by Melissa Marr
These days, though, I mostly just killed draugr.
“Alive,” I texted to Eli. I’ve rejected his help the past few months, but we have a peculiar friendship. He was—for reasons I had no desire to know—living in this world, although he had more than enough fae blood to cross over to their world any day he chose. Instead, he stayed in New Orleans.
“Headed to Karl’s,” I sent in a group text to my other three closest friends.
That text was more of a formality than anything. Most nights, I met my very human friend Sera at her work if she was finishing when it was already dark. We’d been friends for years, and despite her insistence that she was perfectly fine, it took only a few minutes out of my week. I’d spend almost as long worrying, anyhow.
The walk was almost four miles, so after a quick scan to be sure it was safe, I let myself flow. I was careful not to do it around my friends—or most people. Seeing a living person move like a draugr would raise questions I preferred not to address.
Tonight, I covered a couple miles in mere moments.
I slowed before I reached the dense tourist section that was the French Quarter, but the streets were mostly empty at this hour. Curtains were drawn. A few cars passed. The government of New Orleans bought cars and hired drivers, as well as built walls to protect our beautiful cemeteries—and by extension, both the tourists and locals.
I walked along Lafitte, heading toward the French Quarter.
My phone buzzed. Eli texted, “Injured?”
“No,” I texted back. I paused and added, “Thanks.”
Before the fateful day when the world discovered that not every dead thing was a cause for mourning, tourists were still strolling day and night. They dropped their dollars at strip clubs and restaurants and marveled at Mardi Gras. A century or so before all that, they came in droves to visit the city with the first ever legal red-light district. My city was and had been all about tourism for almost as long as we were here. Ours was a bold cry: Come, come to our swamp, and leave your money with us.
These days, tourism is more of a daylight activity or restricted to the patrolled zones. Fifteen years ago, after the first international news incident from our city—"Handsome Young German Ripped Apart on Bourbon Street”—the wise souls with marketing minds reconsidered their approach to drawing tourist dollars. We were and are still dead-friendly, but the city added even more taxes to pay for increased police to patrol the still-flourishing tourist area and played up the “vampire” aspect as if draugr were the same thing.
They aren’t. Draugr are reptilian, cold-blooded, and venom-spewing.
But the allure of immortality was strong—as long as you didn’t think about years of drooling, biting, growling existence or an eternity with the urge to tear throats out. I didn’t get it, but death tourists came to New Orleans hoping to see a draugr either for the fantasy of eternity or the titillation of being close to a predator. They roamed close to the perimeter of the patrolled areas in hopes of spying something grisly—safely seen through the lenses of their over-priced cameras.
Tonight, I was far too aware of the blood on my trousers to want to get near the tourists. Even now, the group I’d been trailing was moving around obstacles almost as one entity. They were almost to the French Quarter, the section of my fair city that was so heavily patrolled that tourists could still feel secure in the dark. Post-Reveal, the Quarter had become a tight clutch of stores, bars, and restaurants. Busking musicians worked every intersection. Neon and crowds filled every space so there was no chance of shadows that could hold fanged surprises.
I’d reached the well-patrolled greenspace of Louis Armstrong Park, so I sped up and passed the tourists. They were safely in sight of the patrols, and I was late to meet Sera.
“She’s armed,” one said in that shocked way as I passed.
Of course I was armed. Necromancy was terribly alluring to things that had been—and honestly, still were—dead. Night or day, I felt far more at ease with weapons in reach. I’d walk naked in the city before I’d go unarmed. Long before the rest of the world knew that the night held surprises with sharp fangs, I was watching in the shadows.
As I walked, I slid between another tour group and a double-parked car to avoid ending up in a photo. The first “blue-haired ghost” image to go viral was enough lesson for a lifetime. I wasn’t a ghost. I was a witch with oddly pale skin.
