River Road (27 page)

Jean herded me toward the river. “The original location was this way.” We clattered over the wooden banquette to the restaurant, marked by a small, simple sign:
ANTOINE’S
. Next to the restaurant was a rooming house also operated by the Alciatore family.

Couples from a variety of eras walked along the banquettes, but I saw only one other woman in modern clothing. I wondered at her species, but some experiences cross all barriers and we exchanged woeful looks at each other’s short dresses and modern shoes. We also seemed to be attracting a lot of stares from well-heeled nineteenth-century gentlemen who probably thought we were brazen ladies of ill-repute. The emotions I pulled in from passersby were mostly calm and domestic. Jean had been right—it was much more pleasant than my disastrous visit to Old Orleans.

We stepped from the cool evening air into the warmth of the restaurant, and were met by a young, dark-haired man with a heavy beard. He greeted Jean in French, and I could feel his goodwill and pleasure at seeing Jean again. I smiled and looked polite.

“Drusilla, this is Antoine Alciatore,” Jean said. I was surprised to see how young the famous restauranteur was. He looked about my age. Of course, at this point in time he wasn’t yet so famous.

“Welcome, mademoiselle,” he said in heavily accented English. “It is a pleasure to welcome a friend of Monsieur Lafitte’s.”

I assured him the honor was mine, and it was with a sense of the surreal that we were seated at a white-clothed table beneath a gas wall sconce. Jean drew as many stares as I did, not because of his clothing but because he was a celebrity from a time not so far past, and apparently a frequent visitor to this time-warp version of New Orleans. Forget the Elders—I wanted Jean to draw
me
a map of the Beyond.

We feasted on rich Canape Balthazar, a succulent blend of cheeses on crusty bread, followed by Dinde Tallyrand, a creation of turkey and fresh mushrooms, and Antoine’s already much-talked-about Pommes de Terre Soufflé.

“Tell me about your life here,” I said, spooning a mouthful of the potato soufflé and closing my eyes in appreciation. “How much time did you spend in the city, and how much on Grand Terre?”

Grand Terre, a small barrier island off the coast of Jefferson Parish, had been the center of Jean’s empire.

“It changed with time,” he said. “We took orders here in the city, and filled them with goods stored at
Le Temple Grand
.”

Uh-huh. I’d heard of the Great Temple, a massive warehouse full of stolen goods shipped to New Orleans and up into central Louisiana plantation country. The man was a pirate, after all, not the founder of Neiman Marcus. “That would be goods looted from other people’s ships?”

“Bah. Only those belonging to the dogs of Spain. Do not ever trust a Spaniard, Drusilla. Or an Englishman.”

Spoken like a true Frenchman. “I’ll remember that.”

Jean finished his meal with a small glass of brandy and enjoyed a cigar while regaling me with stories from his early days in New Orleans. I suspected they were highly embellished, but it really didn’t matter. My favorite was when Governor Claiborne, tired of the pirates eating into his rich cronies’ legitimate commerce, posted a $500 reward for Jean’s arrest.

“Such behavior could not be tolerated.” Jean shook his head with a mischievous smile. “So in response I offered a fifteen-hundred-dollar reward to anyone who would deliver Governor Claiborne to me at Barataria. I had signs posted throughout the city. Everyone was
trés amusé
.”

You had to admire the guy’s sense of style, if not always his methods.

We’d been finished with dinner for a while and were getting ready to leave when a middle-aged man of slender build approached the table. I looked up, interested in meeting another of Jean’s acquaintances—or maybe someone who’d had unhappy business dealings with him, judging by Jean’s tense posture and sudden intake of breath.

The man wasn’t looking at Jean, but at me. Great. He was probably going to give me a morality lecture about flashing too much leg in public. Except his shirt and slacks looked like those of a modern man in his forties, and his salt-and-pepper hair was stylish and layered to offset a short dark beard. Deep brown eyes glittered with amusement above high cheekbones, his face lean and tanned. He looked like he’d walked out of the pages of
GQ
rather than a history book.

“Are you by chance Drusilla Jaco?” His voice was pleasant, cultured, with no trace of accent.

“Yes, and you are?” I glanced at Jean, then did a double-take. The pirate looked like he’d seen a ghost, which was saying something considering his undead status.

