by TR Cameron
The door slammed against the wall to signal the entry of someone who hadn't been to the Drunken Dragons Tavern enough times to know better. About a third of the crowd turned, as did Zeb. Her gaze had already been on the entrance, so she saw the woman before any of the others did. She seemed of average height with short black hair swept to one side, tanned skin, a sleek and shiny brown leather jacket over a dark green blouse, blue jeans, and fashionable boots that matched the coat.
She moved like someone who spent time at the gym, direct and powerful, and as she approached, a twist of the hips revealed the gold badge on her belt. Cali turned to Zeb, but he had his gaze locked on the detective. He waited, though, and made her come to him. The curve of her lips when she reached the bar showed that she'd noticed.
"Are you Zarden?" Her voice was pleasant and matter-of-fact, neither hopeful nor doubtful. Cali pegged her in her late twenties, but she had the kind of angular features that made it difficult to be certain. Her green eyes were sharp and intense.
"I am. And who are you, door-banger?"
The woman gave a thin smile. "Detective Kendra Barton, NOPD Specialized Investigations." She paused for a reaction and finding none, continued. "I'm looking into an incident the other night that's been linked to your business." She drew a small notebook from her back pocket and flipped it open. "Someone named Jarten was attacked on the street after leaving here."
A sharp glance from Zeb cut Cali's angry denial off, and she covered her instinctive flinch by reaching for a cloth to wipe the bar. The dwarf nodded. "We know Jarten. He’s in here every week or so. It’s not a huge shock that his stupidity got him into a scrape since his mouth is far bigger than his brain. You didn’t say you were homicide, so I presume the troublemaker is still among the living?"
"Last time I checked. So, you confirm that he was here?"
Her boss shrugged. "Sure. He was here. Then he left."
Barton raised an eyebrow. "And you have nothing more to report on the topic?"
"The customer experience ends at the door, Detective. You're welcome to hang around the place for more information. You look like someone who works for a living, so if you want to help me tend bar—you know, undercover—it could be a win for both of us."
It earned him a laugh edged with disbelief. "Well, Zarden, as much as I appreciate the offer, I think I'll have to decline for now." She closed the notebook and returned it to its home before she turned her gaze to Cali. "Hopefully, this isn't an insensitive question. Do you speak?"
The girl broke into laughter. "Yes, I speak. But I don't like to pre-empt my boss. He's sensitive about that kind of thing."
The detective gave her a blank-faced stare. It was a familiar technique, often required when dealing with customers, so it failed to impress. Cali held a fourth-dan black belt where that skill was concerned. "So, do you know anything about the person of interest?"
"Jarten?" she asked, knowing Barton hadn't forgotten his name.
"Yes," the woman responded, clearly knowing Cali was trying to tweak her.
"Sure. He's a terrible tipper, smells like a flower, and can't handle his alcohol."
Barton shook her head. "I'm not really concerned about his choice of cologne. Do you have anything useful for me with regard to the alleged assault?" She paused, a look of uncertainty on her face, and retrieved the notebook again and paged through it. "Right, I thought I remembered that. It says here that the eyewitness reported it was a woman who did the beat-down. A woman with red hair."
Zeb's voice interrupted. "Well, hell, Detective, any Irish person worth their Guinness would be able to smack that twiggy jerk."
She chuckled but didn't release the eye-lock she had put on Cali. "I couldn't help but notice you're a woman with red hair."
"One of many."
"But the only one who has a clear connection to Jarten and to the Dragons." She gestured to indicate the building around them.
Cali's mind perked up. She must have heard someone refer to the Tavern that way. I wonder if it's Jarten who is behind this? "The only one you know of so far. I'm afraid you'll have to keep detecting, detective. There's nothing to see here." She mimicked the other woman's gesture.
With a chuckle, Barton put the notebook away again. "Sure, Caliste. That is your name, right? I did do a little detecting before I arrived."
She let her glower provide the answer, and the woman laughed. "Okay, then. If you think of anything else that might be useful, feel free to stop at the station on Wednesday. I'm off for the next couple of days. Maybe I'll spend some time here."
Cali put a hand on her hip. "We’re happy to serve whatever types come through here, Detective. We don't discriminate. Although we do prefer those who don’t slam the door.”
The woman pivoted quickly and looked at Zeb. "Perhaps you should be a little more discerning so trouble won't find you."
The bartender nodded slowly. "It’s always good to avoid trouble. But sometimes, first impressions aren't accurate and you don't know who'll turn out to be friend or foe." He smiled suddenly. "Would you like a drink for the road, officer?"
She laughed again and shook her head, the short black hair fluttering with the movement. "Thanks. How about a rain check?"
"Done. You're always welcome, Kendra Barton."
She headed to the door but stopped before opening it. Without turning, she said, "Caliste, let's make that an official appointment for Wednesday. See you at the Royal Street station at one?"
Cali looked at Zeb and received a nod. "Fine. One." The detective waved as she departed.
Once she’d circulated through the room to ensure everyone was taken care of, Cali took a seat on one of the high chairs across from the dwarf. He put a glass of ice in front of her and filled it with Cherry Coke from the bar's soda gun. She drank deeply, then sighed. "So, do you think I'm in trouble?"
