We tooled around the heart of the French Quarter, checking on three properties that Santana had owned, one across the street from the Royal Mojo Blues Club, the small house burned and covered with graffiti, one on Conti Street, and a block of buildings on Frenchman Street. There was no sign of or scent of the SoD at any of them.

Even with the detours, we got to the Garden District early, with sunset still ninety minutes off and the sky a hazy gray of smog and clouds. Eli parked on Chestnut Street and we got out, locking the gold stuff in the SUV, setting the alarm, and taking in the neighborhood. Eli whistled and I couldn’t disagree with the notes that said the neighborhood was exclusive and pricey.

“When I first came to New Orleans,” I said, “there were eight clans: Mearkanis, Pellissier, Rousseau, Laurent, Desmarais, Bouvier, St. Martin, and Arceneau.” I counted them off for Eli. “Of the eight clans, four once kept official clan homes in the Garden District: Mearkanis, Arceneau, Rousseau, and Desmarais.” Now, thanks to a vamp war—small by vamp historical standards, but still pretty influential—there were only four clans, Pellissier, Laurent, Bouvier, and Arceneau. “That leaves three fancy digs in the Garden District empty: former clan homes for Mearkanis, Rousseau, and Desmarais.”

Eli chuckled, an evil sound. “Some might say you’ve been rough on the fangheads in New Orleans.”

More like an opportunistic bunch of vamps had used my appearance and the death of Leo’s heir at my hands to start a coup d’état, and had failed, but I didn’t go there, except to acknowledge, “Some might. This”—I waved my arm like a game show host at the grand old house—“was Mearkanis Clan Home. According to what we now know, the Son of Darkness attended a party here the night he disappeared.”

“And you think we may find something here about Santana?” There was something in Eli’s tone that said he thought I was either dense or thinking a little too wishfully.

“I don’t know what we’ll find, but with vamps it’s always layers of things, starting back before God made turtles.”

Eli took the place in like a soldier, checking out high locations in neighboring houses where an enemy might place a sniper, noting the lack of tall fences and razor wire, with only the ubiquitous wrought-iron fencing at the front and a stuccoed brick wall at the side street. A stepladder or an excellent high jump was all an attacker would need to gain access to the grounds. The windows weren’t barred, or high off the ground, or secured except for shutters and thumb latches. There were numerous entrances and, yeah, easy access via two streets.

“Nightmare,” Eli muttered.

I was pretty sure he didn’t see the huge, two-storied, pink stucco home as a New Orleans architectural archetype, with its multiple galleries and arched green wrought iron, or its porte cochere, discreetly located in the back. Or its double bays or arched windows. And the grounds with the ancient live oaks and palms, flowering shrubs, and flawless lawn. For Eli, it was all secondary to security. I thought it was pretty and wondered how many years I’d work security before I lost the ability to simply enjoy a setting.

One of Leo’s armored SUVs pulled up and parked behind our vehicle. I remembered when the former marine in the passenger seat drove an old panel van and I rode a way-cool Harley bike. Now I was driving an armored SUV, wearing combat boots and leathers. He was dressed in casual trousers and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the tie loose at his throat like a businessman—and he had a driver. I couldn’t say I liked the changes in either of us. It was definitely a different Derek, though still looking fit and trim and in fighting form. Drinking vamp blood will do that to a guy.

Derek got out of the passenger side, giving the place the same once-over Eli had, and he frowned. I hadn’t expected Derek there and didn’t like his body language or the scent he was giving off, both of them aggressive and defensive, a spiky scent full of testosterone. He pivoted on one foot, like a soldier in maneuvers, and looked us over. And frowned. “Wait here,” he said to the driver and closed the door.

“You like this setup?” Eli asked him, gesturing to the house.

Derek shook his head, his eyes hard. “Hate the place. But designing the security for it was before my time.”

“Historical commission would have refused any changes,” I said, casually. “In cases like this it’s monitoring and armed guards or nothing.”

“People are insane,” Eli said.

“Not really,” I said. “The inside of the house would have been full of hungry and sleepy vamps by day, and hungry and grouchy vamps by night. It’s my guess that anyone who broke in would become some vamp’s dinner.”

“That is one kind of security,” Derek said. “But guns level that playing field.” Changing the subject, he said, “Leo said you might want to check out the place for traces of Joseph Santana. While I’m here, he also wants me to start an eval on upgrade needs, to include physical structure, interior, and security, which I’ll turn over to a few contractors and designers for cost analyses.” Which verified my claim about the layered motives for everything Leo did.

Derek jangled some keys. “Let’s check out the inside.”

The best word for the house was magnificent. Though bizarre had its place in the description too. And cold, even in the heat wave, with the AC on and run up to frigid. The vibes the place gave out said it had not been a happy place, while the décor suggested that if money could have bought happiness, the vamps and humans who had lived there would have experienced unrelieved joy.

Marble foyer, lots of fancy woodwork moldings and window trim. Wide-plank flooring, leather upholstery, burled-wood antiques that I thought might be from the Art Deco period. There were old-fashioned hand-painted wallpaper and a staircase that could have come straight out of The Sound of Music movie. Or maybe out of Gone with the Wind. Whatever. The big problem with the ambiance, besides the pervasive cold and the deep silence, was the bloodstains. Like, everywhere. A battle had been fought there. Maybe more than one. And while the bodies had been removed, the mess hadn’t. A major fight for clan dominance had taken place there. Or . . . or Leo had massacred every vamp in the place. The old blood still had a stink to it. So did the old fear and horror.

I glanced at Eli and he tilted his head at me. He’d seen what I had. But when I looked at Derek, he looked . . . something. Something still. Something not right. Tense and surprised and . . . something. He pulled a weapon from his spine holster, a small semiautomatic, and checked the weapon. It made that unambiguous schnick as a round entered the chamber, ready to fire. Eli did the same with three weapons, but he reholstered two of them.