“We must leave, Drusilla,” Jean hissed.
“Tout de suite.”

“I’m Mace Banyan,” the man said, and held his hand out to shake.

I reached for his hand, trying to remember where I’d heard that name and ignoring Jean’s attempt to stop me.

As soon as my palm touched Mace Banyan’s, my mind exploded in a kaleidoscope of colors and images. Faces and events from the past came unbidden, and I felt as if I were being sucked into a vacuum of memories. I was vaguely aware of being pulled to my feet, of falling, of men shouting in the distance.

My back hit the wall with a jarring thud, and my head bounced hard against the plaster. It jolted me back to awareness. Finally, I could see again, breathe again. But I was held against the wall by a big, solid body that smelled of cinnamon and tobacco, Jean’s scent. My nose was pressed into the back of his dark blue jacket.

Squirming, I tried to move from behind him, but he pressed me against the wall more firmly. Craning my head around his broad shoulders, I caught a glimpse of the man Mace Banyan. What the hell happened?

“We will not forget this, Mr. Lafitte,” Mace said, and from the small corner of his face I could see by ducking my head under Jean’s arm, he looked angry. “We will have access to her eventually.”

“It will not be today, nor while she is with me.” Jean’s voice, usually a playful baritone, was rough with anger. It was a tone that had commanded a thousand outlaws through cunning and violence.

I rested my forehead against his back, no longer struggling. What had that man done to me? My head felt as if my brains had been taken out, scrambled in an omelette, and stuck back inside. When Jean stepped forward, I almost fell, and saw a dark stain on the back of his jacket.

He shoved me into a chair a little more forcefully than was necessary, pulled a handkerchief from his vest pocket, and stuck it in my face. “You are bleeding,
Jolie
. Use this.”

Freaking nosebleed. I never got them until I used the elven staff and … Holy crap. “He’s an elf.” I looked up at Jean. “Mace Banyan’s an elf.”

“
Oui,
and a very powerful one,” Jean said. “Are you able to walk? We must leave, and as quickly as possible.”

*   *   *

“Fill me in on Buras. I have to think about something besides elves.” I sat in the kitchen about nine, eyeing the muffalettas Alex had picked up as soon as Elder Zrakovi had ordered him to babysit me. I’d already eaten a quarter of the crusty round Italian loaf, and was eyeing my second quarter. Either the stress of meeting my first elf had burned up everything I ate at Antoine’s or I still had the residual effects of Rene’s prodigious appetite. If we had to share power many more times, I’d have to buy a new wardrobe in a larger size.

“Go ahead. Quit staring at it and eat it.” Alex shoved the plate toward me. “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay tonight?”

He’d offered to spend the night on the sofa, but I’d called Tish instead, just to appease him. She wouldn’t hover as much as Alex.

Zrakovi thought Mace Banyan knew what I looked like (creepy), had spotted me in Antoine’s (coincidental), and took advantage of a chance opportunity (a load of crap), as I explained to Alex for the third time. But I still didn’t want him to stay—he was too tightly wound and I wanted to do some work.

“The elves are not going to come storming into New Orleans to…” I had no idea what they wanted to do, or what had happened when the elf touched me—except I didn’t want it to happen again. “To do whatever it is they do,” I finished. “When I meet with them again, Zrakovi will go with me.”

“Fine.” He gathered up the wrapping from his muffaletta half and put it in the trash. “But I’m not leaving until Tish gets here.”

Like either one of them could help if a horde of elves descended on Magazine Street, although I guess Alex could shoot them. But Tish’s visit had a dual purpose. She knew more about the water species than I did, and I wanted to pick her brain. I’d gone through every text I could find about the Styx except a couple of Gerry’s old books that were written in Greek, and I’d need a charm to read those—they’d have to wait until tomorrow.

The elven staff stood in the corner of my kitchen, looking like a perfectly harmless old piece of wood. Since Katrina, I had been hauling it around like a useful toy, even when I said I wouldn’t use it anymore. After meeting Mace Banyan, I didn’t want to ever touch the thing again.

Alex turned to see what I was looking at. “I’m sorry this happened, but you shouldn’t have gone into the Beyond with—”

“Don’t,” I said, sounding harsher than I’d intended. The last thing I needed was an
I told you so
. Besides, this hadn’t been Jean’s fault any more than it had been mine. “Jean couldn’t have known anything was going to happen. We have bigger issues—Buras breach? Murders? It’s been over a week since the problems started.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Hell if I know. All we have are questions.”

