I nailed it. After a suspicious glance at my arm, his mouth twitched. I’d seen through him; he’d seen through me.
“Ah, Jolie. We are perfectly suited to one another, as I must continue to remind you. A woman of your intelligence is wasted on such as le petit chien.”
I’d let the slam at Alex pass. “Where are we going?”
“Let us stroll to see the cathedral, even though it means I will be forced to also regard the monument to the arrogant Andrew Jackson.”
Rumor had it that Jean had won the historical undead representative’s seat on the Interspecies Council after a contentious election with the undead former president Jackson. During his human life, Jackson had lived in New Orleans briefly during the time of the Battle of New Orleans in 1814, which gave him enough local memory power to pop over occasionally in his undead form.
Rumor also had it that Jean had won the election by cheating. Since the source of said rumors was Alex, they were likely true.
During weekdays, Royal Street was open to traffic. Which meant that not only were the streets a slick layer of ice since the city had made some attempt to shovel the snow to the sides, but every few yards we came across people staring morosely at their fender benders.
“It does not appear snowfall is useful to automobiles and—Mon Dieu!” Jean dodged an icy snowball lobbed by a red-faced, cursing Mini Cooper driver. He’d been aiming at a pickup owner who’d turned the back of his cute little car into mangled yellow aluminum foil. The only thing dumber than driving in this mess was driving a car that weighed less than my cat. Of course, that was a low shot coming from a woman who no longer had access to anything motorized.
I retained a firm grip on Jean’s left arm and elbowed him in the ribs. Once he’d escaped the flying ice ball, he had slipped his right hand inside his Daniel Boone coat, where, if experience proved true, he’d stashed a weapon. It was too cold for a preternatural incident.
“Don’t you dare shoot anybody. I’d have to clean it up.” My teeth had already begun chattering, and it would take forever to modify all those human memories. Plus, I’d have to call Blue Congress wizards to erase the bloodstains from the snow; I had nothing in my portable kit that would work.
“Bah, very well. My intention was to stab the blackguard, not fell him by pistol.” Jean resumed his speedy charge toward St. Louis Cathedral, tugging me along, slipping and sliding beside him.
We made it to Jackson Square with no further life-threatening situations, and I couldn’t help myself: I pulled my phone from my pocket and began snapping pictures like every other snow-struck New Orleanian who’d wandered into the streets.
Jean scooped up a handful of snow and packed it into a firm snowball. In perfect pitcher’s-mound form, he threw a hard line drive at Andrew Jackson’s snow-covered, bronze head. Hit him right between the eyes.
“Nice shot. Do you feel better?”
“Bah.” Jean turned back and smiled at the sight of St. Louis Cathedral draped in snow and ice, which I had to agree was a pretty spectacular sight. “It would prove more enjoyable had I been able to strike the arrogant toad himself.”
No love lost between the pirate and the president, apparently. Alex said Jackson had been banished to Old Tennessee after causing such a public stink over the election-cheating incident that it threatened to expose the historical undead to humans.
“Can we go inside the cathedral for a few minutes?” I was so cold my blood seemed to be coagulating inside me. “I’m freezing.”
Jean gave me a sidelong glance. “It is not so very cold, Drusilla. Perhaps it is your elven ancestry.”
Huh. So he knew about that little elven quirk. Of course Jean seemed to know all the prete secrets; he could’ve probably filled me in on elven pregnancies.
I tugged his arm toward the church. “Maybe, but that doesn’t make me any warmer. Just for a couple of minutes.”
He stalled. “Perhaps we should return to the hotel, Jolie. Cold weather has dire effects on elves, and, pardon, but you do not look well. Your health and comfort are my greatest concern, as always.”
Something was getting deep around here and it wasn’t just the snow. Never bullshit a bullshitter, as my friend Rene would so eloquently put it.
“Look, I know you’re trying to ditch me, and it’s not going to work.”
Jean frowned as he tucked my hand around his crooked arm again and began a very slow stroll back toward the Monteleone. “Qu’est-ce que c’est ditch?”
