Area of Influence

by Mandy M. Roth

  Chapter Seven

  Emi carried her folding table and chair as she walked into an alleyway off Jackson Square. She was used to the awkwardness the table caused when lugging it around the city, even while advertised as portable. It was still heavy when walking any type of distance, and she had walked several blocks with it, the chair, and her other supplies in tow.

  She had on a backpack with her tarot cards and a tablecloth, and was ready to set up shop outside for the evening. Business had been slower than normal, but she didn’t mind. It came with the territory. Her expenses were minimal on purpose. It was hard to make a living doing what she did. She lived mostly off the grid and had very little to call her own.

  It was better that way.

  Easier to run when the need arose.

  And it had been far too long since she’d had to do so.

  Her uncle would have been disappointed with her. He’d taught her to never stay in one place too long. To always stay on the move. Eight years was far too long to call one place home. Eight months would have been pushing the limits when he was still alive.

  She knew that, but the idea of leaving New Orleans ripped at her gut. The city was engrained in her now, a part of her, and she a part of it. She didn’t want to run anymore. She was tired. Yet, lately it felt as if the clock was ticking. That her days were numbered.

  She stepped onto the stone-paved street and looked to the left to find her friend Hector. He had a canvas affixed to the iron fence there as he stood, painting for tourists to watch. Finished works of his art hung on the fence around him, on display for anyone wanting to view or purchase them. He was extremely talented and had once had a large-scale gallery showing in L.A., but had found that lifestyle wasn’t for him. He’d returned to NOLA and hadn’t looked back once.

  She smiled as she saw him painting a mule and carriage. The mule in his painting had flowers adorning it, all done in red, and its hooves painted. A number of mules and carriages were pulled to a stop out in front of the square, as they almost always were. Several different companies ran their carriage tours from the location, and the various drivers had to learn to coexist. Some days it was better than others.

  Emi had friends who gave tours. Their love of the mules they worked with knew no bounds. They were kindhearted, loved New Orleans, and loved being able to share its rich history with people from out of town. Some even gave guided ghost tours through the Quarter. Emi had taken the tours more than once, each time seeing what others couldn’t—the truth of what was in the city

  While it was often filled to the brim with the living, it was always bursting at the seams with the dead. She’d know. She could see, hear, and feel them all around her. It was part of what she loved most about the area. She never felt alone. The dead were just as much her friends as the living. Often, they were even closer to her.

  She couldn’t recall a time in her life when she hadn’t seen dead people. And she didn’t remember when it was she’d developed gifts beyond those of communicating and interacting with those who had passed. It simply had always just been so. Her uncle had been able to commune with the dearly departed as well, but his gifts had been limited. No one ever came right out and said it, but it was implied that her additional gifts came from her father’s side. A man who was never spoken of.

  Now in her twenties, she found her gifts growing at a rate that often worried her. She’d seen far too much in her short life to believe there wasn’t a price for what she’d been given, and sooner or later, her bill would come due.

  She just hoped she could afford the payment.

  “Hey, Emi,” said Hector as he wiped his paintbrush on a tan cloth. His dark hair, which was cut close all the way around except for a portion up front, was pushed back from his face. He had on his normal jeans, white T-shirt, and a long-sleeved shirt that was cuffed to his elbows. She’d known him since her arrival in the city, and he wore a variation of the outfit daily. “You’re later than usual. Everything all right?”

  “I didn’t get home from that house cleanse until it was nearly dawn, and then I had trouble sleeping today,” she confessed, setting her table up near him. “When I finally dozed off it was midday. Slept longer than I meant to.”

  “Fredrick still talking your ear off?” he asked, cleaning his brush in a mason jar full of turpentine.

  “He’s not that bad,” protested Emi. Fredrick did have a tendency to ramble when the subject was one he was passionate about, but he always had her best interests at heart. “He’s my friend, and I enjoy his company.”

  “Taylor ever take a look at that rotting floor?” asked Hector.