He pulled the tall chair that sat next to the back wall forward and clambered up onto it. "Maybe so. Maybe not. But what's important is how you'll deal with it."
She shook her head. "Has anyone ever told you that your answers aren't always particularly useful?"
"Other than you? Never." The overly innocent expression on his face was a sure sign of a lie.
"How do you get Zeb out of Zarden, anyway?" She'd been surprised to discover he had another name.
He continued as if she hadn't asked. "So, what are your thoughts about the situation?"
“There are a couple of possibilities. One, Jarten is behind it, but he thinks that not calling me out by name will keep his involvement hidden. Or maybe a random witness, but anyone who knows those four would probably be celebrating, not summoning the police. My money’s on the first.”
Zeb ran his fingers through his perfectly maintained black beard and revealed a strand or two of grey. She pushed away the desire to tease him about it. Age gets almost everybody, eventually. I’ll stick to short jokes. He nodded. “I’m with you. He’s behind it.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have fought them over a bar tab?”
He shook his head. “The little jerk broke the rules. Tell me, if he’d asked to keep a tab running, would we have let him?”
“Of course.” They did that all the time. Wizards, in particular, could be counted on to always remember their wands and frequently forget everything else.
“If he’d requested a loan, would you have given him one?”
She had to think about that one. “Yeah, I suppose. Once, at least. I’m not exactly flush. Hey, maybe you could pay me more and I could afford to give loans? Make the customers happy?”
The dwarf chuckled. “Or maybe you could work more and earn yourself more money.”
It was a long-standing joke and mostly fell flat under the concerns of the moment. “So I was right to fight over it?”
He leaned back with a smile that peeked out from under the black—and ever so slightly grey—mustache. “That’s not for me to answer, Caliste. Each of us is our own judge. Were you?”
Thoughtfully,
she tapped her fingers slowly on the bar as she replayed the incident. He had options but he chose to break the rules of hospitality of the tavern. I didn’t fight until I could talk first. I tried to defuse the situation but they escalated it. On the other hand, I could have walked away and paid the bill myself. She rejected that idea as quickly as it appeared. No. That might have solved the immediate problem but it wouldn’t have addressed the violation. It isn’t right to dine and dash on your host.
“I was. We’re living in a society here, damn it. You don’t do junk like that.”
His head lowered and rose once. “Agreed.”
Warmth flooded through her at his words. She knew she put too much stock in them and didn’t care. He, Emalia, and Sensei Ikehara were her role models and guides now, and she treasured each of them. “But I could have tried to talk again after the first one went down.”
Zeb leaned forward to light his pipe and take a drag, then returned it to its holder under the bar. He expelled a series of perfect smoke rings before he answered. “I believe your heart is in the right place. Those are questions you should ask, always. It’s good to learn from your experiences.” He grinned. “But Jarten and his friends earned their reward. I don’t think you were excessive. If anything, breaking a limb on each of the morons would have kept them out of our hair longer.”
She laughed. “Wise words from a wise person. But if that’s what you think, why weren’t you the one to chase after them?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Dwarves are made for sprints, not marathons. We’re deadly over short distances but tend to throw axes at fleeing enemies to avoid long runs.”
There was a clatter from behind, and she rolled her eyes. “Maybe an ax would have been the right solution.”
“It might have killed him. And that would have been…” He paused. “Overkill.”
With a heartfelt groan at the Dad joke, she turned away from the bar and aimed herself toward the part of the room the unwelcome breaking sounds had emanated from. I can’t spend any more time here than I already do. The bad jokes would kill me dead.
Chapter Eight
Saint Louis Cemetery One, home of Voodoo notable Marie Laveau, future resting place of Nicolas Cage, and proud owner of one damn annoying wall. Cali had been inside many times but always with Dasante’s helping hands to boost her in return for hauling him up after. It hadn’t felt right to bring him along tonight.
She’d managed to ignore her anger at the deceptions for most of the evening by keeping busy at the tavern and had stayed after the end of her shift to clean up unasked. The task effectively filled the hours between closing and her appointment among the dead. A quick walk brought her there with ten minutes to spare, living up to her father’s cheerfully delivered motto of, “Early is on time and on time is late.”
However, she’d failed to account for the brick and cement barrier that surrounded the graveyard. The bricks were dangerous and prone to crumble underfoot—at the behest of the ghosts within, said the superstitious. She wasn’t sure about the second part but had verified the first personally and didn’t have any desire to scrape the skin left bare by her tanktop trying to climb it.
She’d chosen the section with the smallest number of sightlines to try a new form of magic. Emalia had explained a few weeks before that others used force to create magical versions of mundane items, such as swords or whips. Cali hadn’t had an opportunity to work with the idea yet thanks to her heavy schedule. She shut away irrelevant thoughts one by one until she had a pure mind and envisioned a set of blocks leading up to the wall. She shaped them with her hands, pictured them coming into being, and felt the itching on her arms that signaled energy flowing from her.