I didn’t even dignify that with an answer because he knew exactly what I meant. Besides, I wasn’t sure I could talk anymore; my teeth were chattering too violently. My whole body was chattering violently. I had tolerated the cold up to a point, but now I seem to have turned some type of elven corner.
My pirate tour guide had changed tactics. Instead of his earlier breakneck clip, he now walked so slowly I could’ve outpaced him on hands and knees—all the better to freeze me out.
As we walked, Jean kept up a running commentary on the ice formations hanging from the shop awnings (“I am reminded of a deep cave I once visited in Cartagena”); merchandise available for sale, particularly sex toys and lingerie (“The fondness of your modern folk for such scandalous items and clothing is most distressing”); and snowstorms he had known (“You do not realize the treachery of hoisting anchor on a vessel whose deck is coated in ice, Jolie”).
Fortunately, he seemed to require only an audience and not a partner in conversation.
I kept my eyes on the white ground in front of me, willing one foot at a time to move me forward. The world around me blurred, and I saw only the toes of my black boots crunching on white. Again and again.
My thoughts had frozen as well, but Rand’s voice came through loud and clear. Dru—what the hell are you doing? Get inside.
With effort, I raised my head and looked around. “Freaking elf,” I muttered. In my head, I tried to form words. Babysit pirate.
Get out of the cold, you stupid wizard. You have my blood in you now; you’ll spontaneously hibernate if you get too cold.
Huh? “Bear?” I asked.
Jean frowned down at me. “Qu’est-ce que c’est bear? Drusilla, you do not look well, and we do not yet reach the hotel for two additional thoroughfares. We must walk in haste now. Tout de suite.”
“Elf,” I said, trying to make Jean understand. But he pulled me along too fast, and my elven feet stopped moving.
The world tilted as I watched the snowy sidewalk shooting toward my face at an alarming pace, or was I moving toward the snow? Was Jean shouting at me, or was it Rand?
Sleep. The word filled my head as I rested my cheek on a cold, white, fluffy pillow.
CHAPTER 14
DJ, are you awake?
Freaking elf. “Go home, Rand.”
I am home. Where are you?
I frowned and burrowed my face into the soft down pillow. Which was very different than the pillow I remembered falling into.
Holy crap. What had happened?
I sat up and took in several observations at once, none of which made sense and all of which sent my heart rate jack-rabbiting so hard I could feel my blood pressure zooming into the ozone.
First, I was lying beneath a heavy bedspread woven in a rich blue-and-cream print. The bed was an elaborate confection made to look like an antique half tester, and a brass chandelier hung overhead.
I recognized the Monteleone. I recognized Jean Lafitte’s bedroom in the posh Eudora Welty Suite in the Monteleone. I didn’t have a clue as to how I got here.
Second, I wore only a bra and panties. My clothes were thrown across a chair in the corner. I had no recollection of removing them.
Third, the pillow next to mine still held the clear indentation of a head, and there was water running behind the closed bathroom door.
What in God’s name had I done?
Rand! Where are you? So help me, if that elf was behind this, I’d splay him open like a catfish and watch his guts fall on the f
loor. Then I’d batter and deep-fry him.
God, Dru. Stop shrieking like an elven shrew. I think you got too cold and went into a survival state. Like I did on Eugenie’s porch.
Survival state? Then I remembered, and shame joined panic. I had gone into hibernation like a bear, right out on Royal Street in front of God and everyone. Quince Randolph, you sonofabitch! Why didn’t you warn me that would happen?
Stop yelling. How did I know you’d be stupid enough to go traipsing through the snow to the point of unconsciousness? I can tell you’re in the Quarter, but where are you?
Catch you later.
I slammed shut every mental door I could imagine and then troweled imaginary caulk in any imaginary cracks around said doors. I was vaguely aware that, off in the distance of my mental stronghold, Rand was yelling at me.
Had Jean hauled me back to the hotel like a sack of pommes de terres? How had he explained a hibernating blonde to the hotel management? At least my dark blue underwear matched. Had he taken advantage of me? No, it wasn’t his style. Which meant I’d consented.
