Royal Street (6 page)

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Authors: Suzanne Johnson

Tags: #urban fantasy

BOOK: Royal Street
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It would have to wait. For the past eighteen years, Gerry had been the one who was there for me. Now it was my turn.
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 16, 2005
“New Orleans is now occupied by two armies: the military troops who are restoring order, and the TV crews bent on broadcasting the destruction and rebirth of an American city.”
—THE TIMES–PICAYUNE
T
he return to New Orleans took me on a roundabout path, literally over the river and through the woods, except the woods were full of buffed-up guys with short hair and in uniforms. The interstate was heavily policed, and all the bridges across Lake Pontchartrain were either destroyed or closed to nonmilitary traffic. I had to loop around and approach the city from the west along the narrow two-lane highway that skirts the Mississippi River.
At the Orleans Parish line, a young National Guardsman yawned as he glanced at my driver’s license, taking in my green doctor’s scrubs from the Winfield Walmart and my hastily constructed fake hospital badge. I’d used a basic illusion charm to make the laminated card look like it came straight from Tulane Hospital.
“You be careful, doctor. Most of the major streets have been cleared but there’s still lots of debris and power lines around. Some places still got flooding, so stick to Uptown and the Quarter.”
I hadn’t liked the idea of lying my way back into town, but
using serious magic seemed like overkill and I wasn’t sure how the emotional aura of the city would affect me. I’d gone through my grounding ritual once last night and again this morning. I might be aware of the sadness and desperation around me but wouldn’t absorb it. I hoped.
The soldier waved me through and motioned to the pickup behind me, which pulled a small boat. Dozens of vehicles lined River Road, all of us ready to march into the debris and assess what was left of our lives, never mind the evacuation order still in effect. Obviously, this soldier thought we had the right to be here. He wasn’t turning anyone away.
My back ached from the long drive, but I took a northerly detour to see if I could get anywhere near Gerry’s house. A manned roadblock stopped me before I got a half mile from Lakeview, and a sunburned soldier about my age gave me a blank stare when I tried to convince him of my high standing in the New Orleans medical community.
“Come back with a boat, doctor, and we’ll talk,” he said. Was it paranoia, or did he really look doubtful I’d ever been within a mile of a stethoscope?
I’d figure out a way to get into Gerry’s neighborhood tomorrow. Only a couple of hours remained before the dusk-to-dawn curfew kicked in.
I made a U-turn and navigated through Mid-City toward home, sticking to the major streets. Even with my mojo bag on a cord around my neck, I had to blink back tears. The TV cameras hadn’t begun to capture the devastation; all around me were vignettes of horror I knew would haunt me. Mile after mile after mile of them.
Watermarks rose like brown bathtub rings on every building. Huge oaks lay on their sides, massive root systems exposed to the blistering sun. Cars coated with dried mud filled the
neutral grounds—thousands of them. Head-high piles of tree limbs and trash had been shoved out of the roadways to line every street.
Only it wasn’t trash, not really. I stopped at an intersection and stared at a muddy picture frame lying in one of the tangled piles of tree branches. A little girl looked out from her class photo, her grin revealing a gap where a front tooth used to be, her school uniform pressed and neat.
As I drove deeper into the city, the watermarks grew higher till they reached roof level. Houses leaned to the south where the wind had howled in from the north and threatened to blow them off their brick and concrete piers. A few had collapsed, but most tilted drunkenly. Jagged holes gaped in rooftops where people had hacked their way out, waiting for escape. The Drama King had been right about the ax.
I felt like Alice, but I’d slid down the rabbit hole past Wonderland and straight into hell.
As I approached St. Charles Avenue, I hit the lucky twenty percent of the city—the part that hadn’t flooded.
The elegant old mansions stood like sentries guarding the entrance to the narrow sliver of land beyond. This slender thread of high ground on either side of the Mississippi River snaked like a single artery through town, trying to pump lifeblood back into a patient barely hanging on. There was damage here, but it was from wind, not water.
Traffic picked up, mostly military or police vehicles. I slammed on my brakes to avoid a fender bender as a black Humvee crunched into an Army-drab Jeep in the middle of the intersection in front of me. With no working traffic lights and only a few handmade stop signs, this was going to be a colossal mess as more people returned.
I edged around the two vehicles filled with soldiers arguing in the broiling sun and passed through two more checkpoints.
So far, my fake ID had aroused no suspicion. Two sentries even told me where to find the nearest makeshift medical clinic so I could go to work.
I bit my lip and sucked in a deep breath of relief when the burgundy clapboard of my house came into view. The sixty-foot cedar that consumed most of my tiny backyard tilted against the chimney, and pieces of heavy gray roofing slate lay cracked and broken on the ground. Otherwise, nothing looked out of place, and the cedar didn’t look as if it had caused any structural damage.
