A New Templars

by Theresa Glover

  Rustling on the line and I imagined her sitting up, serious and attentive. “In such a public place? What happened?”

  I told her about the child in the baggage claim and the shifty frat boy-man. “Are there any humanoid monsters that cause incapacitation by touch?”

  “What do you mean?”

  I gave her as much detail as I could remember.

  “Hmm.” More rustling. Maybe crossing the room to the library. “It doesn’t sound familiar. You’re sure it was humanoid?”

  “He looked like he stepped out of the casual wear section of Rye & Ballast. Only his behavior stood out.”

  On the other side of the wall, the water stopped. The clatter of metal rings on the shower rod jangled over Marty’s voice as he sang. Badly.

  “I’ll have to do some research and call you back.”

  The weight of work resettled on my shoulders. So much for a break. “I’m not packed to fight. All I’ve got’s a few amulets and a knife from my checked luggage.”

  “I don’t expect you to fight. You’ll have to debrief to the regional hunter, of course, but at most, you’ll support if things go bad. You’re on vacation, after all.”

  “Have I told you I love you lately?”

  “Not since the last time I saved your life.”

  I winced, remembering that incident in Philly. One of my first assignments. She’d warned me about the monster and needing back up, but I’d ignored her advice. Thankfully, she’d ignored my insistence on going alone and bailed me out. Lesson learned. “Well, I do.”

  “Great. I’ll do some research, chat with the locals, and let you know the plan.”

  “Awesome, thank you.” We said goodbye and ended the call as Marty emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel.

  “You don’t look like she gave you too much trouble.” He walked back to his bed by the window.

  “For a change, she didn’t.” I told him about the call.

  “Get changed and let’s go. We’ll get beignets and this frozen Irish coffee I heard about.”

  I stood and stretched. “Sounds divine. I’ll get in the shower and—” My phone buzzed, an image of the Scarlet Witch illuminating the screen. Sister Betty. “That was fast,” I said as I answered.

  “We’ve got a problem. The local monster hunter’s dead.”

  3

  The third round of knocks caught me trying to slap white powder out of my black tank top. “Just a minute,” I said, unable to keep the irritation out of my voice. Locked bathroom doors usually suggest occupation, but whoever waited on the other side refused to take the hint. With a last glance in the mirror, I wiped powder from my upper lip only to have more fall on my shirt.

  I swore, then winced as I imagined Sister Betty’s admonishment. Then I swore again because it would piss her off.

  Another knock.

  “Seriously?” I yanked open the door.

  A bent old woman scowled up at me as she leaned on her cane. Her clothes were more ancient and wrinkled than her leathery skin. “Baby, you need to find another place to do…” she gestured at me with crooked fingers, “that. This lavatory is strictly for the call of nature. Miss Almeda’d ask you t’leave if she knew what you were up to. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” She tapped my leg with her cane and gestured for me to leave.

  “But I wasn’t—”

  She shook her head. “I’m not the police, baby, just here t’ use the facilities.” She tapped my calf again. “Tout suit, if you don’t mind.”

  I could argue or refuse to leave, but she reminded me of my grandmother. My grandmother believed “no” only opened the door for negotiation. Something told me this Yoda of a woman might have actually challenged my grandmother’s stubbornness. I didn’t have to know her to see she’d fight dirty if that’s what it took.

  Instead of getting my knees clubbed, we traded places.

  A hot puff of humid air greeted me as I stepped outside and crossed the brick-paved courtyard. Though it barely stirred the greenery or the leaves of the palm trees planted against the brick walls, the “breeze” carried the heavy yeast and sugar perfume of fresh beignets from the café behind me. At the bar on my right, humming fans tossed the bartender’s blue and green ponytail over her shoulder. She flashed a quick smile as she leaned on the tile-covered counter but never stopped flicking a menu in front of her to move the heavy air.

  Laughter from the covered stage on the other side of the courtyard drew my attention. Two men chatted as they set up a drum kit while a third, older and heavier man tuned a guitar. Drooping ceiling fans rotated slowly over their heads, though I couldn’t imagine they had much effect on the oppressive air.

