That worked. “Yeah, is he always so intense?”
“It’s an act.” Jake chuckled. “He works hard at that tough-guy thing. Alex is a marshmallow underneath all the crap. You’ve just gotta dig for it.”
“Hmph.” Jake hadn’t seen the grenade-toting, pirate-killing side of his cousin, obviously.
We spent the rest of the drive to my house in comfortable conversation. I described my evacuation, minus the magic parts. Jake told me about the damage his and Alex’s families had in Picayune, what it was like riding out the storm at his bar, the Green Gator, and some of the things he’d seen running rescues out of Gentilly and Lakeview and the Lower Nine.
Jake Warin was open and talkative and way too charming. Uncomplicated. Untainted by the Elders and their political machinations. By the time we got to my house, I’d fallen for the dimples and the amber eyes enough to accept a dinner invitation, time to be determined by Katrina recovery. The storm shaped everything now, even a dinner date. We had to wait till a restaurant opened, or at least till the electricity came back on.
Jake didn’t mention my boyfriend Alex, and neither did I.
I smiled as I climbed out of the truck and said good-bye. He’d helped me step outside myself and distracted me for a few minutes, an unexpected pleasure in what was shaping up to be a frustrating day.
“Oh, wait.” I stuck my head back in the passenger window. “You’ll probably see Alex before I do. When he gets back to his room at the Gator, tell him I’m sorry I overreacted.”
Jake laughed. “He isn’t staying at the Gator, but I’ll tell him whenever I see him.”
He waved and pulled away, leaving me to wonder what the enforcer was up to.
CHAPTER 14
By the time Alex showed up at my house an hour later, a box of papers under each arm, I’d mentally chastised myself for leaving him and had sworn to be more cooperative. For one thing, we had to work together, like it or not. For another, I wanted him to share information with me, which meant sucking it up and letting him do his job.
I hate it when life forces me to be mature.
After Jake dropped me off, I’d reestablished my wards. I filled seven small pouches with a mixture of protective herbs, infused each one with magic, and planted them in a rough circle around the house. Then I walked the circle, connecting the energies and repeating the safe word that would drop the wards. I chose Lafitte as my safe word, a reminder of why I needed protection.
Raising the wards depleted what little energy I had left. When Alex pulled his mud-splattered car into the driveway at dusk, I was sitting on the back stoop, trying to muster the strength to take a shower.
He dropped the boxes and a bag of cat litter next to me with a thud and turned to leave.
“Wait,” I said to his back. “I’m sorry, okay? I know you have to look at all the possibilities and I’m the one who works with Gerry. Your asking if I helped him … well, it took me by surprise. I’m sorry I overreacted.” No point in waiting to apologize. Crow is a dish best served warm.
He looked back at me, dark eyes softening as he opened his car door. “We both had a long day. See you tomorrow.”
Guess we’d discuss why he lied about his living arrangements another time.
By eight, I’d taken my second shower of the day, hopefully drowning another generation of coffin flies, and had lugged the lantern back downstairs in search of dinner. I stashed the pile of nonperishable food I’d brought from Gran’s—Cheetos, crackers, chips, tuna—in the cabinets, then studied the dozens of MREs Alex had brought with him last night. I’d kill for something cold, but I doubted there was a single ice cube in Orleans Parish.
I dumped some cat food and water in bowls for Sebastian, who’d been giving me the stink-eye from beneath the kitchen table since I’d let him out of his carrier, then opened an MRE for myself. Meatloaf and mashed potatoes, vanilla wafers, cocoa mix, and jelly. Military menu planners are either crazy or sadists, but the self-heating element was genius.
Between bites, I dug my cell phone out of my backpack to call Tish. She had driven from Houston to Bogalusa a few days ago to help her family clean up storm damage, but made me promise to keep her up to date on Gerry. They had been together a long time, but didn’t seem interested in even living together, much less getting married. Whatever their relationship dynamic, it seemed to work. She was about ten years younger than him, which put her in her mid-forties, and was a smart woman who’d taught me a lot of ritual magic Gerry didn’t know. We’d developed my grounding ritual together, and she helped me repeat it till I gained the focus to do it consistently.