Holy crap. Alex was going to kill me if I didn’t kill myself first. I wasn’t sure hibernation-brain was an adequate defense.
The bathroom doorknob rattled and I dove under the covers, even though I realized it was like closing the barn door after the half-naked cows had escaped.
From my hiding spot, I heard the door open and footsteps cross from tile to carpet before stopping with a rustle of fabric. “Hey, babe. You finally back from the dead? Whatcha doin’ under there?”
“Rene?” I poked my head out and frowned at my buddy the merman, fully dressed in jeans and a Saints sweatshirt. His feet were bare, and he walked around the bed and climbed in as if either one of us belonged here, much less at the same time.
“What are you doing here? What am I doing here? Who undressed me? Where’s Jean?” And, as an afterthought, “Why are we in bed?”
Now that I realized I hadn’t acted like my licentious great-aunt Dru and slept with the pirate, I transferred my anger to the proper place and it wasn’t to myself. I’d kill that sneaky Frenchman if he weren’t immortal.
Rene was not immortal, however, and he was within reach. “You better start talking, fish boy.”
“Aiyeeee.” Rene cackled like the Cajun he was, and fluffed the pillow behind his head. “I told Jean you’d be spittin’ mad. Nothing happened, babe. Your clothes were wet and I was just trying to keep you warm. I’m a shifter, you know. We run hot.”
“Oh, do you now.”
That made him laugh harder.
I threw off the covers and stomped over to my clothes. He’d seen whatever I had and I knew he didn’t want it, so there was no point in hiding. I picked up three soggy layers of T-shirts and sweaters, and cords so wet they weighed about ten pounds.
My breath hitched. The staff; I’d lost the staff. I whirled to Rene, who sat propped against the lush draped fabric that covered the headboard, watching me with a grin. “Where’s my bag?”
“In the living room. Everything’s there, babe, even your magic stick. Jean, he took care of you.”
Yeah, I just bet he did. It was hard to argue effectively in underwear I’d intended only Alex Warin to see, so I went into the living room, dug my room key out of my messenger bag, and stuck my head out the door, looking up and down the hallway.
“I’ll be back. Don’t go anywhere,” I yelled at Rene, and made a run for it, jamming the key card into my door lock and slipping inside before I was spotted. If hotel cameras caught my mad dash on security footage, well, I’m sure they’d seen stranger things. This was New Orleans, after all.
I dug out clean jeans and a black sweater to match my mood, and realized my only pair of boots were still across the hall and probably soaked. Damn it. I was an adult woman of reasonable intelligence, most of the time. I should have a house with actual furniture. I should have a car. I shouldn’t have clothing scattered across friends’ houses all over town and be plotting revenge on an undead pirate.
Not to mention his merry cohort the merman. I looked at my snarling tangle of hair, brushed it out as best I could, and charged back across the hall.
Rene took his sweet time opening the door. “You calmed down some, wizard?”
“That depends on what your buddy Jean is up to.” I went in and slumped on the sofa. “And I’m hungry. I just came out of hibernation.”
Rene laughed as he picked up the room service menu. “What you want?”
“Something with andouille in it.” I was craving smoked sausage. Freaking elves and their smoked meats.
He studied the menu. “Red beans for one, coming up.”
I found the TV remote and hit the power button, flipping channels to the local NBC affiliate. Brian Williams was doing a news report on New Orleans’ historic winter storm. “What time is it?”
“Little after six,” Rene said. He tossed the menu back on the coffee table after he ordered the food and settled onto the sofa opposite the one I occupied. “I got a date at eight, so the pirate better get his ass back.”
Good Lord. I’d hibernated for more than four hours—plenty of time for Jean to cause all kinds of trouble. Zrakovi was going to kill me, too. I wondered if the hibernation angle would earn any sympathy, or just ridicule.
“Okay, let’s have it.” I set the remote aside and gave Rene my most intimidating look. He smiled. I needed to work on being more authoritative, although he probably knew me too well for it to ever work. “What is Jean doing?”
Rene stretched and propped his feet on the coffee table, crossed at the ankles. “I got no idea.”
