I didn't bother returning the toast. I seriously needed a drink, sooner than later. So instead I swallowed the shot of bourbon in one single take.

"Another," I demanded, slamming the shot gla.s.s on the table.

Beau turned to Lincoln and laughed. "Where did you find this girl? She's quite the firecracker."

Lincoln shrugged. "She's something alright," he agreed.

I poured myself another shot, raised it to Beau this time, and smiled politely. "Cheers for keeping your nine-inch c.o.c.k away from every girl who has any sense of moral decency."

"You one of them girls?" Beau laughed.

"I'm about as decent as they come," I replied, as we all clinked our shot gla.s.ses together and I downed another shot.

Taking the bottle of bourbon with him, Beau walked over to one of the circular wooden tables in the room and sat down.

"Well, have a seat then," Beau said. "I believe you mentioned we had some business to discuss?"

We joined him at the table.

"Do you know who my boss is?" Lincoln asked.

"Not the foggiest of clues," Beau replied.

There was a moment of pause before Lincoln carried on. "Tell me about your dad," he said.

The smile on Beau's face melted away into a frown. Lincoln's question had hit a nerve.

Beau swallowed his drink before forcing a smile. His eyes spoke a different truth. He wasn't happy.

"There ain't nothing special about my daddy. He was a simple man of G.o.d, that's all. Led a righteous life thumping on that bible of his, up until the day he died."

"Your daddy was a United States Senator," Lincoln corrected him. "And you were his b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

Beau shook his head. "Sounds like quite the fairy tale you're spinning over here, Mr. Jesse Sparrow."

"My boss was your dad," Lincoln said. "Up until he was shot and killed."

I watched as Beau's hands suddenly formed a tight fist, and for a moment, I thought he was going to deck Lincoln. Out of instinct, my right hand began reaching for the gun behind my jeans.

Beau seemed to have caught wind of what I was planning. He cast a dark glance in my direction. "Hold yourself steady pistol princess," he said. "I ain't going to do anything to your boyfriend over here." He relaxed his fist.

"I was a runner for your dad," Lincoln said. "I suppose you'd want some proof of that."

Beau shrugged.

Lincoln stood up from his seat and lifted his white V-neck shirt up and over his head, showcasing his beautiful tattoos filled with the flavors of New Orleans.

He pointed to the top of his left pectoral, where an inked tattoo of the crescent moon with the frowning face was displayed. Underneath it were foreign words written in stylish calligraphy.

"Know what that is?" Lincoln asked.

Beau nodded. "Got the same thing drawn onto the back of my neck," he said. "It looks like we're ink brothers then, aren't we?"

Lincoln nodded as he put his shirt back on. "That we are Beau, that we are," he paused to pour himself another shot of the bourbon. "So I gotta ask, with all the recent events, where do your loyalties lie?"

Beau took a deep breath. "I don't know what to make of anything," he said. "It looks like the people who my dad trusted ended up pointing the gun at him at the end of his days. And then the next thing I know, I hear whispers of some group called the Revenants taking the Midnight Society's place. I haven't heard anything from them yet. It looks like they forgot all about us down in the Orleans. They forgot about me."

"It wasn't the Midnight Society who killed your father," I was quick to blurt out, but before I could continue, Lincoln raised his hand, motioning for me to hold my tongue.

I did.

"What have you heard about Donald's death?" Lincoln asked.

"Only what I heard in the news," Beau replied. "I've always been an afterthought to the Society. No one fills me in on anything, except during those yearly visits from my dad. He always said he came down on account of missing yours truly, but just between us, I think he enjoyed the local taste of this pretty little thing that he met during Mardi Gras four years ago." He sighed. "Can't help but wonder if I have a baby brother, wandering around the Treme somewhere."

Lincoln pursed his lips. "What did the newspapers tell you about Donald's death?"

"That this rich son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h, a mother f.u.c.ker by the name of Lincoln Richards-who my daddy often talked about with adoration-pulled a trigger and shot him right through the heart point blank."

"Do you believe that story?" Lincoln asked.

"It's the only story I got."

Lincoln nodded.

"I loved your father," Lincoln said. "He had always been good to me."

"He was a good man," Beau agreed. "If it weren't for him, I would probably be lying in the swamp somewhere, serving as food for the gators. He may have had a weakness of plowing different fields, but he took care of this b.a.s.t.a.r.d sitting before you, that I can't deny."

"Have you ever thought about revenge?" Lincoln asked.

I raised my brow and held my tongue.

"Of course," Beau said. "What good son wouldn't want a shot at the man who killed their dad?"

I couldn't help but think of Shadow.

Were all men like this? h.e.l.l bent on the entire notion of vengeance? I guess I shouldn't judge. I wanted Calisto dead myself.

"Has Shadow been in touch with you?" Lincoln asked.

"Not directly," Beau said. "But I did receive a message on a piece of paper with the mark of the Midnight Society, outlining what was expected of me for today's jazz funeral."

"Shadow needs your help," Lincoln said. "The Midnight Society is still alive and they need your help reclaiming their spot at the top of the food chain. We are going to war against the Revenants. The question I have for you Beau is, are you ready to take on a bigger role within the organization? Are you ready to live up to your dad's name?"