Several street patrol officers standing on corners met my gaze as I passed, and I gave a small nod each time. Our silent conversations, inquiries on if there were any draugr nearby, were reason enough to escort a few tourist groups. I wasn’t really guarding the tourists, just traveling in the same direction. I wasn’t even actively looking for trouble. If I happened to get to behead a draugr along the way to the patrolled zone, it was just a cherry on my evening. Better me than one of the officers who wasn’t innately equipped for combat.
My phone buzzed. Eli texted, “I’m available if you want me.”
I smiled, despite my better judgment. There were plenty of things I might want from Eli, a few of which made regular appearances in my dreams. But I also knew what Eli wanted—and needed—out of life, and I could never give it to him.
I shoved my phone in my jacket pocket and sent out a pulse of magic, feeling for draugr. They registered as blanks in the canvas, spaces where there was no life, but somehow motion. At best, I usually could scan a couple blocks. Considering the speed at which they moved, that offered a blink of warning. Not always enough, even for me. It was still more than humans got.
I felt nothing, so I darted around the line trying to get into Karl’s Cajun Coffee. I waited for Sera to notice me. The line extended far enough that I knew she wouldn’t be ready for a good fifteen minutes. It was her shop, and she never left when her staff was this deep in the weeds. Like Karl, the original owner, she was devoted to both her staff and the brand’s recognition.
I went to the tiny staff bathroom, changed out of my bloodied trousers and into the back-up pair I’d stored there. I kept a change of clothes at my friends’ homes, as well as Sera’s coffee shop. My job made that a necessity. The blood would probably come out of these just fine, so I bagged them and went back out to the shop.
“Behind you,” I murmured several times as I went behind the counter and poured myself a cup of black coffee.
Grumbles from the line faded when I slid into a recently emptied chair and put my sheathed sword on the table in front of me. I wasn’t threatening anyone, but I didn’t feel like listening to their bitching. I took my “payment” for protecting Sera in endless cups of quality coffee. It was the only way Sera tolerated my overprotectiveness.
So, I sat and watched her charm the wary and weary with the sort of grace I’d never have. Sera was a striking mix of curves and bold features. Average height. A voice like warm honey. If I was anywhere near her type, I suspected that the one night we’d spent together in college would’ve become a habit, but as she politely pointed out back then, she was looking for love, and I was looking for sex. That detail hadn’t changed.
Since that night, five years ago, I no longer slept with friends because the risk of ruining a friendship had been made crystal clear to me then. I couldn’t risk losing someone precious to me again. Honestly, over the years since, it hadn’t even been a complicated choice—until Eli. He was about as subtle as a rock to the head.
I re-read Eli’s texts while I sipped delicious chicory coffee and waited on Sera to decide she could leave guilt-free.
A buzz of incoming messages pulled me away from considering bad decisions. Another job offer? That was the third one this month. Typically, I averaged only one a month. Sometimes, I had two. Three was unheard of, and three within the first ten days was worrying. I hated to do it, but maybe I should give in and get back-up. I opened my text log with Eli and considered what to say.
“You okay, Gen?” Sera was beside me, coat and bag in hand. Usually, I was on my feet before she was there.
“Sorr
y.” I held my phone up. “Work stuff.”
She gave me the pinched look that she always did about my job, but she nodded. I didn’t miss the look she shot at the trash bag next to me. She handed me a more subtle canvas grocery bag, where I shoved my trash bag of bloody trousers.
“I’m okay,” I assured her.
We were silent as we left Karl’s together. Knowing the little she did about what I did, she was obviously worrying. It was what she did.
Carefully, I offered, “I fell. They were just dirty.”
“A fight?”
“No.” I smiled, and then, trying to sound lighter, I added, “Fell after going over a wall.”
As I escorted her to the safety of her car, I wished I hadn’t mentioned work. It was hard to explain to her why I did what I did for pay. Sure, removals paid well, but most people stayed clear of the kind of danger I hurtled myself into monthly. Sera, like the rest of my friends, didn’t know I was uniquely qualified to do this job. If I told her about the masked woman with the syringe or the kids in the graveyard, that would take her worry from its usual level to lecture-land.
