The moment the aeroplane’s tyres hit the runway, my phone is out and I’m looking for a car to take me to the French Quarter. I breeze through the airport with my carry-on bag, grab a coffee on the way and head towards the agreed meeting point in record time. When I step through the sliding doors, New Orleans greets me with all she’s got: wet heat and air too lazy to stir. It’s like walking against a brick wall, and I already miss the chill of the terminal’s AC. Welcome to the South.

I spot Evgeniya and her Land Cruiser immediately. Evgeniya looks like she just stepped out of a Cold War KGB spy movie with her greying hair pulled back in a tight bun and black outfit. Like the kind of woman who’s wrestled a bear at some point in her life and won. I bet the last time she smiled was when Mikhail Gorbachev took office, which was approximately when her car rolled off the assembly line. I don’t care as long as they take me safely to 1132 Royal Street.

Unlike Iqbal, Evgeniya isn’t much of a talker, which gives me time to go over the files Céleste sent me. There isn’t much more than what David already told me, only a note that the police had to get a more seasoned coroner to the crime scene. The one they initially had couldn’t stop puking and almost contaminated the crime scene. Nice…

I’ll have to ask our New Orleans operatives for updates. I tell Evgeniya to let me off at a little distance from 1132 so I can assess the situation. I could have spotted our operative a mile away. If he was waving a neon sign above his head and shouting into a megaphone, he’d be less obvious. I roll my eyes and approach him.

“Hotchkiss.”

I didn’t even mean to sneak up on him, but he’s completely startled.

“Agent Chaudhury!” he gasps after he recovered from his shock. “What brings you here?”

I decide not to dignify his question with an answer.

“Give me the latest, Hotchkiss.”

“Sir?” He stares at me confused.

“Please, tell me you have an update.” There’s a headache starting behind my temples, which might be due to the humidity, lack of sleep or Hotchkiss’ overwhelming incompetence. Or all of the above.

Hotchkiss produces a tablet from his backpack and starts tapping it frantically. I suppress a sigh.

“Who’s currently inside?” I ask him. Let’s go with easy questions.

“Um… the vampires… it’s daylight and they went to coffin, I guess…”

This isn’t going to work. I barely slept last night, and my patience is wearing thin. Without much ado, I take the tablet out of his hands and replace it with my backpack.

“Céleste booked me into the Maidstone Hotel on Toulane Avenue. Take my bag there and get my room key. Then come back here.” At an afterthought I add. “Please.”

Hotchkiss looks at me like someone just told him the Queen shops at Lidl.

“Oh, and if you could get me another coffee, a bottle of water, some aspirin and something to eat, a bagel or a sandwich, while you’re at it, I’d be very much obliged.”

Hotchkiss still blinks at me like an owl, but then comprehension slowly sets in.

“You got it, boss,” he says with a big grin. He probably thinks I’m doing him a favour by giving him a chance to escape the outdoors. He doesn’t know that the favour is I don’t throttle his scrawny neck. Or fire him on the spot.

Once he’s gone, I check the tablet for updates. There’s a bit more on the police reports. Pictures of the crime scene. ‘Bloody hell’ sounds like the understatement of the century. They’re still talking about four to five casualties. I keep flicking between the images. It’s not the violence that shocks me. I know what vampires are capable of, but I also know Louis. The one I met in Dubai would have never left such a mess behind for anyone to find. He would have cleaned up. Why not now?

I don’t know Lestat so well; could it be his influence? From everything I know, he’s the impulsive, volatile kind. Not that Louis can’t be reckless, but it’s usually not unprovoked. What happened? The police report mentions arterial trauma and bite marks found on the victims. ‘Claw-like lacerations of indeterminate origin.’ Which is bureaucratic for ‘We haven’t got the faintest.’

There’s also a surveillance video, apparently taken from a camera across the street. The time stamp says 7:08 pm. The picture is grainy, taken in low light and from a distance. It shows a group of men disappearing into a side alley. There’s something unnatural about their postures, but I can’t quite make out what it is. A big container at the entrance of the alley blocks most of the view. Nothing visible happens for several minutes, then there’s a blur at 7:11 pm. It wouldn’t have registered to the untrained human eye. Maybe just a camera glitch. But I recognise it. Something moving at impossible speed. I frown and pause the video to check sunset times for last night on my phone: 6:55 pm. So at just after 7, it’s not even fully dark yet. Much too soon to be out for a vampire – certainly not yet the hour for a casual stroll. Lestat might not be affected by it anymore, but Louis? Why risk exposure to the sun for no good reason?

I press play again, and the video continues. Nothing again for several minutes. Then another blur at 7:23 pm, and the video stops. I scroll down and find an enhanced screenshot that our tech team cleaned up. It shows two figures emerging from the alley, both wearing cloaks with their hoods pushed back off their faces. I know both of them. The one on the right is still a bit of a blur, caught in motion, but that unmistakable blond hair catches the light just enough to give him away. He appears to be carrying a bundle, but it’s impossible to tell what it is. And the man on the left… dark skin, green eyes almost glowing in the near dark. It’s Louis. The frame capturing the moment when he stopped briefly to check their surroundings before following his lover.

