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on either side of her, three prim girls with mischief in their eyes.
    Laureen and that ridiculous hat, pink and black ostrich feathers exploding over the brim. At the time, she'd been damn jealous of that hat, Rissa remembered with a soft smile. Laureen had begged and begged for the silly thing, even though Rissa had been saving up for it for months. In the end though, Rissa had to indulge her beloved baby sister. It had been worth it just to see Laureen’s blue eyes sparkle.
    They all had their arms slung around each other; happy, absurdly young faces mugging for the camera. Gloria's smile exactly like that girl from the old Colgate ad.
    Mardi Gras. What a day for your life to end. Or begin, depending on how you looked at it.
    Daimen had stolen that picture from her sister's bedroom a year later while he'd made her wait outside. Rissa had been crying with fear. He'd probably been trying to please her, in his own twisted way. Along with having his fun terrifying her, letting her think he intended to hurt Laureen. He hadn't. Not that night.
    Knowing him, Daimen had savored the taste of her tears far more that night than her sincere gratitude for the gift of the picture.
    He was like that, going to great lengths to indulge her on one hand, while being a sadistic monster on the other.
    Daimen had terrified her on a regular basis, but she'd been far more terrified of leaving him. Everyone in their little group had been. They were the puppets and he'd been their demented puppet master.
    She'd met him that February night. The city was raucous for Mardi Gras, even in those times. Maybe especially in those times. It had been pre-Pearl Harbor, the war a distant rumble in the distance adding to the manic mood.
    They'd been waiting in line, trying to get into the 500 Club to see Lily Christine, the Cat Girl.
    Rissa smiled. Back then, she would have died rather than set foot on a stage herself, she had been such a shy thing. But dang, if she didn't love watching those torch singers light up the clubs. She had wanted to head up Bourbon Street to catch one of the blues acts because burlesque hadn't really been her deal. Laureen, though, was going through a naughty phase that year. So the Cat Girl it was.
    She closed her eyes and leaned back on the bed. Rissa remembered her dress, a cream-and-black lace confection. The sexiest thing she owned. She'd had a hat herself, of course, one far more demure than her sister's and a year older, but still quite fashionable. Cream to match the dress, with a huge black silk bow.
    A sheba, that's what she had been. One helluva hot dame. More than one man, with a little too much Fat Tuesday liquor in him, had called her exactly that as she'd dashed from where Gloria and Laureen held their spot in line. She'd had to pee something fierce and was hoping she could dash into the Absinthe across the street to use the ladies.
    Rissa never made it to the Absinthe, and she never made it back to Gloria and Laureen to see the Cat Girl.
    A handsome man, with an angel's face and white-blond hair had caught her hand and laughingly spun her into a frenzied dance. He had made her forget everyone and everything around her. By the time, she had caught her breath and really looked into those slanted cat green eyes, it had been far too late. She'd been far from the Quarter and less than an hour away from death.
    Rissa had been bleeding out on a concrete slab in Lafeyette Cemetery before midnight.
    It was all very Anne Rice, even though Anne Rice hadn't even been born yet. Not until the fall of that very year, as it happened.
    He had taken her on a whim, but once Daimen Cross got his fangs in you, he didn't want to let you go. Not a day passed that she didn't fear him popping up in her life again. It had been over twenty years, but what was that to a vampire almost 170 years old?
    Born in mid-19th century, along the Louisiana/Mississippi line, Daimen had been a carnival barker, the owner of a traveling freak show, a