On my fifth try, I finally got a call to go through.
“Thank God. I’ve been trying to get you since last night—it’s hit and miss with any five-oh-four area code,” she said. “What’s the news on Gerry?”
“He’s just gone, Tish. I don’t know what to think.” I filled her in on the trip to his house, then backed up to tell her about the visit from Jean Lafitte and the arrival of the new cosentinel.
We sat in silence a moment while she processed it.
“Do the Elders and this enforcer really think Gerry went rogue?” she finally asked. “Do they have any proof other than his reputation for being a curmudgeon where their policies are concerned?”
I thought about my conversations with Alex. “No proof, at least nothing I’ve been told. But they seem to believe he’s either gone rogue or he’s …” I couldn’t say dead. My throat closed around the word.
“Tish, do you think there’s any way they’re right about him taking some kind of action against the Elders?” I hated to even ask the question but I guess, like Alex’s question to me, it needed asking.
Long silence. “I know Gerry’s unhappy the Elders hold such iron control over the borders to the Beyond. He’s felt that way a long time, but …” She trailed off, then started again. “I can’t see him acting on it. He crossed the Elders once and paid a heavy price for it. He wouldn’t do it again.”
Huh? “What do you mean?”
Tish gave a short laugh. “I’m not surprised Gerry never told you—it wasn’t his finest hour. He was in Edinburgh during the Wizards’ War in seventy-six. He fought for the Elders, of course, but you know Gerry. He wasn’t shy about telling them they were handling it wrong, that they should relax the borders instead of fighting the pretes. They finally shut him up by sending him to New Orleans as sentinel. Important job, but about as far from the halls of power as one can get.”
Hmph. I’d asked Gerry once why he’d come to New Orleans. He’d talked up the city’s appeal as one of the world’s greatest supernatural hot spots. No mention of it being a punishment to keep him isolated from the decision making.
No wonder the Elders were suspicious. But the wizards who had openly sided with the vampires and other pretes in that war had been executed. More reason for Gerry not to have betrayed them.
“What do you think happened to him?” I asked.
Another pause, then a quiet voice. “What are officials doing with the bodies … the people they’re finding who died during and after the hurricane?”
Oh God, I hadn’t thought of that. “All the hospitals in Orleans Parish flooded. A makeshift morgue has been set up in St. Gabriel—I think that’s just outside Baton Rouge.” Few, if any, of the bodies had been identified. Hundreds had already been found in New Orleans alone, and more were being found every day. “I’ll find some way to check.”
“I wish I could come and help you, honey.”
“I know. I’ll be okay.” I knew Tish’s elderly parents, who were mundanes, had lost their home and she was trying to get them resettled in a trailer, plus straighten out their insurance. Her brother had his hands full with his own home loss in Ocean Beach, Mississippi. Finding Gerry—and exonerating him—would be up to me.
We talked awhile longer before the signal failed and we got disconnected. My few bites of military meatloaf sat like concrete in my stomach. I pushed the rest of it ar
ound the plastic container for a while before giving up.
I had pulled a notebook from my kitchen drawer and started sketching out the symbol from Gerry’s house when I heard a scratching sound at the back door, followed by a bark. I peered out the window, but it was über-dark outside, the kind of dark city dwellers forgot about until the electrical grid went black. Surely a looter—or Jean Lafitte—wouldn’t bring a dog.
I held up the fluorescent lantern and opened the door, eek-ing like a girl as something big and solid raced past me into the kitchen. Sebastian, puffed out like a brown dandelion, shot off the top of the fridge and into the parlor.
“What the … ?” I stared at an enormous golden dog with a shaggy coat, floppy ears, a big grin, and a tail that plumed over his back. A black and pink spotted tongue lolled out the side of his mouth. Too bad my wards didn’t work on dogs, although this one looked about as dangerous as the Taco Bell Chihuahua.
I held a hand out for him to sniff, then scratched the top of his head. “Where did you come from?” I felt around his furry neck for a collar but came up empty.