The steps were visible only as a wavering translucence, and she climbed them quickly while she struggled to maintain the flow of power. When she reached the top, she allowed them to evaporate. She nodded to acknowledge her success, lowered herself to hang from the wall by her fingertips, and dropped to the roof of one of the vaults. A quick jump took her safely down to the graveled path.
Storage of the departed in New Orleans was exclusively in above-ground structures, as digging even a couple of feet down revealed soggy earth from the high water table. Emalia hadn’t specified where they’d meet inside, but the choice was obvious. A few turns and a short straight path took her to a far corner where a vault with the family name Leblanc lay. It wasn’t her family’s as such, but it was where her parents were interred, placed there under cover of darkness by Emalia and friends. Or so she’d been told since she hadn’t been permitted to be there when it happened.
It doesn’t matter, really. Wherever they are, they’re watching over me if they can. One place is the same as the next. Her guardian’s thin form, standing with her perfect posture as always, emerged from the gap between vaults. “Caliste. Are you well?”
She realized there were tears on her cheeks and dashed them away with a knuckle. “Fine. Good. Soon to be great, right? Let’s get on with it.”
The other woman nodded and began to chant softly as she gestured with her long-sleeved arms in time with the melody. It wasn’t quite a song but also wasn’t quite not a song. When she finished, the world seemed to grow more distant. There’s an illusion of some kind around us. She must be worried about discovery.
Emalia opened the flap of the embroidered cloth satchel that hung from a narrow diagonal strap across her chest and withdrew three pouches. From the first two, she withdrew the silver rings that had been in the treasure box and from the last, the pendant that matched the one she wore.
She beckoned Cali forward, and she obeyed and extended her hands. Thin fingers pushed the rings onto her thicker index fingers with the admonition, “Do not let them touch.” She nodded and kept her thumbs stretched away. The new items fit perfectly as if they’d been made specifically for that moment in time. When the others had grown tight, Emalia had used magic to enlarge them. The woman reached for the pendant around her neck and pressed the other one to the back of it, flat side against flat side. A thin layer of white adhesive was visible and held them together while it prohibited the metal from touching.
Satisfied, she nodded and stepped backward. “For this to work properly, you must understand a few things first. I will explain. You may ask questions but I do not promise to answer all of them.”
“Okay.”
Her eyes narrowed at the tone but she didn’t otherwise point out Cali’s snarkiness. “You were too young to remember when your parents fled New Atlantis, following other refugees who had arrived in this city. At that time, Atlanteans in exile were one people, although that quickly changed. While your mother and father were alive, they undertook to mask your power so you—and they—wouldn’t be discovered. When the searchers came, year after year, they were able to hide well enough to avoid them.” She paused.
Cali asked, “Why didn’t they tell me any of this?”
Emalia nodded. “A reasonable question. Two reasons. First, like all parents, they didn’t want their child to worry about things beyond her control. Second, they didn’t want to prejudice you against your people until you were experienced enough to differentiate between the competing groups.”
“Okay.” This time, the response was less snarky and more understanding. She was trying.
The older woman sighed. “Their plan was to keep your power under control themselves, increasing it only as you learned to master it and more importantly, learned how to mask it yourself. When signs appeared indicating the search for your family had intensified, they were forced to choose a different option.” Cali waggled her fingers and received a nod. “A set of items magicked to suppress and conceal your magic until the threat had ended.”
“Has it?” She ignored the growing urge to clink the rings together.
“Sadly, no. There was one other condition we agreed would require removing the protection. When you told me an Atlantean was watching you and that he entered that particular establishment, it was clear that you�
��d been noticed. The time for concealment has ended.”
“Who were we hiding from?”
“Those who would wish you harm.” She raised a hand. “Some things are not important tonight. I will share them with you on another occasion. About what I’ve said, is there anything that’s still unclear?”
Cali considered it and decided that if her mentor felt it wasn’t important, she’d trust her judgment. She shook her head.
“Do you understand why your parents felt they must conceal this from you and why they had to take actions to prevent discovery?”
She nodded.
The woman’s tone lowered and when the words emerged, they carried twice as much weight as anything Emalia had ever said to her, including breaking the news of her parents’ deaths. “Do you forgive them?”
A child’s voice inside screamed, No, never. She closed her eyes and sent sympathy and understanding to her familiar passenger, the part of her who still couldn’t cope with her parents’ involuntary abandonment. Once she was soothed, she could think. Would I keep things secret to protect someone less powerful than me if I thought it was in their best interests? Yeah, I would. Great power, great responsibility, and all that.
The child insisted, but they left me. Cali shook her head. They didn’t want to. They did what was best for us. And we have to forgive them for not being perfect. She opened her eyes and looked squarely at her guardian. “I do.”
A tone of vulnerability she’d never heard from the other woman suffused her next question. “Can you forgive me?”
The answer required zero thought. “No. There is nothing to forgive. Instead, I thank you for honoring their wishes and standing in their place when they no longer could.” She pushed tears back. Stupid emotions.
Relief flickered across Emalia’s features but was quickly banished and only a grave expression remained as the older woman spoke. “Then it is time for you to receive your true inheritance. Push that love and forgiveness to the front of your mind and when it is as full as you can make it, tap the rings together and say Apokalupto.”