  A bird skipped across the bricks in front of me, flying up to the back of a metal chair to check me out before continuing its search for abandoned treats.

  Marty waited at one of the little iron cafe tables under another lazy ceiling fan. Watching the men on the stage, he leaned over an open brown paper bag, a beignet pinched in his fingers and a napkin pressed against his chest. A soft cloud of white powder burst around his mouth as he bit into it. He eyed me as I pulled out a chair beside him and sat.

  “Don’t say it.”

  A curious bird perched on the back of one of the empty chairs at our table. It watched Marty drop his beignet back into the bag.

  “What?” He wiped powdered sugar from his mouth with a second napkin, the first fluttering against his chest. “That you look like someone who sneezed while snorting their first line?”

  I glared at him and snatched a napkin from the tabletop dispenser to beat at my shirt. “I said don’t.”

  “But it was funny.” He grinned. When I didn’t answer or smile, he continued. “It’s not a big deal. I’m sure locals are used to seeing tourists covered in this crap.” He rubbed his fingers together, sugar falling from them like fine snow.

  “Right.” Still, the bag of beignets taunted me, my stomach rumbling at the faintest scent of them on the air. They made a hell of a mess, but they were worth it. “I’m not a tourist.”

  “Relax, will you? Sister Betty said this was a simple retrieval.”

  “Nothing is ever simple when it comes to supernatural creatures. Besides, if it’s so simple, why wouldn’t Sister Betty give us the details? Not to mention, since when do we ‘retrieve’ monsters who can drop an adult human with their touch?”

  “Dunno.” He wiped the frost from his plastic cup before taking a long drink of the creamy, frozen concoction. “I don’t know why you didn’t get one of these. They’re heaven.”

  “I’m working, that’s why.” I glanced at my watch.

  “Oh yeah,” he picked up his phone, “while you were…” he gestured at the faint white shadow of sugar across my chest, “doing whatever you were doing in there—”

  “It’s the beignets, dammit.” I yanked another napkin from the dispenser and brushed my shirt again while he giggled.

  “Like I said, while you were in there, I found an interesting tidbit.” He tapped the screen with both thumbs, then handed me the device. “I’m not sure how true it is, but there are spiritualists who claim New Orleans is such a paranormal hotbed and so attractive to supernats because there’s a power nexus in the middle of the French Quarter.”

  I scrolled through the site. “Any way to verify it?”

  “Not really. Or at least, not with scientific credibility. It’s still in the realm of ‘hooey’ and ‘mumbo jumbo,’ scientifically speaking.”

  “But if it’s true, there’s plenty of human energy here to keep it juiced up.”

  “Yup. Transient human energy.” His expression indicated this was significant, so he’d probably explained it before. I weighed my options and decided to pretend I understood.

  “This could make life interesting.” I glanced at my watch again. “We need to go. I’m not sure where this place is.”

  Marty picked up his phone and waggled it at me. “Got you covered. It’s about two blocks away. Want another beignet?”<
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  I plucked at my shirt again, the ghost of the sugar less noticeable. “Nah, they’ve done enough damage.”

  “We’ll have to come back,” Marty said, pulling the rest of his fried and powdered sugar-dusted pastry from the bag. “This is a sweet park.”

  “Yeah.” Everything from the archway over the entrance proclaiming the name of the brick courtyard, to the fountain, to the bronze statues of jazz legends, to the men preparing instruments on the covered stage conjured my earliest daydreams of what New Orleans would be. But, despite the decadent treats, abundant alcohol, and the sun warming my tense shoulders, a job waited. And depending on the New Orleans diocese, maybe more before heading home.

  Some vacation.

  “Stop brooding.” Marty stood beside the table, crumpled bag in hand. “Let’s do this.”

  “You don’t have to come.” The metal chair scraped across the brick as I pushed back and stood. “You could enjoy the city or lounge by the pool.” I shrugged. “Or, I don’t know, drink yourself into a stupor at the carousel bar in our hotel. Or bar hop your way down Bourbon Street. Whatever.”

