Frenchman Street_A Novel of The Sentinels of New Orleans

by Suzanne Johnson

  That got a big laugh, so it bolstered my confidence.

  “He expects us to be out in force, guarding the parade route,” I said. “He also expects us to try keeping human involvement at a minimum, so he’ll think we won’t want to draw first blood.”

  I looked at Kirian, who nodded her encouragement. “We began thinking about who Florian considers his biggest threats. Princess Kirian would be first, because she’s the only other person with the blend of magic needed to take the throne of Faerie.”

  That got a couple of whistles that grew into shouts and applause.

  I held up my hand for quiet. “The other person he considers a threat is Quince Randolph, Lord of Elfheim.”

  Rand stood quietly, wearing his most imperious expression.

  “So what we thought might work,” I said, “was to annoy the crap out of Florian by giving him lots and lots of Quince Randolphs and Princess Kirians, scattered in obvious spots between the parade’s outset and the parading stands downtown.”

  “Florian will be more than annoyed,” Kirian said. “He will be furious. And when he is furious, he makes mistakes. Both the real Lord Randolph and I will be well protected and near the seats where the mayor sits.”

  “Would the two of you consider not going?” Faulk asked. Not for the first time.

  “No,” Kirian said. “It’s my responsibility to be there.”

  “And mine,” Rand said. “I won’t ask my guards to fight while I sit in my house and watch. Not today.”

  Faulk stood on a chair beside the table. “We don’t know what to expect, except that if you spot Florian, take your shot. If we end it on the first block, I have no problem with that. His followers will scatter, especially after they see the princess.”

  For the next hour, the room filled with red-haired Princess Kirians and blond Quince Randolphs. I took my locket off once, and the effect made me dizzy. The faeries used their own glamour; everyone else used the liquid glamour.

  I banged Charlie on the table and got the attention back on me. “If anyone doesn’t have a fresh locket of dog hair, we have enough for everyone.” We’d cleaned out every Walmart and thrift store in the city for lockets. Poor Gruff had bald spots. “I know the faeries don’t want to wear them, but it will help you recognize who’s really underneath the glamour.”

  Someone used a phone to check the weather and learned that Zulu had, indeed, been canceled, but the Krewe of Rex should roll at ten a.m. as expected, as long as the weather cleared.

  I had no doubt the weather would clear.

  Armed with glamour and weapons of cold iron and steel, we marched out to do battle—more than sixty Quince Randolphs, forty Princess Kirians, one canine shifter mad enough to spit nails, and one undead French pirate who had a date with the mayor.

  Chapter 41

  A warm hand tugged mine from behind, and I turned to see Rene, with Jean behind him.

  “The Three Musketeers,” I said, climbing into Rene’s truck and sitting between them. “Off on another adventure.”

  “I do not understand what you wish to accomplish with this ruse, Jolie,” Jean groused, slamming the truck door. He had caused a bit of a scene back at the dragon barn before flat-out refusing to drink the liquid glamour, and he was still in a temper.

  After a few moments of bewildered looks at the dozens of Rands and Kirians coming to life around him, however, he had taken a dog-hair locket.

  “I want Florian to lose his shit before he has a chance to make his grand announcement and whatever ridiculous show of force he plans for the humans and cameras,” I said. “That’s pretty much the sum of it.”

  There had been no point in planning further because Florian was too unstable. No one knew how he’d react.

  We’d worked out a system to connect by mobile phones as the Rex float passed each Rand and Kirian. Rand and his clones had dressed in solid white—white pants, white shirt, white fedoras, and black ties. It would make them stand out. The Kirians wore white-beaded ballgowns, also to stand out in a sea of Mardi Gras purple, green, and gold.

  Lia and I had stood side-by-side, laughing at each other as we changed. I was about two inches shorter than the real Kirian, and Lia was at least four inches taller. Glamour didn’t change height. At a distance, however, Florian wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. Both the real Rand and Kirian would be joining Jean, Rene, and me in the mayor’s box. If Florian got that far, both the real Kirian and Rand had to be protected.

