Page 9 of What a Wolf Demands

It wasn’t her house, and Bon Rêve wasn’t home. Not for a murderer.

Not for a latent.

Not anymore.

1

Present day

New Orleans was, without question, his least favorite city.

Dominic Prado settled back in the rental car’s leather seat as yet another group of tourists spilled out of a bar and into the street.

Drunk tourists, he mentally corrected. College students, from the look of them. Who else would be drinking at two in the afternoon on a Thursday?

And that was part of the reason he’d always avoided the Big Easy. He wasn’t much for superstition, but experience had taught him there were places in the world where the veil between this reality and the next was thin.

In New Orleans? The veil was little more than a collection of tattered threads. Magic hung over the city like a heavy blanket. Even the most ignorant human could scent it in the air.

For some reason, they still flocked to the place.

And his wolf didn’t like it one bit. As soon as they were old enough to walk, werewolves were taught to swing wide of humans—to keep the knowledge of their species well under the radar. Werewolves might have longer lifespans and immunity from most illnesses and diseases. They might be stronger and faster. One on one, no human stood a chance against one of his kind, Turned or no.

But fear was a powerful, potent motivator. And humans had evolved to destroy anything that was other. The witches weren’t the only ones who had burned in past centuries.

So to a wolf, spending time in a city steeped in the supernatural was asking for trouble. In this place, humans were already looking for ghosts and goblins. The release of a popular series of vampire books had only made it worse in recent years. Now, you couldn’t turn around without bumping into an intoxicated human wearing plastic fangs.

Dom grunted. He’d pay good money to see one of the college kids ambling along the sidewalk come face-to-face with a real vampire. Even werewolves were wary of the undead.

Across the street, one of the tourists broke away from the rest of the group, lurched to the curb, and vomited. His friends stared for a moment, then burst into laughter.

Yeah. Magic wasn’t the only reason he disliked this city.

Out of nowhere, loud music filled the car.

What the . . .

It took him a second to realize the sound came from his phone. It lay on the passenger seat, the display showing a familiar number.

He swallowed a growl. Then he grabbed the phone, swiped the screen, and put it to his ear.

“Don’t touch my phone again.”

Remy Arsenault’s lightly accented voice was mild. “What’s wrong with ‘The Macarena’?”

“Everything.”

“Spoilsport.”

Dom didn’t reply. There was no need with Remy. He always blurted whatever was on his mind.

There was a rustling sound, like shuffling papers, then Remy said, “Where are you, anyway?”

“New Orleans.”

The shuffling stopped, and Remy chuckled. “Laissez le bon temps rouler.” The words rolled off his tongue with the flair of a native speaker.

Ah, yes. Yet another reason Dom avoided this town.

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