I threw a sofa pillow at him and he batted it back to me like it was a beach ball at a rock concert. “Don’t give me that crap, Rene. You and Jean are business partners; you know all his dirty little secrets.”
I could’ve called a halt to their long-running smuggling operation months ago. They took everything from tobacco to antique furniture to spices in and out of Old Orleans at huge profits. But it wasn’t hurting anybody, so I looked the other way. That could change.
Rene busied himself putting his socks and shoes back on. He had changed out of the Saints sweatshirt while I was across the hall and had donned a red sweater that was a good color for him with his short black hair, Vandyke beard, and eyes such a dark liquid brown they almost looked black. His date clothes, I guessed.
“Not this time, babe. I told Jean that you and me, we’re friends, and I don’t lie to my friends without a damn good reason. So whatever he’s doing, I told him I don’t wanna know about it. That way, when you yellin’ at me and asking what he’s up to, I can say I don’t know.
“So, I don’t know.”
Damn it. Rene had never lied to me. Ever. He wasn’t lying now.
“Tell me how you got mixed up in this.”
“Jean, he called me last night and asked if I’d stay with you today if you, how’d he put it … ‘if Drusilla perhaps is unable to care for herself for a matter of hours.’ Told me to wait in the lobby, and if he didn’t show up by four, to go on home.”
Jean knew, damn it. He knew if he couldn’t ditch me, he could drag me around in the cold until I did that whole humiliating hibernation thing. How did he know so much about elves?
I closed my eyes. “Go ahead. Tell me the rest.”
“So I’m there in the lobby, tryin’ to figure out how big that old grandfather clock is, and here comes Jean about two fifteen, totin’ you in like Sleeping Beauty. Except for that ugly plaid coat.”
I looked around. I hadn’t seen my coat.
“Jean threw that bad boy away,” Rene said. “I woulda done it if he hadn’t.”
Great. Fashion criticism from a man who wore mesh tank tops nine months out of the year. Never mind it was on his commercial fishing boat.
“What did he tell the manager?”
Rene cackled again. “Bellman, security guy, manager all come rushing over, wantin’ to call an ambulance, but Jean had his story rea
dy.”
Yeah, I just bet he did. “Which was?”
“You got some kinda fainting-goat disease that makes you fall asleep without warning. Seein’ as how he pays cash for this suite a year in advance, they didn’t question it.”
A knock at the door interrupted my latest wave of humiliation, and I went to sign for room service, putting it on my tab. I hated to charge my meal to the man I was going to … well, I didn’t know what I was going to do to the pirate yet, but I’d come up with something. Fainting-goat disease, my ass, although I wasn’t sure hibernating-elf disease would get any more respect.
I carried the tray to the coffee table and sat in the floor, sucking down red beans thick with spices and big chunks of andouille. “Anything else? What’s supposed to happen next?”
Rene reached over and stole a slice of my French bread. “Jean’s supposed to be back in time for me to go on my date.”
“Who’s the lucky girl tonight?” Rene was a bit of an aquatic-shifter playboy. As I’d learned all too well during the time we’d done the power-share and lived in each others’ brains a few days, he had a prodigious appetite for both food and sex. Fortunately for both of us, we’d become good friends and had no desire for benefits. As he often pointed out to me, he didn’t like wizards. I was an exception.
“Nice little river nymph that lives over in Belle Chasse,” he said. “But, you know, not too nice.”
Uh-huh. He planned on getting lucky. “The river nymphs haven’t started up their ‘escort service’”—I made little quote marks with my fingers—“in the Quarter again, have they?”
I’d shut them down a few months ago after they brought satyrs in to “escort” the female clientele. A nymph could mainstream with humans, but satyrs couldn’t. They might hide the nubby horns and long tails, but the cloven hooves just couldn’t fit in any kind of shoe that looked normal.
“Not that I know of. Mina wasn’t involved in that mess anyway.”
“Well, I’ve recovered so you can go ahead and go on your date whether Jean’s back or not.” I chewed on a chunk of andouille. It was awesome; I wish I’d just ordered a big plate of sausage. “Then you won’t have to witness me eviscerating your business partner.”
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