Beau smiled with all the southern charm that Louisiana had. "It sounds lovely and all, filling in my daddy's shoes, but I'm going to need something in return."

"Money?" Lincoln asked.

"I'm sitting on top of a pile of the Society's money already," he said. "Now that they're a ghost of the past, I could very well just keep it for myself."

"Now, we know that's not true," Lincoln grinned, as if Beau were spinning tales. "You wouldn't make it ten yards before you're gunned down like a dog."

"It is a gamble," Beau agreed. "I could be underestimating my former employers."

"I'd say you were," Lincoln said. "What if I told you that in addition into guaranteed money, I could deliver you your dad's killer? What if I could bring you Lincoln Richards and give you a single shot at him?"

Beau smiled and leaned in closer, his voice a whispered hush. "Well I'd say you have me very intrigued," he said. "Very intrigued indeed."

Chapter Fourteen.

Aria What the h.e.l.l was Lincoln thinking? Why wasn't he being upfront with Beau?

A cook from the kitchen came by and dropped off three steaming plates of stew. Without saying a word, the cook made his way back into the kitchen.

Meanwhile our blind bartender had disappeared from the establishment altogether, leaving only the three of us sitting in the lounge.

"This here is the best d.a.m.ned crawfish etouffee you'll ever taste," Beau said, digging in immediately.

I shot Lincoln a 'what are you doing?' look, but he ignored it and said to me calmly, "Not a fan of seafood, Lucy?"

"I enjoy it just fine, Mr. Sparrow," I replied, coldly.

"Eat up then. It's been a while since our last meal."

He was right. The sight and smell of the rich, creamy stew immediately caused my stomach to go into fits. The last thing I ate was a piece of beef jerky that had the texture of a leather shoe.

I was also feeling a little light headed from the two shots of bourbon I took on an empty stomach and the thought of getting food into my stomach sounded euphoric.

The first bite of the rich, salty dish delivered me into a state of bliss. I savored the intermingled flavors of crawfish and vegetables, simmered into each satisfying morsel of food and allowed them to float on my tongue.

I almost let out an ecstatic moan, but managed to pull myself together.

"So do we have a deal then? I'll give you a generous salary from the Midnight Society in addition to Lincoln Richards, on his knees, begging for mercy, in return for your help?"

Beau refilled his shot gla.s.s full of bourbon and refreshed Lincoln's gla.s.s as well.

"I agree to those terms, Jesse Sparrow," he said as he raised his drink.

I watched as the two made a binding agreement with the shots of the smoky-flavored bourbon.

I bit my lower lip. I hoped Lincoln knew what he was doing.

With our bellies full-and my head slightly buzzing from the shots-Beau insisted we return to his place to discuss the final details of our business arrangement.

"After all, you never know who might be listening in on our discussions," he said.

I had to agree with him. Since becoming a part of the Midnight Society, I was convinced that the wall had ears, along with the ceiling, floorboards, electric sockets, and toilet bowl.

I was hesitant to trust Beau, especially since he desired Lincoln's head served on a silver platter. However, Lincoln didn't seem bothered by the prospect of walking into a wolves' den.

I had no other choice but to trust Beau-for now.

Once we left the bar, we followed Beau down several city streets, pa.s.sing by a few buildings inspired by the unique French colonial architecture that gave New Orleans its distinct character. Off the in the distance, I heard music, brilliant fiery music, that lifted my spirits.

Eventually we stopped in front of an old antique shop.

"Welcome to my home," Beau said. "I a.s.sume the two of you haven't found a place to stay yet?"

"Not yet," Lincoln replied.

"Then I must insist you stay with me. It's been an awful long time since I had guests over and nothing would warm my heart more than having a drink and talking about my dearly departed dad."

I eyed Lincoln to see how he would respond.

"Absolutely," he replied. "I think your dad would appreciate his own flesh and blood learning a bit more about the man he was. Even though I was nothing more than a lowly runner for the Midnight Society, Donald always treated me as man of high stature."

Beau nodded. "He was a good man. It's still hard to believe that I'll never see him again."

He opened the door to the antique shop and we stepped inside.

I was surprised at how neat and tidy everything was. Most antique shops I'd wandered into were chaotic messes of trinkets, furniture, and dust spilling from every available inch of s.p.a.ce. Beau's store, however, the Angel's Trumpet, was well organized. Every item was displayed neatly on shelves by category, all dusted and polished with tremendous care.

Beau, it seemed, was an extremely careful and methodical man.

I walked over to the instruments section of the store and marveled at the rows of trumpets and horns housed within gla.s.s cases, shining brilliantly under a set of glowing lights.

"They're beauties, aren't they?" Beau asked as he strolled over to me.

"They are," I agreed.

"There's a story behind each one of these horns," he said. "I'm very selective of what instruments I allow in my shop. You see this one here?" He pointed to a trumpet, slightly rusted but still beautiful nonetheless. It was displayed dead center inside the case.

I nodded.

"This here trumpet was owned by a fellow named Louis Armstrong."