The old house sat squarely on its brick piers, oozing the comfort and stability of home. I remembered trying to decide between buying this house and one near Gerry in Lakeview. This one had been overpriced and poorly maintained, but I’d felt drawn to its air of faded Victorian gentility. Lots of high ceilings and old millwork. If I had made a different choice, I’d be homeless now, and I wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Grateful, definitely. But also guilty. Those few of us in the unflooded twenty percent weren’t better or more deserving. Just lucky.
Pulling into the drive behind the house, I fingered my little bag of herbs and thought of Gerry, wondering how things had gone so wrong in two weeks, praying this would all prove to be some big, stupid mistake.
Unloading the Pathfinder could come later. For now, I grabbed my backpack and walked around front. On the sidewalk lay
The Times–Picayune
from August 28, the last day it had been delivered. The headline screamed from the musty-smelling, heavy paper, still muddy and waterlogged. I shook my head at the irony and threw it back to the ground. The edge of a hurricane blew through and a flood brought a major city to its knees, but the newspaper hadn’t moved.
I unlocked the door and stepped into the large double parlor that served as a giant living room. Other than a little dust and a
stale, moldy smell, everything seemed normal—in a sauna-like way. Hot, humid weather had persisted since the hurricane, and two weeks without AC made the house feel like the inside of a pressure cooker.
I peeled off the doctor’s scrubs, socks, and Nikes in the middle of the parlor, threw them on one of the sofas, and dug a black sports bra and shorts out of my backpack. Tucking my mojo bag into my pocket, I walked around the first floor in bare feet and opened windows, hoping for a breeze and looking at the ceiling fan with longing. A Red Congress wizard like Gerry could use an easy shot of physical magic to start the motor, as long as he didn’t overdo it and ignite a fire. I could direct magic at the thing until I died of heatstroke and it still wouldn’t turn.
I frowned and looked around the parlor, realizing I’d been so preoccupied with storm damage I hadn’t noticed the absence of my security wards. Closing my eyes, I concentrated on the air around me, reaching out with my empathic skills. It wasn’t an exact science, but I could usually detect another magical presence if I put some effort into it. A slight pressure of energy flitted across my skin, just a whisper, like what might be left if my wards had been dismantled by the storm.
Or by a visitor. Only Gerry knew how to disarm them.
“Gerry? Are you here?” I shouted into the silence, my voice absorbed by a quiet so deep I could almost hear my heart beating. Disappointed, I wiped the back of my neck with the hospital scrubs, wondering if it would be irresponsible to waste one of my bottles of water by pouring it over my head. Probably.
Before nightfall, I’d need to reestablish my security wards in case any preternatural creepy-crawlies showed up. The wards would be useless in the face of the looters I’d been reading about online at Gran’s. For them, I had Jean Lafitte’s pistol in my kitchen junk drawer. I’d just have to pull the trigger and hope I didn’t shoot myself.
Even under these conditions, it felt good to be home. Tired as I was, I decided to take a quick look through the rest of the house for roof leaks or other damage.
The parlor was definitely intact. Twin sofas with a deep red and gold fleur-de-lis print bracketed an oversize ottoman-style coffee table that still held a soda can and candy wrapper from before the storm. The old tongue-and-groove oak floor had a fine coating of dust, but no damage, and I hadn’t seen any signs of damage to the doors or windows.
I grabbed the can and wrapper, heading for the kitchen. A small crack ran through one of the panes in the kitchen window, but it hadn’t shattered and it didn’t look like any water had leaked in. My potted herbs and plants had suffered a dry and dusty death.
A door to the right of the parlor opened into a small office/ guest room and half bath. A stairwell to the second floor branched off the back corner.
A faint smell tickled my nose as I opened the office door and headed for the stairs. Cinnamon, maybe. Along with a sitting room and my bedroom, my library was upstairs, home to all my herbs and stones and magical gear. One of the spice jars must have broken.
I climbed the stairs, rounded the corner into the sitting room, and stopped short. It wasn’t the sofa and chairs of deep crimson and chocolate brown that took me by surprise. And it wasn’t mold, although the man certainly qualified as moldy.
Jean Lafitte sat in my favorite recliner, black-booted feet propped up, drinking from the bottle of cheap Winn-Dixie rum he’d no doubt stolen from my kitchen cabinet. He smiled at me and raised the bottle in salute.
I wondered if he’d found his gun.
“
I
’m delighted to see you again,
Jolie
. You have a lovely home.”
How very polite. I wondered how long he’d been enjoying my nonhospitality.