I feel something like disappointment creep up in my gut. I don’t know what I’ve been expecting, but I guess deep down I hoped that David’s suspicions turned out to be untrue. Not that I would ever doubt the word of the Superior General of the Talamasca, but still…

I find a spot opposite the vampires’ townhouse to keep an eye on anyone coming or going. I scroll through the vampires’ file on Hotchkiss’ tablet. Known human associates include Lestat’s former band members – Tough Cookie, Alex, Larry – and a housekeeper. The file names her as Mariola Bernal. There are a few photos of people seen around the house. One says ‘gardener?’, another ‘blood donor?’, two ‘delivery driver?’ and a few more are just marked as ‘unknown’, but the pictures are blurry and the additional information is sparse.

Hotchkiss returns around midday and brings me everything I asked for. Grateful he isn’t completely useless, I walk a few steps further down to eat and drink. He’ll manage a few minutes without me, especially since nothing has happened in the last hours. I didn’t even see the housekeeper come in at her usual time (according to the file), so only the vampires should be inside, and they won’t come out before sundown. I’m wondering how long I should stay (since I’m not supposed to make contact) when I hear Hotchkiss call me.

“Boss? Boss! Something’s happening!”

Barely suppressing a curse, I dump the remnants of my bagel and join Hotchkiss. He nods his chin towards the pavement across the street at a man in jeans and a dark green jacket.

“Who is that?” I ask, watching the man as he hurries along the street, hands stuffed in his pockets, almost buried in his hoodie, face invisible beneath the fabric.

“I don’t know, boss. He just ran out of the house, like demons were chasing after him.”

I glance between the house and the man, slowly disappearing in the crowd of people on the street. It’s still early in the day, but Royal Street is getting livelier. Tourists start trickling in, slowly strolling along, admiring the architecture and street performers. Soon I’ll lose sight of the man. I make a quick decision and shove the tablet back into Hotchkiss’ arms.

“You stay here; I’ll follow him.”

Hotchkiss nods at me, wide-eyed and slightly panicked. I don’t have time to worry about him; the man is slipping away from me, and he’s my best lead – make that my only lead – so far. I try to go after him as quickly as I can without drawing too much attention to myself. There are a few times when I think I lost him, but then I spot the dark green hoodie in the crowd again.

Soon I realise it’s a wasted effort. He wouldn’t have noticed an entire army stalking him. He seems to be completely out of it, and I wonder if he’s on something. Slim, almost gaunt, but his clothes are clean and decent – not the usual scruff you’d expect from a street junkie.

I wish I could see his face, compare it to the pictures in the vampires’ file, and find out who he is. How is he connected to Louis and Lestat? Was he involved in the attack last night? But he’s not giving me anything. He walks with his head down, shoulders hunched like he’s trying to disappear into himself, like he’s running away from something. Or someone. People bump into him on the street, and he flinches at the contact, jerking away like it burns. As if his skin can’t bear to be touched.

He seems to be going in a rather straight line and shows no sign of turning off onto a street that intersects Royal. I’ve caught up with him now, still keeping a discreet distance, pausing here and there to peer into a shop window before trailing him again. But honestly, all my refined observational skills are wasted on him.

I pull out my mobile phone to check my bearings. Every little detail can be important for my report later on. Glancing up, a flash of dark green fabric suddenly catches my eye, and I barely dodge bumping into the mystery man right in front of me. Shit! I walk a few steps on to compose myself, then duck behind a lamppost to look back and figure out what the hell just happened. The man stopped near a plot of unoccupied land, patting down his jeans in search of something. His face stays mostly hidden, and I only get glimpses of dark skin.

I mentally scroll through the list of pictures of the vampires’ associates, but ‘male, dark skin, slim build’ is too vague to make a match. I need to get closer. I need to see his face.

He clearly finds what he’s after – a crumpled pack of cigarettes pulled from a back pocket, along with a lighter. He fumbles a cigarette out but drops it when some bloke bumps into him. He flinches like he’s been scalded, then crouches to retrieve it. His hands tremble as he raises the cigarette to his lips, nearly dropping it again before he manages to hold it steady. Getting the lighter to work proves even trickier. After a few failed attempts, he buries his face in his hands. A shudder runs through him, shaking from shoulders to knees.

Until my dying breath, I won’t know what made me move. One moment he’s just a figure curled in on himself, trembling on the pavement – and the next, I’m beside him. I don’t think I ever made a conscious decision about it, and I don’t even remember crossing the space between us. But here I am, kneeling in front of him, and taking his hands in mine. They’re cold despite the heat and his warm clothes. He doesn’t look at me. His face is turned away, eyes shut tight, like he’s bracing himself for impact. But I can see enough. He’s only a kid. He can’t be more than 20.

He doesn’t pull back, but his whole body leans away, as if instinct tells him to run, flee, escape, but something else keeps him frozen. A wild thing, cornered. Every muscle trembling, ready to bolt at any moment. Trying not to fall apart. I can’t believe he is so young.

I flick the lighter and raise our joined hands to the tip of his cigarette. I think I catch a flicker of his eyelids when he draws in the first breath of smoke. I need to get away and stand up. An almost inhuman noise escapes him, something between a sob and a gasp. My hand lands on his shoulder, and my fingers curl around his collarbone, giving the lightest squeeze. And then I turn and break away across the street.

Fuck.

What did I just do?