Which wasn’t good enough. “If we don’t find some answers, the human population of Plaquemines Parish is going to start dying.”

CHAPTER
27

By the time I woke up with an elven afterburn, Tish already sat at the kitchen table, guzzling her first cup of coffee. She’d shown up late last night, relieving Alex from babysitting duty.

“Thanks for staying the night, although I think it was silly.” I poured a cup of coffee and threw some frozen biscuits on a cookie sheet, then slid them in the oven. It’s my version of baking.

“No problem. It’s nice to have an excuse to spend some time with you.” Tish shook her head, and a shadow of sadness crossed her face, almost too quickly to see. Almost. “We shouldn’t need an excuse. Just because we lost Gerry doesn’t mean we should lose each other. I still think of you as family.”

“Me too.” I grinned. “Wonder what he would have said about my dinner date with Jean Lafitte.”

We both laughed. “Personally, I think you need a shrink, but Gerry? He’d have told you to go for it, and then want all the details.” She examined me over the rim of her coffee cup. “Are there any details to share? I mean, you know,
details
?”

“No, we kind of had an elven intervention. Although he was really protective, anxious to get me home and away from the Beyond. It was kinda sweet.” Although now that I thought about it, it had been sweeter for Jean than for me. He’d managed to maneuver me into calling Zrakovi, then parlayed his ability to navigate the Beyond into a potential business deal with the Elders.

Fifteen minutes later, I pulled the biscuits out of the oven and set them on the table. I hadn’t planned to eat anything since I was meeting Eugenie and her new romantic interest for lunch, but I swear Rene had spent too long in my skin. I pulled a biscuit onto my plate and slathered it with butter.

“Since you’re off today, can you help me do some research into the Styx? We’ve got to figure out how those rifts are being made, and how it ties into the murders of Doug Hebert and Jeff Klein. Well, Doug Hebert, at least. He seems to have been the target. It can’t be a coincidence.”

Tish looked thoughtful. “It’s so weird about those two guys. Thinking about them has brought up a lot of memories about the war. I finally remembered what their job was.”

I perked up. “Did they fight?”

She snorted. “Have you ever seen a Green Congress wizard who could fight? It would be like sending Mister Rogers into combat against Godzilla.”

I nodded. Sadly, that was true.

“Plus we were really young then,” she said. “Got any jam?”

I moved some jars and bottles around in the cabinet and found a few packets of jelly I’d saved from the military rations we’d lived on in the early days after Katrina. I looked for an expiration date but didn’t find one. “So what did they do after the war, our murdered Green Congress wizards?”

She took one of the packets, ripped off the end, and sniffed before shrugging and squirting the strawberry preserves onto her plate. “I’m almost certain they were part of a team sent to keep an eye on the water species after the fighting was done and the Elders were back in charge. They were minimum-security prison guards, basically. Until the skirmishes died out and the treaties were agreed to, the Elders moved a lot of the water species to these containment camps. It was easy duty since the water folk are all peaceful except for squabbles with each other.”

My pulse zipped up a notch. Maybe we finally had a connection. “What species did they work with?”

“All of them—selkies, kelpies, miengu. The most plentiful were the nymphs and naiads and…” Tish paused, staring at me. “And mers.”

I wanted to beat my head against the table. We should have made this connection earlier. The Elders should have made it for us, useless old gits with their treaties and intrigue. “Who had the biggest grudge after it was all over?”

She sat back in her chair, brows furrowed. “Well, all the pretes hate the wizards just on principle because there are more of us and we’ve historically been the ones manning the barriers between this world and the Beyond. They’ve always thought we were oppressive bullies.”

Imagine that. The more I thought about angry pretes with wartime grudges, the worse my feeling about the Delachaises. Robert seemed too laid-back to undertake some nefarious scheme although he’d brought up their father’s experience, and Rene could have taken me out easily during our power-share. Although he did have that part of his mind he’d been able to block from me. Denis Villere also had an ugly temper and a chip that went all the way from his shoulder to the tip of his odd little braid. Had he been in the watery prison camps in 1976? He was old enough. His murderous, knife-wielding mother certainly was old enough.