Frenchman Street_A Novel of The Sentinels of New Orleans

by Suzanne Johnson

“Where’s your truck?” I asked, wishing I had a pick-ax; it was like climbing the Matterhorn to get in the passenger seat. My arm was still sore, and the truck had more clearance than Alex’s Range Rover.

  “This one’s been sittin’ too long, so I thought I’d swap ’em out every once in a while,” he said. “Plus, mine’s full of construction stuff. What happened with the Fae Hunters?”

  I gave him a quick rundown. “Did Faulk identify them as Hunters?”

  “Yeah, said they had quit the group to follow Florian.”

  “The one who shot me said Florian has offered a reward for delivering me to him alive. That’ll get them leverage over Rand.”

  “Or bait for Zrakovi,” Rene said, glancing at me. “He hates you, babe. Don’t ever underestimate the power of hate.”

  I had defied Zrakovi. I had outwitted him. I had embarrassed him. But still…”You really think he hates me enough to sell out the wizards to kill me?”

  Rene shrugged. “I ain’t the person to be asking about wizards and their motivations, DJ. You know my family history.”

  Yes, and they had plenty of reasons to hate wizards. “Do you ever hate me for what I am?” I wasn’t sure I could bear it if he said yes.

  He whipped into a parking space with more speed and accuracy than I would’ve thought the behemoth of a truck was capable of. He turned and gave me a serious look. “What are you?”

  An echo from several years ago came back to me, long before I’d met Rene. Jake Warin, injured and newly aware of the whole preternatural world, had asked me the same question.

  I gave Rene the same soft answer. “I don’t know what I am.”

  “I do,” he said. “You’re you, DJ. You don’t fit in any boxes, and you should be proud of that.”

  I wasn’t sure how to answer, so I smiled and opened the truck door. We walked toward St. Charles, squeezing among people close enough to see the parade but not close enough to make ourselves targets. I had to pinch myself a couple of times to keep Mardi Gras Madness at bay; otherwise, I’d be out there, pushing and shoving with the masses, trying to score another plastic cup or pair of cheap plastic beads or a real treasure like a medallion with the parade name and date on it.

  Age, race, class, gender—it didn’t matter. Once the floats went by, everybody was ready to toss aside their mamas to get a throw. I had enough beads, cups, frisbees, and stuffed animals stuck in Gerry’s attic to start my own parade.

  My phone vibrated, and Rene and I both glanced at our screens at the same time. The Robin Hoods had changed from marching with Oshun and were early in the following Krewe of Pygmalion parade. So far, they were giving out a few pinwheels but were hanging on to most of them.

  “Does faery glamour wear off?” Rene asked. “Are a bunch of little kids gonna go home with pinwheels and suddenly find themselves with killer arrows?”

  “I think it has to be intentionally removed,” I said. “The poor guy who was standing in for Rand in jail still looked like Rand after Florian killed him. It’s why Rand hasn’t been visited by the cops anymore—they think he was murdered in jail. Now, they’re looking for some next of kin, plus the random cop Florian glamoured himself into to get inside. And he killed the guards.”

  I’d learned that this morning when Alex called to yell at me. Rand had refused to let him talk to me, so he yelled at Rand until the elf hung up on him.

  He was lucky Florian was so impulsive. If the Summer Prince of Faerie were a better planner, he’d have made himself look like Alex or Ken. As far as I knew, faeries couldn’t glamour themselves into another gender, thank God.

  We watched marching band after band, float after float, and finally the faeries appeared. The parade stopped in front of the viewing stands just as the eleven Robin Hoods—minus the guy I’d dropped back on Tchoupitoulas Street—got in front of the mayor. They doffed their Robin Hood caps and kissed women standing at the front of the crowd. They caught and returned frisbees. They handed out a couple of pinwheels.

  Until something caught their attention, and they all looked up. Hovering over their heads was a dragon the size of a large beanbag chair, a GoPro strapped around its scaly head.

  Rand! I gave him my loudest mental screech. Get the dragon out of here before—

  Two of the hunters nocked their arrows in unison, and let them fly as the dragon circled, anticipating its position. One hit the reptile on a leathery wing; the other hit its scaly neck. The dragon snorted steam and ballooned to the size of Snoopy in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, flapping wings, widening its circle, and shooting flames into the sky.

  The crowd stood in stunned silence for a few seconds, then burst into thunderous applause. The Robin Hoods watched the dragon fly west, decided they weren’t going to be torched, and bowed to growing applause.