Lafitte looked none the worse since I’d immobilized him and sent him back into the Beyond. In fact, if he hadn’t been dead and holding a grudge, he’d look pretty good, with black pants tucked into boots and a simple indigo shirt open to half-mast. He’d stuck a matched pair of long-handled pistols beneath the sash around his waist, and the curved blade strapped to his thigh would have added to the sexy bad-boy look except I figured he’d worn it in my honor.
He might be delighted to see me again, but I was two steps shy of panicked. My protective wards had failed, all my premade potions were in the truck, and I was flashing way too much skin. Maybe I’d just die of a heart attack now and save Lafitte the trouble of killing me.
“So, hi there,” I said, edging along the wall toward my library. “Who summoned you this time? I bet it was the mayor.
He’s been showing signs of post-traumatic stress.” When in doubt, distract them with babble.
I needed something to defend myself with, like a blinding potion or an itching curse. Too bad the Elders outlawed black magic. The silver dagger from my backpack would be nice, or even a stick of chalk so I could draw a protective circle and crawl inside it. As long as I was wishing, shoes and a shirt would be nice.
Lafitte released the footrest on the recliner, letting his boots hit the floor with a thud. “I no longer need to be summoned, Drusilla. The hurricane opened the borders to the Beyond, and introduced me to many potential business partners more willing to cooperate than you.
Oui,
and certainly much more truthful than you.”
“That’s great! You should probably be off meeting with them,” I said, all cheerful bravado. “Nice seeing you. Thanks for stopping by.”
I’d made it halfway to the library when Lafitte sprang from the chair with a speed that would do a vampire proud and leaned against the wall between me and the library door. So much for distracting him with chitchat.
He moved to within a few inches of me, and I froze. At least it was easy to avoid eye contact this close because of the difference in our heights, and he had a nice chest. The edge of his cutlass scraped across my bare leg as he inched closer, and I felt a sharp sting from the tip of the curved blade. A trickle of blood started a path toward my foot.
I eased my hand in the right pocket of my shorts and fingered my mojo bag. Whatever Lafitte was feeling, I didn’t want to share.
“Just tell me what you want and we can work something out.” I started backing up again, trying to mentally sort through my options. I couldn’t think of any. I’m a pragmatist, if nothing
else, and since my experience in face-to-face combat is nonexistent, my best solution seemed to be flying down the stairs and running like hell. I might be a chicken, but I’d be a live chicken.
I retreated toward the staircase, my back shifting along the wall. My head bumped against the
Be Nice and Leave
painting I’d bought from local artist Dr. Bob at JazzFest a few years ago, and it crashed to the floor. Nice sentiment, but Jean Lafitte wasn’t being nice, and I didn’t think he planned on leaving.
I decided to try the dumb-chick gambit, mentally apologizing to every woman I’d ever met.
“You don’t have to make deals with anyone now, you know.” I tried to pass a grimace off as a smile. “Gerald St. Simon is gone, New Orleans is on its knees, and I’m only a woman. I’m out of my depth here. I’m nobody. I’ll just head on downstairs and get in the truck and leave.”
He could
have
my truck if he’d just let me ease on over to the stairwell. I’d grovel as I went just to make it more satisfying for him.
Lafitte remained quiet, watching me with a half smile and moving a step closer for each one I took away. He was playing with me, stalking me like a tiger after a stupid, whining deer.
“It is too late to pretend helplessness,
Jolie
. I do not make the same mistake twice.” His smile widened into a grin. “You are as weak as the alligators we fought in Barataria in the old days. We liked to toy with them for a while, then we would feast on them.”
Guess that
I’m only a woman
thing hadn’t worked. “I ate gator once.” My voice sounded high-pitched and breathless. “It tasted like chicken.”
He prowled closer as I backed up, his dark-blue eyes fixed on my face. I tried to avoid direct eye contact and block out as much of his emotion as I could.
He smiled and whispered, “I want to play first.”
I still had about three feet to go before I reached the stairs, so I turned and ran, or at least I tried. Something shiny whizzed across my field of vision and I found myself nose-to-blade with a dagger that now protruded firmly from the plaster wall. If I lived long enough, I’d have to figure out the thrust needed to throw a knife into plaster. But escape now, physics later.
From the corner of my eye I saw Lafitte pull one of the pistols from his belt, and I flattened myself to the wall, hyperventilating. What a wimp. I should go down in a blaze of glory, not shaking against the wall. Actually, I should have kept running.
He raised the bulky muzzle-loader and pointed it at me as he moved to block my path to the stairwell. “Perhaps this will change your mind, little one. Let us enjoy each other’s company a bit, and see if you can convince me not to kill you.”
I could do better than this. I was a wizard, damn it, albeit an unarmed Green Congress wizard. I scanned the room in search of a makeshift weapon. Finally, I hefted a bulky wrought-iron candlestick from a side table, launched it at Lafitte’s head, and made a beeline for the library.