I knew from news reports that thousands of newly homeless dogs roamed the city streets. Their owners had evacuated without them, earning their own place in the fiery pits of hell, or they’d gotten separated during the storm. This one looked healthy. If he’d been on the street almost three weeks in these conditions, he must have a talent for scrounging. He didn’t seem feral.
Not that I was paranoid or anything, but I didn’t want to take any chances that this wasn’t a real dog. A girl can’t be too careful. I put a hand on either side of his head and closed my eyes. He pulled away at first, but finally stood still while I tried to feel his energy. He gave off a little buzz, but nothing more than he’d get from crossing my wards. Certainly not enough to be a prete.
Then he stuck his big baby-blanket of a tongue out and licked my mouth. Yuck, and no way. I’d just acquired a cat that hated my guts. I wasn’t ready for a French-kissing dog.
“You can’t stay here,” I said firmly, opening the door wider so he could leave. I got behind him and tried to push him out but he dug his toenails into the wooden floor and wouldn’t budge. It was like trying to prod a balky mule, not that I’d dealt with any balky mules myself, but I’d seen the carriage drivers in the French Quarter coaxing and begging their beasts to cooperate without much luck.
The dog yawned and trotted farther into the kitchen, resting big paws on the edge of the table and grabbing my plastic MRE container with his teeth. He was after my meatloaf.
“Wait a minute, buddy.” I stood stupidly at the door for a while, looking from dog to yard, but finally surrendered. “Okay, I’ll give you something to eat, but: You. Are. Not. Staying. Here.” I punctuated each syllable with a pointed finger as if it would make him understand me better.
He grinned and wagged his tail, spotted tongue hanging askew. He must have some chow chow in him. And maybe golden retriever. And pony.
I scraped my leftover meatloaf onto a saucer, added some tuna, and set it on the floor, then put down another bowl filled with bottled water. I spotted Sebastian back under the kitchen table, spearing the invader with a malevolent glare. Or maybe he was looking at me.
The dog gobbled the food, sucked down the bowl of water, and padded off into the parlor, followed by Sebastian.
“Hey!” I shouted, taking the lantern and following them. The dog stretched out his considerable length on one of my sofas, head propped on the arm and one paw draped over the edge. A fine, clear stream of slobber trailed down my custom upholstery. Sebastian jumped on the back of the sofa behind him and curled into a ball. He liked the dog better than me. That was truly insulting.
I tried the front door, opening it and making clicking sounds with my tongue. The dog rolled his head around and grinned at me from the shadows, his teeth picking up a gleam from the lantern. Unyielding, I opened the door wider and pointed outside.
He sighed, the weight of the world on his furry shoulders, and slouched past me out the door, flopping in a heap on the front porch.
“Fine, stay there if you want.” I locked up and headed back to the kitchen, but not before I heard the soft thump of the dog settling against the door. In the lantern light, I saw a bit of golden fur poking between the door and the threshold. For the first time since returning to New Orleans, I laughed. I laughed so hard it brought tears.
Then the laughter left, the tears stayed, and I sat in the middle of the floor next to my fluorescent lantern. I cried for Gerry, for New Orleans, and for myself. I didn’t know what to do for any of us.
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 19, 2005 “Tough-as-nails survivor had only a jug of water: Rescuers find him 18 days after storm.”
—THE TIMES–PICAYUNE
CHAPTER 15
Sunday had been a how-to in frustration, raising more questions. Monday, I hoped to get answers.
I’d called the St. Gabriel morgue a dozen times on Sunday, but either got no answer, had been disconnected, or spoke with yet another tired-sounding official trying to be polite. The last one said he was very sorry but I would have to be patient. More than six hundred bodies had been brought in so far from Greater New Orleans. He took Gerry’s name and physical description and my phone number, but promised nothing.
I’d tried using hydromancy again, to no avail, then refreshed my mojo bag. Finally, I got the bright idea that I’d try to summon Gerry, even though I’d never heard of anyone summoning a wizard—or anyone else this side of the Beyond, for that matter. Ghosts, demons, vampires, the historical undead, yes. If I tried and it didn’t work, big deal. At least I was doing something.