“You know, Jesse could use help at the bookstore,” she said as she opened her car door.
“What about you?” I teased, trying to shift to anything but lectures or anxiety. “Need a barista?”
Sera sighed in that put-upon way of hers. The last time I tried to help her, serving coffee and pastries to customers, she’d come near to punching me. Often. Sera wasn’t violent, but I was apparently lousy at customer service.
“Honestly? If you were serious, I’d cope, Gen. I don’t like you risking yourself. There are options. Just think about—”
“Darling, I love all of you guys, but we would hate each other if we mixed business and friendship.”
Another sigh. “You’re being careful, though, right? I mean it, Geneviève! I don’t know why you take these murdering jobs, but . . . I worry.”
I melted just a little. All three of my very human close friends—Sera, Christy, and Jesse—worried about me. Christy coped by stopping to watch me train sometimes. Jesse nagged and lectured. Sera fussed and plotted to convince me to choose a safer path.
“Draugr are already dead,” I reminded her softly.
“Obviously not or you wouldn’t be out acting like some ancient warrior with a damned sword,” she muttered.
I squeezed Sera’s hand. “I’ll do better. Don’t worry.”
Sera nodded, closed her door, and drove away while I watched.
She and I were both businesswomen, even if she would really prefer my business was just about anything else. We are what we are, though, and what I am is good at killing. That didn’t mean I should be careless, though.
It was time to face Eli.
Chapter Three
Rather than send another text, I headed straight to Eli’s bar. If I couldn’t handle seeing him one-on-one, we sure as fuck weren’t doing a job together. I’d refuse the job if I had to.
I made my way to the edge of the Marigny which had more or less merged with the quarter. The area between the tourist heavy French Quarter and Frenchmen Street used to be prime biting—or mugging—territory. Now, that space was filled with shops, so the safe area extended to the bars on Frenchmen Street. The whole quarter, the edge of the CBD, and the edge of the Marigny were all included in the area where the police were present. Once you were in the patrolled zone, you were safe.
Getting in or out of patrolled zones required a car—or the willingness to risk a biter.
New Orleans, and most draugr-friendly cities, had adjusted to a new reality that meant no more unregulated car services. In New Orleans, if you wanted to get to the patrolled pockets in the Garden District, the Marigny, or Treme, you used the city app to summon a car. The city police would also give lifts if they could, moonlighting as drivers for tips. Driving was a lucrative job, and the drivers’ unions had the power to influence laws in many cities.
During the day, the streetcars were safe, but at night, you paid or you risked your life. Some people still had cars of their own, but owning a car meant walking from building to parking. Only the desperate, the foolish, the poor, or the tourists walked at night.
“Crowe.” The doorman greeted me as I reached the oddly named Bill’s Tavern. He glanced around, expecting either trouble or my friends. When he saw neither, he frowned and said, “Boss didn’t mention any biters hanging around.”
See? Everyone knew what my job was. “I’m just stopping in to see Eli.”
The doorman’s expression went carefully blank. Months ago, the tension between Eli and me had twisted into a fight that most of the staff overheard—and remembered. I couldn’t blame the doorman for the wariness in his expression. I’d given Eli plenty of space the past few months.
All the doorman said was “Go on in.”
“You good on rounds?” I asked, trying to remind him I wasn’t all bad.
The doorman frowned. “Boss takes care of us, Crowe. You’d have to ask him if supply is low.”
I nodded. Eli bought stock of my special draugr bullets, despite the cost. He was much like Sera about his employees. Sometimes, with him, I thought it was cultural. He treated them like he was their liege-lord.
And he tried to protect me.
Over the last year, I’d realized that Eli’s request for my help at Bill’s Tavern was a ruse. Eli was strong. I’d seen him throw a rampaging draugr into a fence with enough force to shatter stone and bend rebar. Eli was trying to take care of me. He’d probably been doing it far before I noticed. Either way, I still killed monsters there and drank for free.
But, tonight, I wasn’t there to drink.