  With the smile that always annoyed with its hint of secrecy, he winked. “And let my partner have all the fun? No way.”

  In garish daylight, Bourbon Street looked tired and hung over. Aproned workers scrubbed the sidewalk with stiff-bristled broom, though it did little to dissipate the miasma of stale beer, garbage juice, and urine. Kitschy souvenir displays drew more tourist attention than the long rainbow-colored rows of drink machines churning frozen, alcoholic concoctions.

  Cool air surged over me as a pair of tourists in shorts and t-shirts opened an air-conditioned haven of craven consumerism.

  Maybe it was the AC and not the souvenirs.

  Marty pointed out restaurants where he planned to try jambalaya or red beans and rice as we walked. “Before we go, I have got to have a po’ boy. I need to check some reviews to figure out where, though.”

  His childlike excitement and flushed cheeks made me laugh. “We’re going to eat our way through the city, is that it?”

  “Hell yes,” he said, lifting his frosty plastic cup in a toast. “Let les bon temps roulez right in to my bel-ly!”

  I laughed. “You are such a dork.”

  The sun emerged from behind a cloud. A woman down the street echoed my laugh, alcohol lacing the sound with manic joy. Nothing like a town with no qualms about a morning buzz. I looked, but there were too many people to identify her. Wherever she was, I hoped she’d have fun for me, too.

  We turned down a tight side street away from Bourbon. Small, European-sized delivery trucks parked half on the sidewalk. Marty and I stepped into the wet street to pass them. Clean stucco walls suggested more upkeep than I expected. Windows and flower-filled window boxes cowered behind wrought-iron bars from lost and industrious revelers. The sun’s reflection flared off a beer bottle wedged into the protected lush greenery as we passed. Aside from the occasional sticker on a parking sign, the NOLA party industry had failed to leave its mark on the neighborhood.

  I glanced at the number painted on the tile embedded in the rough textured, cream-colored wall. “This is it, isn’t it?”

  Marty tucked his drink into his elbow and fumbled with his phone. After a few taps, he said, “Yes. This is it.”

  We looked up, our eyes drawn to the ornate wrought-iron balcony and the lush vines trailing from it. Low hanging leaves swayed in the breeze. The building wasn’t tall, but it was old and well-kept, and in this city, that meant big money. I stepped up and rang the bell, listening to the faint chimes through the open French doors overhead.

  “Did Sister Betty tell you anything about this woman?”

  At the approaching footsteps behind the door, I only shook my head. She’d mentioned her “influence,” which probably meant an endowment for the Church. Or a known bequest. Either way, I assumed it meant money and plenty of it.

  The door swung open, and a silver-haired liveried butler greeted us.

  If I could have kicked Marty to close his gaping jaw without being seen, I would have. Instead, I introduced myself to the older man and hoped he’d pick up on the tone shift. “Good morning, my name is Caitlin Kelley, and I’ve—”

  “The mistress is waiting for you.” He stepped aside with a wide sweep of his muscular arm in welcome. “Please, come in.”

  4

  Any chair in the world would have been more comfortable than the spindly-legged antique the butler offered me. Even with extensive training to concentrate under pressure, most of my focus went to immobility to avoid stressing the fragile wood. Little remained to focus on the slender woman seated in front me, never mind what she said. Everything else went to the wolf of a dog staring at me from his spot at her feet.

  Though I’d wanted to kick Marty for his slack-jaw first impression, his easy manners and friendly conversation with the elegant woman let me get my bearings. The two chatted, her strange accent and clipped words a contrast to Marty’s adopted southern-isms and undeniably northern rapid-fire delivery. I lost the thread of their conversation as I looked around. Despite the open French doors behind us, the room smelled stale, unused. It reminded me of libraries. Or museum storage rooms. It could have been part museum. Most of the furniture, artwork, books and pottery lining the shelves and fireplace mantle were old. Not shabby old, but the kind of old that sold for thousands of dollars.

  In my casual work “uniform” of black jeans, a tank top, and Doc Martens, I felt entirely out of place.

