Broken Bones

Broken Bones                       

Broken Bones is the story of what happened between Simone Gireaux and Fin(From the vampire thriller, Blood on the Bayou) when they first met in New Orleans in the 1920s.

Broken Bones is also part of the exciting An Accidental Vampire series featuring Simone Gireaux.

 

Love, Life, Revenge or something more sensible?

Revenge is on 270 year old vampire Simone’s mind when she goes to New Orleans in the 1920s. Then she saves Amalie’s life, who quickly becomes a friend. Then she meets Amalie’s boyfriend, Fin, who quickly becomes something else.

Simone hunts for Armand Joubert, the vampire who murdered her best mortal friend. But Joubert is a Ghost Vampire, undetectable by other vampires. Unable to defeat him, Simone asks a witch for a spell to help her. She gets her spell, it must be used within 5 days, and in return she must go to California and steal back the witch’s amulet that gives her great power.

Simone and Fin plan to leave New Orleans together, breaking Amalie’s heart and adding to Simone’s guilt. Before they leave, Amalie’s son is kidnapped by Joubert. Will the spell work? Will she save the boy? Or will that be another heartbreak for her new friend?

When Fin goes against a vicious young vamp who wants to buy Amalie’s fashionable speakeasy, Simone has to choose between Love, Life, Revenge, or something more sensible.

 

First pages:

Broken Bones:

A love and Revenge Story

Wary, Amalie Chartres walked quickly away from her meeting in the old Storyville neighborhood. She could take care of herself, but late night in that neighborhood was not a safe place for man or woman. She kept away from dark corners, kept to the street edge of the sidewalk, and gripped the .22 revolver in the pocket of her ankle length coat.

Two drunks, shared a bottle on the other side of the rough street.

“Hey, Toots, come have a drink with us fine gentlemen,” the skinnier of the two called out. “We got money for ya.”

Instead of ignoring them, Amalie called out, “You boys want to buy me a drink, take a bath and come out to the Chartres Club.”

“The Chartres Club?” the tall round one said. “We couldn’t afford a drink of water at that high-falootin place.”

“Stop drinking and start working. Besides, the water’s free.”

A light rain fell, enough to wet the cobbled street and make Amalie thankful for the second floor balconies with their wrought-iron railings under which she passed. But she also felt closed in between the brick buildings and the support posts.

She gripped the little .22 in her pocket a bit tighter. It had a custom wood grip that fit her smallish hand. Her husband’s father, Leo Chartres, had given it to her on their first wedding anniversary twelve years ago, April 18, 1912, against his son’s admittedly mild objections. Eliot Chartres had no doubt his wife could handle a gun, and secretly was glad she had it. Running a club in Storyville was not without it’s dangers.

The rain increased. An occasional gust blew spray at her. Unconsciously she hunched her shoulders and let her attention slip. Coming toward her, a man imitated her posture, walking along the sidewalk’s edge. He’d step around each support post then return to the edge, walking head down. He didn’t seem to notice her, so forced her to move close to the buildings right at the entrance to a narrow passage providing access to the rear of the buildings.

Damn it! She thought, sensing more than seeing a second man jump from the dark passage and wrap his thick arms around her body, pinning her arms to her side. Amalie was no Flapper, thinking only about having the proper wardrobe, accessories, hair and an invite to the big party of the night. Men and women had attempted to manhandle her, mostly to their regret. She kicked and twisted with no success.

She tried to scream.

“Shut up,” the first man growled, slapping her before the scream could get going, but not before she slammed her head back and caught her captor a good one.

She was about to take a lights-out punch. Then she remembered what she held in her pocket. Her coat and the muzzle’s closeness to the second man’s leg muffled the shot.

“Ahh. God damn it. The bitch shot me.”

His hold loosened. Amalie twisted from his grip and yanked the gun from her pocket. She hoped she wouldn’t have to shoot the second man, but she would if she had to.

The man was quick. One hand grabbed the gun, the other grabbed her neck. She did manage to pull the trigger, but hit nothing but a shutter across the street. He slammed her against a brick wall. Yanked the gun from her hand. Tightened is grip on her neck.

“You lucky we not supposed to kill you, you.” He waved the little custom revolver in her face. “Unless you make it a necessary.”

Amalie thought she was about to die, but she wasn’t one to give up. While he concentrated on the gun in her face she jerked her knee into his groin. Not a perfect connection, but just enough to produce an “Ufff,” and distract him from shooting or strangling her. She pushed him away and grabbed for the gun. A blow from behind knocked her to her knees. With sudden double vision she saw two fists coming at her face. A flash of pain and she found herself laying on the sidewalk staring up at her own gun, wavering between one and two of them. She closed her eyes to stop the nausea caused by double vision.

She knew then she was going to die. What of her son Christopher or her club? His father and grandfather were dead. There was no other family. Maybe Jacob’s family would take him in. T.Poot LaFont would still have to fight to get The Chartres Club.

Her head exploded each time they kicked her. A boot connected with her left arm. The crack of a bone changed her thoughts from her son’s future to pain that made her want to throw up.

There was one thing she could do – lie. “I’ll sell….”

The two men stopped kicking. “What did you say?”

Amalie spat blood, caught her breath. “I’ll sell the club. Just stop.”

“Well now that’s a smart move, lady.”

“No, it is not,” a female voice with a French accent said.

“What the hell?”

“I do not know what club you speak about, but she should not sell because you beat her.”

“Lady this ain’t none of your business. Go back to your slut house and spread your legs for some dirty-ass drunk.”

“No. You make it my business when you beat a woman.”

The woman grabbed the arm of the man holding the gun, plucked the gun from his hand, dropped it beside Amalie, then grabbed his wrist and hit his elbow with her free hand. The joint popped. The man screamed. He continued to scream as she threw him ten feet away like an overstuffed trash bag full of feathers.

“You can’t do that, bitch.” The second man charged her with his knife. By the time he got to her, she seemed to have vanished and reappeared behind him. “What? Where?”

“Ici,” she said, grabbing him by the collar and his belt and tossing him through the arch entrance into the passage between buildings.

Amalie groaned as she rolled onto her side, clutching her broken arm. She watched the silhouette of the woman kneel beside the man. It seemed like her jaw opened impossibly wide as she leaned forward, merging with the struggling man. Slowly, he ceased fighting. The woman continued to lean close.

The first man blocked her view, when he limped through the arch a metal pipe raised in his one good arm. Her savior didn’t notice the coming danger. Hurting all over, each breath a stab of pain, Amalie picked up the gun with a shaking hand and fired.

In an eye blink, the other woman rose up, grabbed the pipe from the staggering man and swung it at his head. He dropped to his knees then keeled over.

The woman helped Amalie sit up against a tree. “I would ask if you were all right,” she said. “But you are not.”

She spit blood. “No. I am not,” Amalie admitted. “Those men…?”

“They will not bother you again.”

“No, but their boss will.”

“Not tonight. Where do you live?”

With some effort, Amalie waved a bloody hand up the street. “Two blocks… one left.”

“Bon. I will help you.”

“Thank you,” Amalie managed. “Who are you? How did you…? What did you…?”

“My name is Simone Gireaux. The other questions are for another time.” Simone easily helped Amalie to stand. “Can you walk? I will carry you if necessary.”

“No, thank you. I can walk. Slowly.”

“No matter. I have all night.”

“Thank you. I’m Amalie Chartres.”

They made it the first block before Simone asked, “What is this club you said you will sell?”

After a short laugh followed by a deep groan, Amalie said, “The Chartres Club. I lied. I’m not selling. T.Poot LaFont can go fuck himself.”