I sipped my tea.

Cassandra looked at me sharply. “Well, I wouldn’t.”

“Okay. Sure. Now about this bar, the Rampart—”

“I must have brought a concern to the council in the past twelve years. What about the Gulf War draft? Several vampires had taken on the identity of American citizens and they were worried about being called for the draft—”

“There was no draft for the Gulf War. That must have been Vietnam.”

She frowned. “When was Vietnam?”

“Before I was born.”

Cassandra snatched up her napkin and folded it precisely. “Well, there’s been something since then. I only remember that one because it was historically significant.”

“Probably.”

By the time we reached New Orleans, it wasn’t yet eleven, still too early for bar-hopping. As I phoned Elena for my nightly check on Savannah, Cassandra directed the taxi to the Empire Hotel, her local favorite. After we checked in, I called Lucas, letting him know I’d arrived safely, then showered and got ready.

When we went downstairs, Cassandra had the doorman hail us a cab.

“This bar,” I said. “The Rampart. Aaron has a problem with it?”

Cassandra sighed. “That’s just Aaron. For a man who looks like he doesn’t spend much time thinking, Aaron spends far too much time at it. Thinking and worrying. He can be the worst mother hen you can imagine.”

“So he’s overreacting about the Rampart? About it not being safe for me?”

“The Rampart is safe insofar as any bar is safe these days. It’s a favored hangout for local vampires, nothing more.”

“No offense, but if vamps like hanging out there, it doesn’t sound like the safest place for anyone with a pulse.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Paige. Dogs don’t piss in their beds and vampires don’t hunt where they live.”

Cassandra strode toward a cab pulling to the curbside. I hurried after her.

Cassandra explained more about the Rampart on the drive. This might seem dangerous, having such conversations within earshot of humans, but supernaturals haven’t needed to rabidly monitor their discussions since the nineteenth century. These days, we keep our voices down and watch what we say, but if the odd “demon” or “vampire” escapes, people jump to one of three logical conclusions. One, they misheard. Two, we’re discussing a movie or book plot. Three, we’re nuts. If our taxi driver overheard any of our conversation, the biggest danger we faced was that he’d ask where this “vampire bar” was located, not so he could alert the proper authorities to a nest of bloodsucking murderers, but so he’d have another destination to add to his list of recommendations for visiting Goths and Anne Rice fans. After all, this was New Orleans.

Speaking of Anne Rice, while I’m sure she’s a lovely woman, there are many in the supernatural world who blame her for the New Orleans vampire situation. Roughly coinciding with the popularity of Ms. Rice’s novels, the influx of vamps to the city rose astronomically. At one point in the late eighties there had been nine vampires in New Orleans…in a country that historically sees a national average of fewer than two dozen. Some had emigrated from Europe just to move to New Orleans. Fortunately, three or four have since left, and the population has averaged five or six over the past decade.

The problem with the New Orleans vamps isn’t over-population. It’s that they all share a similar mind-set, the same mind-set that drew them to the city in the first place. For these vampires, seeing their cultural popularity skyrocket with Ms. Rice’s books was like a rock singer seeing his face on the cover of Rolling Stone, the ultimate moment of self-affirmation, when they could say “See, I’m just as cool as I always thought I was.” And for the vampires of New Orleans, life has never been the same since.

The Rampart wasn’t just a vampire bar in the sense that it attracted vampires. It was actually owned by vampires. As Cassandra explained: John/Hans and two others had bought the place years ago. They’d kept it small and exclusive, a place they could make their own and amuse themselves playing bar owners.

The taxi driver stopped in an industrial district. Security lights dotted every building except the one beside us, which was swathed in a blackness that seemed almost artificial. As I opened the door, I saw that it was indeed artificial. The brickwork and the windows had been painted black. Even the lone street lamp had been wrapped in black crepe paper and the bulb broken or removed.

“Early Gothic Nightmare. How original,” Cassandra said as she climbed from the car. “Last time I was here it looked like a perfectly normal bar. No wonder Aaron is getting his shorts in a twist. He can’t stand this sort of thing.”

“Well, their taste in decor may be criminal, but unfortunately they aren’t violating any council statutes. At least they’re keeping it low profile. I don’t even see a sign.”

“I don’t even see a door,” Cassandra muttered. “They’ve probably painted it black like everything else. Now where was it the last time…?”

As her gaze traveled along the building, a limo pulled up and belched three giggle-wracked young women onto the curb. Two wore black leather miniskirts. The third was dressed in a long white dress that looked more suited for a wedding than girls’ night out. A beefy bodyguard grabbed the bride’s elbow to steady her and led the trio toward the building. As the limo reversed, its headlights illuminated the four. The “bride” turned into the lights and squinted.