  She shook her head. “I never asked.”

  “Emi, you could get hurt. Nile and I will come over tomorrow and take a look at it.”

  She grinned. “I’m fine. Really.”

  He sighed then shook his head. “You’re not fine.”

  She didn’t really want to argue so she said nothing.

  “What about Mrs. Pumpernickel?” asked Hector, changing the subject, his dark gaze knowing. He’d heard her stories enough to already know the answer to his own question.

  She cringed at the mention of the ghost who tended to talk at all hours of the night when she was around. While Fredrick was a talker, he always let her get sleep. Mrs. Pumpernickel didn’t really understand boundaries, or the fact Emi needed to rest. “I don’t want to be rude to her, but she’s having a hard time understanding that she’s nearly a hundred and fifty years dead. To her, time was supposed to stop and everyone was supposed to have mourned her. I don’t think they did. That hurt. I’m sure.”

  Hector laughed, shaking his head, having always gotten a kick out of Emi’s stories of her spirits. “She still worried her ungrateful son is going to steal all the jewels from her hidden spot?”

  Nodding, Emi put her backpack on the ground and set about pulling out her dark tablecloth. “Yes. I’ve tried to explain that he more than likely cleaned her out long ago and that he’s long dead, but she isn’t having any of it. I’ve all but given up, and now just smile a lot when she launches into her complaints about him. Fredrick is at his wits’ end with her too. And she’s insistent that her jewels are still in the home.”

  “I always feel bad for the ones that don’t understand how long they’ve been gone,” Hector said.

  “It’s worse when they don’t even know they’re dead,” she confessed, having run into more than her fair share of spirits who had no idea they were even dead. Telling them was always a touchy matter and could end in disaster. Some took it well, but others threw the mother of all tantrums.

  “I bet,” said Hector. He never judged her and her abilities. He’d accepted what she could do on faith when they’d first met, and always expressed a genuine concern for her well-being. It was just part of what she liked about him. In a way, he and the others she’d met while reading cards in NOLA had become her family of sorts. “I wish I had a way to shut that off for you for a while. You deserve a break too.”

  “Thank you.” She wasn’t sure what life would be like if she had a day without a spirit appearing in it. Part of her thought it would probably feel like she was walking naked through life. Another part of her longed for the experience, even if just once.

  She set her cards on the table and was about to open her chair when two women approached. They were dressed in shorts, T-shirts, and tennis shoes. They had saddlebags that were slung over their shoulders and looked to be stuffed to the gills with items that would appeal to tourists. The woman on the left was incredibly fair-skinned and had evidently spent far too long in the NOLA heat and sun. Her face was beet red, as was her upper chest, her arms, and the front of her legs. She’d be miserable once she realized how badly she was sunburned.

  The other wasn’t burnt, but she did look as if the heat and humidity were getting to her. Her forehead was coated in a sheen of sweat, and her hair looked as though she’d been pushing said sweat into it for some time. It was evident that neither woman was lo
cal.

  “Can you read our cards?” asked the sunburned one, a British accent evident.

  Emi offered a warm smile. “I can.”

  Hector brought over an extra chair for her, and she nodded her thanks to him. He and his husband, Nile—a stock trader who did very well for himself—were always looking out for her. Whenever a group of men got too rowdy near Emi’s table, or if one tried to put the moves on her, Hector always made his presence known, as if he was her protector.

  In truth, Emi could more than handle herself. It made Hector happy to watch over her so she permitted it, never once letting on that she could take matters into her own hands and deal with them accordingly.

  Chapter Eight

  Thor walked down Bourbon Street, doing his best to ignore the nauseating smells surrounding him. His senses were far superior to those of the humans around him, meaning he could smell and hear everything happening not only in the immediate area but farther out. He could smell everything from truck exhaust to horse shit. The area had it all.

  His senses had been on overdrive since his arrival in the city. Normally, he was good at zeroing in and blocking out the unwanted. The bombardment of information coming at him from all angles was nearly too much. He had to close his eyes a moment to gather his thoughts and concentrate on blocking everything that was coming at him at once.