The big pistol discharged with a booming shot that knocked out the hearing in my right ear but went wide, tearing another chunk of plaster from the wall. I shook my head, trying to settle my eardrum back in place, and saw the pirate rubbing his right temple. Damn straight,
monsieur
. I can wield a candlestick like a champ.
Lafitte’s hand came away bloody. He grimaced, making the scar on his jawline more pronounced, and his pupils dilated as he headed toward me. He looked pissed. I slammed the library door in his face and locked it.
My library is my favorite room, even with an irate pirate banging on the door. It’s long and narrow, with deep crown
molding along the ceiling and wide-sashed windows stretching along the outside wall. The copper-colored curtains were open, and late-afternoon sun cast shadows on the pale-teal walls, making a surreal backdrop to Lafitte’s thumping and banging.
He was shouting French obscenities again and, from the sound of it, battering the door with his boot. They made good doors in 1873, solid and heavy. And since I kept magic stuff in here, it had a modern heavy-duty dead bolt. The historical undead didn’t gain super-strength like vampires and weres, so I’d bought myself a little time.
I walked along the inside wall, scanning the floor-to-ceiling shelves that held the stuff of ritual magic. Glass bottles in all shapes, sizes, and colors were labeled with the herbs or elixirs inside. Bins of clear glass held mineral compounds and different gemstones. Tools filled other spaces: mortars and pestles, silver knives, bits of iron and other metals. Candles of every size and color had been crammed in any gaps, along with magical reference books galore.
The library door gave an alarming rattle, then everything went quiet. The quiet was scarier. I kept scanning the shelves. Ritual magic was a meticulous art. Powerful, yes. Quick, no. Did I want something to hurt him or protect myself? The black arts were a capital offense in the magical world and, besides that, I didn’t know any serious curses that could be turned on a dime. Self-protection it was.
I grabbed a bottle of potassium nitrate and pulled some sugar and baking soda from a cabinet. Using my worktable, I quickly eyeballed the right ratios into an aluminum pan, my shaking hands the only sign I heard Lafitte fiddling with the door lock.
I pushed the pan aside and scrutinized the shelves again as he failed in his attempt to pick the lock and began another stream of curses. Italian, perhaps? The man knew his languages. I’d have to give him credit.
I’d just pulled out a small vial of ground monkshood root, or wolfsbane, and stuck it in my left pocket when a blast splintered the door. He’d shot out the lock with his bigass pistol, and the blast had made the floor shake. I knew, because as soon as the splintering began I’d crouched behind my worktable. I peered around the corner as Lafitte’s hand slipped through the hole he’d blown in my door and flipped the thumb latch.
That SOB had destroyed my 132-year-old cypress door. Game on.
I watched from behind the table as he walked in and paused, looking around and reloading his pistol. My heart hammered hard enough to make my body vibrate.
“Now,
Jolie,
what were we discussing when you tried to wound me so terribly?” He leaned over and squinted at me through the table legs. So much for hiding. Why did he sound so hurt that I’d tried to injure him when it seemed perfectly acceptable for him to kill me? Undead double standard.
He smiled. “Why don’t you see if you can convince me to at least kill you quickly, Drusilla?”
Well, there was an offer I hated to pass up. I stood up and walked toward him slowly. I only knew one way to get him turned around so I’d be between him and the door.
He watched me approach and raised an eyebrow as I reached out to stroke his arm.
“How can I convince you not to kill me at all, Captain?”
His mouth twitched slightly, and I shivered as I absorbed a little of his feelings, one part lust, three parts anger. Lust was gaining, though, and it sure wasn’t mine.
The pirate slid an arm around my waist, strong fingers hot on my overexposed skin, and pulled me against him.
“Much better,
Jolie,
” he whispered, locking his mouth on mine in a hard, rough kiss. He smelled of sweet tobacco and tasted of cinnamon. And I kissed him back, wrapping my arms
around his waist and maneuvering him around slowly till my back was to the library door. Maybe I was getting better at this seduction stuff. It wasn’t because I enjoyed kissing him, even though it seemed I’d been doing a lot of it lately. Absolutely not.
I even let his hands do a bit of wandering as I slowly reached to grasp the aluminum pan on the worktable beside us and began to release little bursts of magical energy into it. I couldn’t produce enough juice to start a fire, but I could heat the pan enough to—
Ouch.
Okay, wandering hands were one thing. A pinch on the ass called for action.
I backed away and flung the pan at his feet. He was still looking at it when a plume of thick white smoke burst from it and blocked him from my view.
Just a slightly enhanced smoke bomb. It wouldn’t burn anything and wouldn’t hurt him but I figured if I couldn’t see him, he couldn’t see me either. Time to run.

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