening to thunderous industrial music in a dive where he and she stood out as the oldest patrons, and she was only twenty four. 

Damn that man!

On the other hand Mercer finally convinced her he'd flown to New Orleans with a sincere interest in tracking down her brother's killer. Even though he had an ulterior motive he displayed a newfound and genuine desire in her as a woman and just thinking about where that would lead excited her no end. Her panties had been sopping wet since he bought her the best (and most expensive) meal she'd ever eaten her life, their stroll through the Vieux Carré extremely romantic, prior to their being attacked. 

And Mercer remained the best looking and sexiest man she'd ever met, a quintessential hunk. Nova hadn't fucked anyone for almost two months and was hornier than she could remember, yet he kept putting her off wanting to chase will-o'-the-wisp leads provided by S.T.A.L.K., a Satanic church and two alleged vampire bars where the undead congregated.

Damn that man!

About midnight Mercer condescended to leave, convinced the Skin & Blister contained no one remotely resembling his vampire daughter. Nova stood next to him on the sidewalk outside the club while his eyes darted up and down Tchoupitoulas Street looking for a cab. Mercer seemed to have forgotten the Mini-Uzi he'd stashed behind a stack of pallets outside a warehouse two blocks from the Blister. She'd be damned if she'd remind him.

She mashed her breasts against his right arm and leaned her head on his good shoulder. "Why don't we go back to the hotel, Clive, and celebrate Christmas early like a pair of sensible consenting adults?"

He smiled down at her. "Want to play doctor, do you?"

"Sounds like a plan to me. We can run the villains to ground and slay the dragon tomorrow. How about it?"

"You're bloody right, Nova," Mercer sighed, "But we may have to walk like it or not, there doesn't seem to be a cab for miles."

"This end of the street isn't as well-lighted or busy as it is a few blocks east of here. I think if we stroll that way we'll find one."

He agreed and they started walking. Every twenty or thirty steps they stopped to cuddle and kiss, she could feel his rigid dick through his trousers. Her panties were so saturated the crotch of her jeans was damp. She'd have to be careful or she'd jump his bones in the cab, if they ever found one. The district they wandered through appeared barren as a desert compared to closer to the Quarter, nightspots and restaurants festered there. Eventually they'd find a ride. And they did. But not the kind Nova expected.

They embraced for yet another kiss and paid no attention to the green Hummer H2 that slowed to a stop alongside them in an unlit section of the street. The front passenger window slid down and a man with a black eye and smashed mass of a nose leered at them. 

He sneered at Mercer, "You're a little old for her, ain't you?"

"You best be off, lad, or I'll black your other eye for you."

The rear window rolled down to reveal another leering face, the mouth on it snarled: "A fucking Mexican hooker will screw anybody."

Mercer took an agitated step toward the vehicle and Nova said, "Blow those fuckers off, Clive. They're not worth it."

The ugly snout of a Glock pointed at Mercer from the front window. The man holding it intoned, "Well, well, I do believe we've already met once this evening." 

"And once was enough," Mercer said dryly.

In the back seat the other man warned, "Don't forget the Mex bitch is packin'."

"Then you cover her, Jimbo, I've got a bead drawn on the tough guy. Hands in the air, both of you!"

Nova's hand inched toward the .32 tucked against her spine in the waistband of her jeans, but she froze upon seeing the pistol aimed at Mercer. The back door of the Hummer opened and a man armed with a Mini-Uzi hopped onto the street.

Mercer glanced at the gun. "Seems you chaps have a matched set, or used to have one."

The man called Jimbo gestured with the Uzi. "Get in the truck, asshole."

"You too, bitch," the man with the black eye told Nova. He got out of the Hummer and trained the Glock on her. "Lace your hands on top of your head, cunt."

She complied. The man with the black eye gave her a wide berth and came up behind her. He found the .32 when he patted her down and pocketed it. His left hand continued to grope her, cupping her between the legs. "Oh my, you little slut, you're all ready for some dick, aren't you? Good thing I showed up when I did."

"I'm sure the only thing your little dick will do is make me laugh. Why don't you put your ski mask back on? You looked better."

Nova noticed the Glock pointed away from her to the right, the careless man more interested in feeling her up than keeping her covered. The one with the Uzi had his back to her urging Mercer into the big car and she reacted. She grabbed the wrist of his gun hand and bent her leg at the knee to bring her right foot up hard between his legs. The kick caused her to stumble forward but she maintained her grip on his wrist to keep from falling. He bent in half in pain clutching his crotch with his left hand. She twisted his wrist trying to break it and cause him to drop the gun yet succeeded in neither. Nova let go of him and kicked again, this time on the side of his head. The kick wasn't solid however and although it staggered him, he didn't topple to the ground or drop the Glock.

When Mercer saw Nova attack the man, he slammed Jimbo against the side of the Hummer and tried to wrestle the Uzi out of his hands.

A beautiful redheaded girl in a maroon double-breasted London Fog and high insulated suede boots dyed the same color crawled out of the back seat, smiling. "Hullo, dad," she said to Mercer, "Long time."

She stared him in the eye and he looked at her, his downfall. The teenaged girl's eyes gave off an eerie glow and Mercer ceased struggling with Jimbo. Although Nova didn't know what Stephanie looked like she guessed by the woman's red hair and age that she must be Mercer's daughter: vampire, succubus, shapeshifter. Jimbo hefted the Mini-Uzi to whip its barrel across Mercer's forehead, but Stephanie stopped him.

"He's helpless, I've put him in a trance. Don't lay a finger on him, Jimbo," Stephanie cautioned him. Her British accent reminded her of Mercer's. "This man is mine to abuse. I'll give the Mexican whore to you men to play with. Laroque, get her in the truck before a squad car cruises by and sees you fighting in the street. Bring her purse to me, don't just leave it lying on the sidewalk."

Laroque marched Nova to the Hummer. Stephanie stood beside the door and Nova attempted to avoid her gaze. The redhead grabbed her face, squeezing her cheeks roughly between fingers and thumb. For a long moment their eyes locked, Stephanie's glowing again. Nova had known the feeling of being entranced by a vampire's gaze once before. She'd not been able to fully resist it when it happened, but hadn't been completely hypnotized. When the redhead stared at Nova she must've thought she ensorcelled her, but Nova felt nothing. Stephanie's gaze failed to affect her at all! Nova started to taunt her and spit in her face, but checked herself. Gathering her wits about her, she made her eyes as unfocused and glassy as possible, not a difficult task after losing her glasses in the garage melee.