  The area was body to body with people, and it wasn’t even the busy season in the French Quarter. That didn’t seem to matter to everyone who had jammed into the area that only extended something like thirteen blocks in one direction and nine blocks in the other direction.

  It was hot and the extra bodies only made the area hotter. The summer heat left sweat trickling down his back. The weather only added to the stench of the French Quarter, baking the trash that sat out in plastic bins. Sadly, the trash smelled better than the vomit and piss that filled the area, and it wasn’t for lack of the city trying to clean the streets.

  If the humans visiting there treated the place better, it wouldn’t smell as bad as it did.

  His lip curled.

  Humans thought they could come to the city and behave any way they wanted. They drank to the point they could barely stand and then relieved themselves against the buildings like animals.

  No. Animals are better.

  He’d know. After all, he had the ability to shift into a panther.

  A group of drunk men came rushing out of a bar, yelling and throwing their hands in the air in celebration. From what little Thor could make out from their drunken ramblings, it was one of the men’s bachelor parties. From the looks of it, they were doing their best to make it a night no one would remember come morning. Not one of them appeared to be even semi-sober.

  Morons.

  It was no wonder crime was on the rise in the area. Tourists were too shit-faced to realize they were being marked for theft. He would never fully understand how anyone thought getting so drunk they vomited was an enjoyable night out. What kind of crap life did they have that they looked forward to doing that to themselves?

  At least they have a life.

  He stiffened. It was true. His life was spent in the service of Pierre. And it was no picnic. Maybe the men who could barely hold their liquor, and would no doubt contribute to the urine smell soon enough, had the right idea.

  Thor had his blond hair pulled back into a tie at the nape of his neck. The black short-sleeve shirt he wore began to cling to his back. As he continued down the street, he realized his choice of clothing looked a great deal like that of a number of the bouncers he passed. Black shirt, black pants, black boots.

  Though none of the bouncers looked lethal. He was.

  He’d waited until the sun had started to set before he’d ventured out from the high-end apartment Pierre had secured for his stay, in search of his mark. Unlike most of the master’s creations, Thor could tolerate sunlight to some degree. Though he found it bothered his eyes and drained him the longer he was in full sun. He didn’t burst into flames like the pure vampires did, nor did his skin begin to bubble and burn like that of some of the hybrid creations.

  He was different from them in other ways too. And he’d thought he was sane in comparison, but his nightly dreams and constant urge to want to kill his maker said otherwise. Perhaps he, like the others, was shattering mentally. It seemed to happen to them all.

  He faltered in his step, coming to a stop and doing his best to remain calm. Panicking over the state of his mental health wouldn’t help in the least. He’d seen the spiral other hybrids had taken. Some had seen the end coming and lived in paranoid fear of it, only serving to drive themselves mad sooner. Others never knew what was happening to them. They didn’t understand how broken they were.

  Which was he?

  And who would hunt him when he finally snapped fully?

  Would Pierre delight in getting to take down his prized pet?

  The fact he was now tasked with a mission Pierre felt was of the utmost importance said the man still held trust for Thor, but it was impossible to tell how much. Pierre had never used him for sex and blood, as he did a number of his pets. Though Thor was confident that was the end goal of the master. The hungry look Pierre held whenever Thor was in his presence worried him. It was only a matter of time before Pierre demanded more than Thor was willing to give.

  Already Thor refused to follow the man’s orders blindly. He should want to do whatever the man commanded, but that wasn’t the case. It had never been the case.

  I am broken.

  His mind was slipping, as was clear by his obsession with the name Lance, and his fear of sleeping. Soon he would be the prey, instead of the hunter. Pierre had dispatched him on numerous occasions over the last year to track down a creation that had snapped. And now he was tasked with hunting the enforcer that Pierre’s direct competition used.