I gathered up some of his things to use in the summoning ritual: the pipe, a picture of the two of us taken at JazzFest year before last, one of his journals, and the Meisterstück pen. Pulling aside the throw rug in my library, I chalked in a circle and placed his belongings at north, south, east, and west. I used a small lancet to prick my finger for a few drops of blood to place on the circle and fuel the magic. Thankfully, summoning was one of only a few rituals requiring blood. Finally, I settled on a floor pillow and tried to clear my mind of everything but Gerry.
At first I thought it was working. A dark mist gathered inside the circle, tried to thicken and solidify, then dissipated. I attempted a second summoning, and a third, but couldn’t even get the mist back.
Alex had showed up at lunchtime, bringing hamburgers and fries he’d found somewhere in neighboring Jefferson Parish. They had electricity. Ice. Air conditioning. Maybe even Internet service. I was jealous.
“Peace offering,” he’d said, holding up the bag when I opened the door.
I smiled, feeling magnanimous in the face of fast food. “I should be the one making a peace offering, but I’ll take the burger.”
“It’s cold, but I got tied up on the way back. Did you hear about the murder?”
It had been all over the WWL newscast I’d heard on my battery-operated radio. Another soldier on security detail had been found dead that morning in Mid-City, complete with the voodoo-ritual candles and dead rooster. That made three dead, and the media was in a lather about a serial killer. Not only was there a whackjob at large, but the murderer was preying on the soldiers in town to help us.
“You got called in?” I asked. “Anything supernatural about it?”
Alex shook his head and rattled a few loose fries out of the bag. “Not that I know of. The NOPD detective who’s heading up the investigations, Ken Hachette, is a friend of mine. Well, a friend of Jake’s, technically. They were in Afghanistan together and co-owned the Gator till Jake bought him out last year. Anyway, he called me in to help with the cases.”
I chewed in silence a moment, savoring the grease, before I could ask, “Did you see the crime scene?”
He nodded. “I didn’t see the symbol anywhere, but the area was a mess. Flood zone. Ken didn’t know I was in town, or he would’ve called me earlier. I think I’m going out there later to look around again.
See if the symbol got covered up.”
“So we still don’t know if we’re dealing with a crazy human or a crazy prete.” I savored my fries and didn’t care that they were cold.
“Oh, I’ve been meaning to show you this.” Alex opened his briefcase and pulled out a book on elven magic. “It’s one of Gerry’s. Did you know the staff we found was made by the elves? Or at least it fits the description in the book. Apparently, these elven staffs choose their owners. They’re useless to anyone except whoever they’ve chosen.”
That staff was downright creepy, but then again, I’d always thought elves were creepy with their mental magic and secretive ways—not that I’d ever met one. I supposedly had elves back in my gene pool somewhere, but the whole race had flittered off to the Beyond eons ago and kept to itself.
“This is going to sound bizarre, but I swear that thing moves,” I said. “Almost gave me heart failure when I first noticed it, then I thought I was hallucinating. But it happens a lot. It travels from room to room.” I’d been handling it a little, trying to figure out why it reacted to me, either turning warm or shooting out red sparks.
Interest lit Alex’s face. “The book says they can do that—they will follow their owner. Well, the book calls it their master.”
I smiled. “Except I’m not an elf, remember. It can’t have claimed me as its master.”
I flipped the book open to a page he had dog-eared and started reading.
“I saw in your file that you had elves on your mom’s side of the family,” he said, making me wonder what else was in that file. “Maybe you have enough for it to claim you.”
“I doubt it. From what I’ve read, they can do really subtle mental magic. I’m about as subtle as a tank.”
“You have a point.” Alex shoveled the final quarter of his burger in his mouth and ignored my squinty-eyed look.
I turned back to the book. “It might help to know what those markings on the staff mean—they look similar to the ones in here. After I eat I’ll go upstairs and get it, compare the runes.”
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