  We got as close as possible to the stands in front of Gallier Hall downtown, and hoofed it to Mayor DeFazo’s seating area, where everyone’s favorite French dignitary had secured five seats. Jean had worn his favorite pirate gear, which no one paid any attention to. It was Mardi Gras, and he had one of the simplest pirate costumes among many. I wore my sturdy black Doc Martens boots with my ballgown, which also drew no attention, and the billowy skirt gave me plenty of room to fit Charlie and his holster, not to mention a couple of daggers. Rene looked like he might have left a horse’s head in someone’s bed this morning.

  The fact that we had two identical, gorgeous redheads in our party, plus two identical blond, gorgeous men dressed like gangsters…well, that attracted attention. “Twins,” I said every few steps. “Twins.”

  We crowded into the viewing stand behind the mayor, who wore a gold tunic and a few dozen strands of Mardi Gras beads. He shook Jean’s hand, greeted both Kirian and me warmly since he had no idea who we were other than redheads in white dresses, and froze when he saw Rene and Rand, both of whom looked like Rand—one tall, one shorter.

  “You.” His face turned pasty. “If you touch me again, I’ll…I’ll…Why are there two of you?”

  “Identical twins,” Rene said, looking up at Rand.

  Apparently he didn’t know what he’d do if anyone touched him, so he turned his back on us and sat down without introducing us to Mrs. DeFazo, who greeted us and said her name was RuthAnn.

  “What was that about?” Rene whispered after we’d taken our seats. “What did Rand do to him?”

  “Made him stand on his head in his underwear on top of a table,” I said, elbowing Rene when he laughed too loud.

  I reached under my skirt and pulled out Charlie with my right hand; my left hand was attached to my phone. The first text came from Alex, at the beginning of the parade route.

  They’re rolling.

  It was ten a.m. on the nose, and the weather was perfect. A soft winter sun shone down enough to warm us without becoming uncomfortable. There was no breeze.

  At ten-ten came the first message from a Kirian:

  Spotted by Rex, who almost fell off throne.

  Good.

  At ten-twelve came a Rand:

  Spotted by Rex. Stood up. Pointed. Yelled.

  At ten-fifteen, from a Kirian:

  Under fire. Humans scattering.

  The parade’s forward movement ground to a halt. Sirens screamed on the block behind us, heading toward the parade.

  At eleven o’clock, a Rand:

  Injuries blamed on fireworks. Rolling again.

  I leaned forward, and told the mayor there had been a fireworks accident, but things were under control.

  At eleven-ten, another Rand:

  Exchanged shots. Wounds on both sides. Still rolling.

  I leaned toward Rene. “You think that means Florian was hit?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe, but he knows this is his big chance. Unless it’s a shot to the heart, he won’t let it stop him.”

  At eleven-thirty, a Kirian:

  Dodged fireball. Hailstorm on route. Parade halted.

  At eleven-forty, a Rand:

  Rolling again. Florian lost his wig.

  Whoever had the honor of serving as Rex was required to wear an odd Ye Olde England kingly outfit complete with white hose, buckled Puritan shoes, a white pageboy wig, and a bejeweled faux crown. Apparently, Florian had ripped off his wig in the faery version of a hissy fit.

  At eleven-fifty-five, the whi
te-horsed captain rounded the corner to approach Gallier Hall. He glanced over to nod at the mayor and froze when he spotted Rene and me. The real royalty had taken cover behind us.

  He held up a walkie-talkie, which wasn’t exactly in keeping with the Renaissance vibe of the krewe, but it meant any faux Rands and Kirians between Florian and us were going to be ignored.

  “Game on,” I whispered to Rene. “Keep your eyes open.”

  I spotted a sniper on top of a statue across St. Charles Avenue, in Lafayette Square. “Duck!” I yelled, reaching forward and pulling Mrs. DeFazo out of the way.

  The mayor wasn’t so lucky. “I’ve been hit.” He looked at his left shoulder and stood up just as another shot rang out. Rene reached forward and jerked him down behind the bleacher while I took aim with Charlie and zapped the sniper with my first shot.

  People were screaming, the police were making their way into the stands, the mayor was shouting about elves and faeries invading the city, and Rene and I just sat down. I looked behind me to make sure the real Kirian and Rand were safe.