  Gérard Voclain had a large foothold in the southern part of Louisiana. When Thor had first awoken as one of Pierre’s children, he’d thought Gérard and Pierre were friends. Within a few short weeks, Thor came to understand that Pierre had no friends. He had people whom he used and kept close to suit his needs. Nothing more.

  And now Gérard had served his need. Pierre wanted his territory. To achieve that, Gérard’s henchmen needed to be removed from the equation. That was where Thor came in. He was to track Gérard’s right-hand man, Chilton, and kill him, but not before he found out what had drawn the man to the city to begin with. There was something of interest to him here, and Pierre wanted to know what that was. If it could be used to gain the upper hand in the war that was waging with the operatives, so be it.

  Thor understood the mission.

  Chilton and Thor had had run-ins more than once in the past. There was always much in the way of posturing whenever the two alpha-male enforcers were in the same room. To date, they’d not gone to blows, but that was coming soon enough.

  Chilton was said to be living in New Orleans, hiding among the eccentrics in the Crescent City. It wouldn’t be hard for a creature of the night to thrive in the area. Dating back to its inception, the city was rich with lore of vampires, shifters, witches and more inhabiting the region, calling NOLA home.

  Thor knew the stories of New Orleans, or La Nouvelle-Orleans, as it had originally been known, and had a deep understanding that he’d been in the area many times before, yet his ability to recall details was gone. When he’d woke, reborn as one of the master’s pets, his past was blank. All he’d known was Pierre’s face, his commanding tone, and the desire to obey. Yet that desire had waned quickly, and Thor had been wise enough to know that letting on to as much would prove to be deadly.

  He stepped out into the street, walking around a group of tourists who were swept up in the happenings on Bourbon Street. He watched a man do a shot from a woman’s breasts at the entrance to a bar, all the while the other woman with the man clapped and laughed. The man appeared incredibly uncomfortable with the act but continued all the same. The woman handing out the shot l
ooked happy enough to have ten dollars in hand for the shot. She moved on to the next tourist, coaxing him to do a shot from her breasts as well. That man didn’t agree to drink from her breasts but he did let her hold the shot in her mouth, choosing instead to take it from her that way.

  Whatever works for the guy.

  Continuing onward, Thor stepped around a street performer dressed to look like he was a vampire, cape and all. A set of fake fangs was in the man’s mouth, making it hard to understand him when he spoke. It was nearly laughable, but the tourists seemed to enjoy it. Many were gathered around the man, getting photos with him as he spoke with a campy B-movie actor voice.

  “Come, my children,” he said, really hamming it up for the tourist. “And I will show you my lair. Fear not, humans, I only bite…a little.”

  The people around him laughed as if the joke was really funny.

  Thor entertained showing them all real fangs but held back. They’d probably wet themselves and he’d be left having to smell even more urine on the street. He avoided doing what he wanted, despite wanting to scare them more than he should. A darkness in him, no doubt driven by his vampire side, wanted to cause chaos. Wanted screaming and running in fear.

  The man—though he wasn’t sure he had much left inside him—fought against it. He felt the human portion of him deep down, struggling to suppress the blood hunger, the need for destruction.

  He trembled, the fear of becoming the same monster Pierre was hitting him hard. Would he find joy in others’ agony, as Pierre did? Or would he far surpass Pierre’s coldness?

  Sweat dripped down his forehead and into his eye, burning it enough to help him gather control of himself once more—something he found himself doing often. He was thankful for the heat then. It had saved him from falling victim to his own demon.

  He would have continued onward on his mission to locate Chilton, but a strange feeling came over him.

  Thor paused, glancing around, unsure if there was a threat nearby or not. It was as if his body was torn between being ready for an attack and prepared for bliss. What an odd pairing. He knew it couldn’t be coming from Chilton, as Thor’s only response to the man had been repulsion and the urge to rip the asshole’s head off. And since Thor didn’t feel any of those things, he felt fairly certain it wasn’t Chilton, or any of Gérard’s men, for that matter. But it was something more than merely human.