Photo by Dana Damewood Photography
Chloe Neill, author of the Chicagoland Vampires novels (Dark Debt, Blood Games, Wild Things), the Dark Elite novels (Charmfall, Hexbound, Firespell), and the Devil’s Isle novels (The Veil), was born and raised in the South but now makes her home in the Midwest—just close enough to Cadogan House and St. Sophia’s to keep an eye on things. When not transcribing Merit’s, Lily’s, and Claire’s adventures, she bakes, works, and scours the Internet for good recipes and great graphic design. Chloe also maintains her sanity by spending time with her boys—her favorite landscape photographer (her husband), and their dogs, Baxter and Scout. (Both she and the photographer understand the dogs are in charge.)
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ark brown, wavy hair was perfectly rakish, and his smile was adorably crooked, the usual gleam in his deep-set hazel eyes. Tonight, he wore slim dark pants and a sleeveless shirt that showed off his well-toned arms—and the intricate but temporary paintings that stained his skin.
“Hey, Gunnar.” We exchanged cheek kisses. I cursed when another boom sounded, followed by the sparkle of gold stars in the air.
I smiled despite myself. “Damn it. Now they’re just showing off.”
“Good thing you’re getting into the spirit,” he said with a grin. “Happy War Night.”
“Happy War Night, smarty-pants. Let me check your ink.”
Gunnar obliged, stretching out his arms so I could get a closer view. New Orleans was a city of traditions, and War Night had its own: the long parade, the fireworks, the spiked punch we simply called “Drink” because the ingredients depended on what was available. And since the beginning, when there was nothing but mud and ash, painting the body to remember the fallen. Making a living memorial of those of us who’d survived.
The intricate scene on Gunnar’s left arm showed survivors celebrating in front of the Cabildo, waving a purple flag bearing four gold fleurs-de-lis—the official postwar flag of New Orleans. The other arm showed the concrete and stone sculpture of wings near Talisheek in St. Tammany Parish, which memorialized one of the deadliest battles of the war, and the spot where thousands of Paras had entered our world.
The realism lifted goose bumps on my arms. “Seriously amazing.”
“Just trying to do War Night proud. And Aunt Reenie.”
“God bless her,” I said of Gunnar’s late and lamented aunt, who’d been a great lover of War Night, rich as Croesus, and, according to Gunnar’s mother, “not quite there.”
“God bless her,” he agreed.
“Let’s get the party started,” I said. “You want something to drink?”