  I texted to the others at eleven fifty-five:

  Mayor shot by sniper; parade stopped. Chaos.

  No point in mentioning anything about him screaming about elves and faeries. He was clearly delusional from his gunshot wound.

  At noon, a Kirian texted:

  Rolling again. Rex ordered them to continue. Police OK’d.

  I kept my eyes on the crowds around us, watching for more snipers. Rene suddenly collapsed against me, a plastic-handled sticking out of his back. Over his shoulder, I saw an unfamiliar faery with another knife lunging for me. He stopped mid-lunge, eyes-widened, and collapsed half on me and half on Rene.

  What had happened? I turned to see a cold-eyed Kirian. She’d killed him with a touch.

  “Shove him out of the way,” I said, and saw Rand’s long leg stretch out and kick him off the edge of the viewing stands, between the metal stands and the cloth fabric meant to make it look like a royal viewing box.

  We’d all turned into heathens.

  I leaned over Rene and jerked out the knife. My bet would be a silver blade, but I couldn’t do anything for him except roll him onto the footrest of the stands so he was sheltered by the seat in front of him, which held some local dignitary who hadn’t deemed us important enough to introduce himself to.

  At twelve-twenty, the Rex float rolled into view. Florian stood in the middle of it, still wearing the white hose, Puritan shoes, and gold-and-white tunic. His curly blond hair stood out like that of a mad scientist. He juggled at least a half-dozen fireballs, and I felt it when his gaze landed on me. I quickly knelt and formed a makeshift containment shield in front of everyone within reach using chalk from inside my boot.

  Then I stood up on the seat. The real Rand stood beside me.

  “What are you doing?” I hissed. “This shield won’t take more than a couple of blasts.”

  “One way or another, this ends now.” His voice was calm, his attention laser-focused on Florian. “You watch for fireballs. I need to concentrate.”

  The first fireball hit with a splatter on the shield and blowback embers went into the crowd, which screamed and scattered. The second fireball broke through the shield and sent embers onto me. I did not scream. I aimed.

  Beside me, Rand chanted in his elven tongue, and his face turned a deep red. I used Charlie to intercept a fireball midair, then another.

  Florian was in a rage, and I was so hot I thought I might explode.

  I intercepted the next fireball and decided I had to beat him before he gathered another. It was taking him about five seconds between fireballs. Immediately after the next fireball, I’d gather my magic into Charlie and shoot.

  I drew my own native physical magic into me, more than I’d ever tried at one time. The nosebleed started almost immediately, a sure sign I was pushing it too hard.

  Florian raised his right arm, a wild grin on his face, and threw. I sent a little magic into Charlie and missed the fireball, which landed just below me in the stands and set fire to the fabric lining the stands.

  Without a pause, I sent all my magic, everything I had, into Charlie, and shot straight at Florian.

  My legs gave way beneath me, and the last thing I heard before the world turned gray was an explosion.

  Dru! Wake up!

  I’d have thought I was having a nightmare about Rand, except nightmares weren’t usually so physical.

  Full consciousness came when the second bag of ice was dumped over my head, and I realized I was in the bathtub in Rand’s room, still wearing the white ballgown. Rand and Jean Lafitte leaned over me, one shouting inside my head and the other one out loud.

  I scrambled to get up, crying at every scrap of fabric that touched my burned skin. “How did I get burned?”

  “I think you absorbed some of my fire magic,” Rand said. “Again. Not nearly as bad this time, though.”

  And this time, there had been no power share, which meant I could channel his fire and talk to his infant son. Our bond had strengthened. “Jean, when this ice melts, would you drown me in the water?”

  “Drusilla is not herself,” Jean told Rand, reaching in and lifting me out of the tub. What a perceptive pirate.

  “Put her back in there. Her body temperature has to cool down.” Rand blocked the doorway to the hall.

  Dru, tell him to put you back in the ice.

  “Jean, if you don’t put me down, and Rand, if you don’t stay the hell out of my head, I am going to fry you both.”