I walked in, scanning for the fae man who plagued my dreams. He stood behind the polished wooden bar, low bar lights casting a glow over him that highlighted his ethereal beauty. No human was as striking as even the least of the fae. Even the horrifying ones had a strange charm that was undeniably memorable, a trait that was fae-beautiful even if it violated mortal standards for beauty. Eli was far from horrifying. His glamour tamped down some of his beauty, but either it didn’t quite work on witches—or maybe that was my other blood.
Eli motioned for a bartender, and in a matter of moments, he was around the bar and in front of me. “Geneviève?”
“Eli.”
“Are you injured?” He stared at me, as if he could find the source of the few splatters of blood on my jacket.
“It’s not my blood.” I met his gaze and added, “I fell on a wet corpse.”
“Only you, petit four. Only you.” He shook his head and motioned to his already-crowded bar as if it were a castle, and he was a king. “Come in. Drink with me.”
Something about a faery inviting me to drink had me repressing a shiver. “I thought you were working.”
Eli shrugged in a way that only a man like him could pull off: elegant, careless, and utterly telling all at once. That half-shrug of his was often to avoid discussions—usually for my benefit. “Vodka? Gin? Whisky?” he asked.
“Tequila?”
His answering smile made me remind myself not to flirt. Dealing with someone as fae as Eli had taught me the beauty of nuance. Of course, that led to me over-analyzing everything he did or said for subtle clues and declarations. It made me feel like a fool, but the more I analyzed, the more I realized that I had to do so with him.
“We got on well over tequila,” he said, offering me the bluntness that he’d been practicing for me, just as I learned to read his subtlety.
I offered him one of his half-shrugs.
Eli laughed joyously. “Tequila it is, cupcake.”
I went to an empty corner table and watched him. His features were sharp, more cut glass than Roman statue. His mouth made me think of a courtesan’s lips, full and luscious, and somehow vaguely cherry-stained. The worst of it was the energy woven into his very fiber. As a witch, it called to me, whispering promises of magic I could have for my own. If I stared at his hair, strands
too dark to be merely black, I could see stars, eternity, a universe I wanted desperately to touch. His skin was no better. I knew from punching him once that electricity to rival my own magic slid through his veins, and the only way I touched him now voluntarily was with more than one layer of material between us.
I swallowed my own surge of desire as he joined me at the table. A part of me wanted to intrude on his mind as I could with the dead. I could, theoretically, do that with living beings, too, but the few times I’d succeeded were sheer accident and left me with a blinding headache.
When I’d tried to intentionally read the mind of another person—Jesse and Sera both—I’d left them with a raging headache. That made honing my telepathy skills near impossible. Still, I caught stray thoughts, and with Eli, they were always about me or us.
I shoved the instinct to try to read him away, too. If I wanted to know what he was thinking, I’d simply ask. Truth be told, I knew he’d answer. The problem was my hesitation in letting him know I had questions.
He’d brought two chilled glasses, each with only a couple cubes of ice, and an unopened bottle of Casa Dragones Joven. I paused when I saw that.
“The whole bottle? What’s the occasion?” I asked cautiously.
He poured, not glancing at me. “Us.”
“How so?” I accepted my chilled glass of expensive, delicious tequila.
“You’re here after a job. Alone. Tired. Blood on you.” He stared at me, not yet drinking. “This means you would like my help.”
“What if I just wanted a drink with a friend?”
“Then you would’ve gone to see Jesse or perhaps Christy,” he said lightly. “Am I wrong? Is there something else I could do to please you, bonbon? Or are you here to resume our partnership? I’ll say yes either way.”
I lifted my glass. “To partnership.”
“To partnership,” he echoed, laughter barely hidden in his voice. Even if I’d hidden my desire, he still knew it existed.
We drank in silence for a moment. Honestly, such tequila deserved at least that much respect. Around us, the bar filled with a crush of people—more than a few darting admiring glances at Eli. I couldn’t decide if I was feeling protective or possessive, but I sent out a jolt of accidental magic toward the room.
