Free Even Vampires Get the Blues: A Deadly Angels Book by Sandra Hill

walls. The cypress wainscoting shone with an aged patina. Several crystal chandeliers hung from the crown medallions in the ceiling. Alcide’s was a family-owned restaurant that had been around since the 1840s, and it did its best to maintain its historic details, despite Katrina and other natural disasters.
    In fact, her namesake ancestor, Camille Fontenot, the one who’d been “sold” at a pre–Civil War Quadroon Ball, mentioned in one of her diaries being taken to this very restaurant by her protector. And, damn, but that was a touchy subject for her. Touchy, hell! More like a jab in the heart. A fifteen-year-old mistress! But she couldn’t think about that now.
    Inside the large room, two dozen well-dressed guests stood about talking in clusters, drinking cocktails, while the waitstaff was pouring ice water into goblets on the long table for their formal, sit-down dinner. Conversation buzzed, along with occasional laugher, and a soft jazz instrumental provided a pleasant background through an invisible sound system.
    “Are you good to go?” Harek asked, using the hand at the small of her back to squeeze her waist in support, a surprising gesture, and words more in line with the military lingo soldiers employed just before a live op. He seemed to understand how difficult this family affair was going to be for her. Definitely a live op. Maybe even a few explosions.
    In fact, as if reading her mind, he explained, “I come from a large family. Six brothers. Five sisters-by-marriage, and dozens of extended . . . um, family. Believe you me, I understand the strife of blood kin.”
    She put her hand over his, at her waist, and squeezed her thanks. Instead of the electrical zing she’d felt previously when she touched him, this time there was a feeling of warmth. Peace.
    A thin, wiry man in a dark suit with an MIT tie was the first to see them. Her brother, Alain. He was only an inch or two taller than her five foot eight, but next to Harek’s six foot four, he seemed short. Everybody did.
    Alain smiled and took the hand of his fiancée, Inez Breaux, walking toward them. Inez was a petite woman, even in high heels, wearing a royal-blue, knee-length sheath with short sleeves and a sweetheart neckline. Alain was five years older than Camille, as was his bride-to-be.
    “Alain,” Camille said, stepping forward to kiss him on the cheek, “Congrats, big brother. Finally!” He and Inez had been engaged for about ten years.
    “Glad you could come, Cam. Mother can concentrate on you now, instead of driving me crazy.” He did look rather dazed, as he often was in a social setting, more at home in his labs. She hadn’t seen her brother in three years, and she noticed that his hair was receding prematurely. That was something new. And he blinked nervously behind his wireless glasses, a longtime habit. Still, he was a nice-looking man, and he looked good in what was probably a new suit from Armand’s men store, where Dumaine men had been clothed for two hundred years. “She gave two honors lectures today, in between delivering a luncheon address to a Newcomb College alumnae group, which left me to fight with the florist over the colors of the roses on my ushers’ boutonnieres. Did you know there are seventeen different colors of white roses?” He blinked at Camille. “I’m not making that up. Mother picked Ivory Cream, but they mistakenly made them up with Ivy Dream. Horrors!”
    Inez rolled her eyes at Camille in the age-old “Men!” manner. Then, she stepped closer. “Hello, Camille. I’m glad you made it.”
    Camille hugged Inez, who smelled like Joy, a perfume she’d been using as long as Camille could remember. “You look wonderful. Grand-mère Octavie’s earrings are perfect with that dress.”
    Inez put her fingertips to the sapphire stones surrounded by tiny diamonds, which were part of a parure, which also included a necklace, a bracelet, and a brooch. “I chose this dress specifically to match.”