  I must have sounded serious, because Rand moved out of the way so Jean could carry me into Rand’s bedroom.

  “Don’t put me on that bed, or I swear I will kill you.”

  Jean grinned. “You cannot kill me, Jolie. At least not for a great length of time.”

  But he settled me into an armchair. I kept my eyes closed until the worst of the burns diminished to about twelve on a scale of one to ten. They were right; it wasn’t nearly as bad as last time. “Tell me what happened to Florian. Where is Kirian? Oh my God.” I struggled to stand up, but failed. “Where is Rene?”

  “Florian is dead,” Rand said. “Rene is recuperating in your bedroom—in your bed.” He said that with enough heat to send a zap of fire along my burning shoulders. “Kirian is holding an emergency meeting of the courts in the capital of Faerie to claim the throne. All the Hunters went with her.”

  “Are you sure Florian is dead? Did I kill him?” If so, did that count as self-defense? I don’t know why it mattered, but it did.

  “Oh, he’s dead,” Rand said dryly. “You shot him with the staff—I’ve never seen fire that fierce coming from it. I caused him to combust, and Jean put a bullet in him. It all happened at once. Which one actually killed him? I don’t know. He might not have died until Pentewyn ate him.”

  I had to digest that one a moment. If Pen blew up into a gasball after eating a box of rats, what would happen when he ate a full-grown, roasted faery?

  “Where is he?”

  “I sent him back to Elfheim before he outgrew the greenhouse.”

  “What about his allies?”

  “All dragons are Pentewyn’s allies.” Rand frowned.

  I closed my eyes and counted, even though it never helped.

  “What about Florian’s allies?”

  “They knelt in front of Kirian and begged for mercy,” Jean said, smiling at the memory. “It was quite glorious, Jolie.”

  I finally got the rest of the story out of them. Faulkner Hearne had created a giant street-sized faery transport, and the whole lot of the fake Rands and Kirians sent themselves back to Faerie, disappearing from St. Charles Avenue in broad daylight. There were still hundreds of people around, shooting video with their phones. It was a zoo.

  “Rand, you might have to make yourself look like someone else for a while. The cops already know your face from the fireworks escapade.”

  He shrugged. “I’m going back to Elfheim for a while anyway. I have a
house to rebuild and a nursery to create. We’ll talk about Michael later.”

  Because I had a house to finish buying, and my own nursery to create. And maybe a meeting with the head of the Southeastern water shifters, aka Papa Delachaise, which made me queasy.

  I was getting sleepy, and finally let Rand put me on his bed. “Jean?” I raised my head and looked for him.

  He stood next to the door, moving aside as Rand left. “Yes, Jolie?”

  “Why would Toussaint Delachaise want to talk to me?”

  He laughed. “Oh, Drusilla. You do such wonderful things to this old privateer’s heart. No matter how strong you become with your magic stick and your understanding of politics, you still have no idea about les choses du coeur.”

  I didn’t think that was a compliment.

  Finally, I slept, with only the barest flitter of a thought passing through my mind that it was my birthday.

  Epilogue

  St. Patrick’s Day

  Rene and I sat in canvas chairs—mine red, his black—on the corner of Magazine and Third Street, drinking beer and eating oyster po-boys we’d bought a couple of blocks away at Parasol’s.

  “So how’d you think the meeting with my papa went?” Rene studied my face as I chewed, probably trying to get a clue. He hadn’t been allowed to attend the actual meeting, although I’d spent the whole weekend with the family in St. Bernard. Rene had been the one to stake his own claim in Plaquemines.

  I swallowed my oyster, took a swig of beer, and frowned. “Why does everybody in your family—and you have a lot of people in your family, by the way—think we’ve been romantically involved for the last three months? Do you know how many times I heard the phrase, ‘So you’re the one’? A lot.”

  It was Rene’s turn to look away, and I could swear he blushed. His skin was such an olive tone, it was hard to tell, but I’m pretty sure I saw a tinge of pink. “Prob’ly because that’s when I quit dating. I think the last date I had was the night Jean burned down L’Amour Sauvage and you developed fainting goat disease.” He shrugged. “Families notice stuff like that.”