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

blues . . .
    A t five-thirty the next morning, Harek was sitting on the back verandah of Evermore, a historic Greek Revival home in the old Garden District of New Orleans—a home with a name, for cloud’s sake—watching as dawn emerged over the formal gardens spread out before him. Magnolias, lilies, dahlias big as saucers, roses . . . all contributed to the explosion of color.
    His brother Ivak, who was renovating a run-down plantation in Terrebonne Parish known by the oxymoronic title of Heaven’s End, ought to see this; it would give him some good ideas for his own overgrown landscape. Not that Ivak didn’t have enough on his plate just removing snakes and kudzu and such.
    This was the kind of place Harek would like to own. Old architectural details, but modern amenities. Understated elegance. Rare examples of antique Newcomb pottery made by eighteenth-century New Orleans artists were displayed throughout, but top-of-the-line appliances shone with stainless steel polish in the kitchen. The gleam of old patina showed in the grain on the mantels of many cypress fireplaces, even though the house boasted full-house air-conditioning. A home, or estate, with a name. He figured the house must be worth at least two million dollars, and if you added in some of its museum-quality oil paintings, double that.
    Of course, a modern penthouse in a Manhattan skyscraper would be welcome, too.
    Or a chateau in the French wine region.
    But he would never get away with such blatant displays of wealth with Michael looking over his shoulder. If the archangel said once, he said a thousand times, “Poverty is next to godliness,” to which Harek usually replied, “I do not see the logic in that,” to which Michael usually replied, “Live with it!”
    Truth to tell, Harek owned a discreet hideaway on a Caribbean island, which he’d managed to keep a secret for more than a year. It was only a matter of time before Michael found out, and Harek’s punishment would be immense. Betimes a pleasure was worth the pain, he had decided. Besides, it is a good investment , Harek declared to himself. He wondered if Michael would buy that defense.
    He’d learned about the property from Zebulan, who was, of all things, a demon vampire, who happened to own a Caribbean island hideaway himself. Which was odd . . . that a devil would do a favor for an angel. The only thing a Lucipire gave a vangel under normal circumstances was trouble. Well, actually, Zeb was a double agent of sorts for Michael, but that was another story.
    Harek held a mug of strong chicory coffee cradled between both palms. His laptop was open on a low table in front of his chair, along with a china plate holding a half-eaten beignet, still warm from the oven. He’d already eaten one of the delicious New Orleans confections. When he’d crept barefooted down the wide staircase of the silent house a short time ago, wearing only jeans and a white T-shirt, he’d fully expected to make his own cup of coffee, but there had been a servant in the kitchen already—the cook, Tenecia—preparing for what would be a busy wedding day in this household of the groom. In fact, there were several uniformed servants moving quietly about the house, polishing silver, dusting furniture. Although they didn’t refer to them as servants, or even “the help,” like that telling book of the same title a few years back. Too politically incorrect. They were household professionals.
    The church wedding wouldn’t start until five p.m., and the reception was being held afterward at General’s Palace, right here in the Garden District, but there was still much activity that would be going on here. That was the reason for the early activity. Harek planned to be gone by then, and stay away most of the day. The less he was under the eagle eye of Camille’s mother, the better. Best not to raise too many questions about who, or what, he was. Besides, the woman annoyed him, especially the way she treated