  The dimness in the room did little to help me focus. I felt sleepy, my senses dulled as I struggled to concentrate on the woman in front of me. Weak, curtain-filtered light softened her features, making them as ageless as her voice. I tried to pick up on anything remotely unusual magical or otherwise, but the intermittent burr of the giant wolf-dog’s growl made it impossible. Flat on its belly, snout between its massive paws, its shoulders tensed and twitched, ears swiveling to follow the conversation. Amber eyes watched me through half-closed lids, nostrils flaring with each intake of air. The translucent silk ribbon looped around its muzzle failed to make me feel secure.

  Silence between the woman who’d introduced herself simply as “Helen” and Marty caught my attention. They stared at me, expectant.

  Of course. I’d missed something.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, making an excuse.

  Like an indulgent matriarch, Helen smiled. “There’s no need to concern yourself with him.” Her bare right hand dangled over the arm of the chair, and the gray-brown wolf-dog sat up. She stroked the space between the dog’s ears, and though he didn’t relax, his eyelids drooped.

  “He is…unusually large for a pet.” I shifted, wincing as the chair groaned beneath me. “What kind of dog is he?”

  The wolf-dog gave a thin whine.

  “He’s not a pet; he’s family. Poor thing doesn’t get out often.” She scratched his ear and under his jaw. The dog closed his eyes and pressed his face into her palm.

  “Family or not, shouldn’t he be restrained?”

  “Oh, he is.” She lifted the ribbon in her left hand. Her gloved hand. “But even if he wasn’t, Fen wouldn’t harm you.”

  I nodded, though I didn’t believe her. “Will that hold him?”

  The gossamer ribbon shimmered as it caught stray rays of weak light. “Of course. It’s the only restraint I use.” She ran it through her fingers, bare hand over gloved hand as she contemplated it. “When will you be able to start?”

  “I’m sorry, Ms.—”

  “Please, call me Helen.” She inclined her head, a sweep of golden hair hiding half of her sweet smile. One blue eye stared at me, her lashes too pale to see but long enough to cast a hint of shadow on her cheek. Returning her hands to her lap, she lay her bare right hand over her gloved left, the ribbon between them. She sat perfectly upright, her legs crossed but covered under her long skirt. Statuesque. Not even her foot swayed. The intensity of her stillness unnerved me.

&nb
sp; “Helen, there’s been a misunderstanding. What you’re asking isn’t something I do.”

  “You deal in the supernatural, yes?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “Then I see no conflict.”

  Silence fell so complete, even the noise outside drained away.

  “It’s not that simple.”

  She smiled and lowered her head, the curtain of her hair hiding her face. The wolf-dog sat up, and she absently stroked the dark gray fur between its ears. “It is, Miss Kelley.”

  “I don’t think you understand. I’m a monster hunter, not a dog catcher. I’m the one they call when things get dangerous. When people die. I’m the one that kills the things that go bump in the night and want to kill us. I’ve been sent to capture the monster I saw in the airport, so as far as your dog’s concerned, I can’t help you. If your pup got loose, he’s your problem, especially in a city I don’t know.” I stood. “Really, you’re better off calling animal control—”

  Helen sat back, her bare hand laying on her gloved one. “No, you don’t understand, cherie. This is not about whatever you encountered. There’s more to this world than even you’ve learned.” She gestured to the chair I’d vacated. “Please. Sit.”

  In my peripheral vision, Marty shrugged as if unable to come up with a polite alternative.

  I didn’t move.

  Helen’s eyes flashed, her face hardening under the shadow of her hair. “I insist, Miss Kelley. Your services have been retained.”

  My rebuttal died before it fully formed.

  Retained?

  Creeping dread gnawed at me. Retained was new. A first, even.

  I shut my mouth and sat, waiting for her to continue.

  Her hard edges softened as she relaxed. “I apologize for being so blunt, but sometimes even a lady must.”

  I’d have blisters on my tongue from biting it so hard but nodded and gestured for her to continue. Frozen Irish coffee would make for good therapy, and Marty should be game for another, especially after this weirdness.