  “That’ll make the national news,” I said, pointing toward a TV crew, now busy getting crowd reaction.

  “Yeah, Florian will be hap—”

  Rene fell to his knees, and it wasn’t until an arrow whizzed past my head that I realized he’d been shot in the shoulder. Where the hell was the archer?

  I pulled the merman down with me, staying on the ground and letting the crowds flow around us. Finally, I spotted him atop the viewing stands, that one lone Robin Hood I’d zapped earlier. Obviously, I hadn’t zapped him hard enough, so I pulled out the staff and aimed for his thigh. It wouldn’t kill him unless I burned through an artery, but it would hurt like hell.

  Six months ago, I would have missed. A year ago, I’d have blown up the entire city block. But I’d had two months of boredom in Barataria with nothing to do but flirt with Jean Lafitte, play poker with Rene, argue with Alex, and practice my aim.

  The hunter never saw the narrow red rope of fire coming, and the crowds were so excited by the fact the parade was again moving that no one noticed until he fell from the top of the bleachers onto a group of drunken women. His pants were on fire.

  I ignored the screams and focused my attention on Rene. He’d turned an ashen color. “Silver tip,” he rasped. “Help me to the truck.”

  By the time we’d huffed and puffed two long city blocks, I’d finagled the keys from his pocket, and we’d crawled in the truck, Rene was pasty and sweating like it was August instead of February. “Pull it out,” he rasped. “Straight out. One hard pull.”

  I hesitated. “Rand is stronger than me. Shouldn’t we wait until—”

  “Pull. It. Out!”

  Praying I wouldn’t break the shaft and leave the metal tip inside, I crawled halfway on top of where he was sprawled in the passenger seat, and pulled out the arrow, tip and all. It made a sickening, wet sound on its way out, and blood instantly coated the front of Rene’s white sweater. People injured as often as we were should never wear white.

  I pulled off my jacket and wadded it into a ball. “Hold this over the wound,” I said, crawling back into the driver’s seat, cranking the truck, and jerking it into traffic. The drive back to Rand’s was slow, even though I stayed on Tchoupitoulas and the tail end of Pygmalion had already cleared the area. Everybody else who was trying to avoid the parade had taken the same route.

  “Is there anybody I should call?” I asked Rene, but he didn’t answer. If it had been Alex, he would have shifted into his dog form to heal more quickly, but an aquatic shifter had more limitations. I doubted a dolphin in a pickup truck would heal well at all.

  I pulled out my cell phone and called Jean, hoping he wasn’t so involved with Linda he wouldn’t answer.

  “Bonsoir, Jolie. I am on the street of canals, watching an extremely large mermaid ride past, although I do not believe her to be real. Which is a pity, as she wears no clothing.”

  Good. He was on Canal Street watching the parade, and the mermaid float was one of the last. “Rene was shot with a silver-tipped arrow. Do you think I should put him in the river?”

  “Mon Dieu, Drusilla. Entirely too many ships ply the river here in the city; he would be injured more severely.”
r />   “Fine. Come to Rand’s for a report as soon as you can.”

  “Alas, Mademoiselle Linda has promised me sex on a beach. Does this mean we shall enjoy intimate relations on the sand?”

  “No, it does not.” I took a deep breath. “She can do that later. First, we all need to compare notes for the day, so get to Rand’s when you can. See you soon.”

  I hung up before he could ask me about a Screwdriver or a Screaming Orgasm.

  As much as I hated to, I called Alex. I wasn’t sure he would answer.

  “What?”

  Hello to you too. “Rene was shot by one of Florian’s Fae Hunters who was marching in Pygmalion. The arrow was silver-tipped. I’ve pulled it out, but I’m afraid to put him in the river where he can shift.”

  A silence, followed by a sigh. “You’re sure the whole tip came out?”

  I looked at it. “Yes.”

  “He’ll sleep it off. Might be tomorrow.”

  “Okay, thank y—”

  He hung up.

  I brain-messaged Rand for help as soon as I pulled the truck in behind his house. I’d thought about taking Rene home to his own bed, which he’d prefer, but I wasn’t leaving him alone. He could sleep in my bed and I’d take the sofa.

  “What a screwup, but the parade is over and there were no more mishaps.” Rand picked Rene up as if he weighed no more than Gruff and carried him inside.

  “Put him in my bed; I’ll sleep in the office.” I said, resetting the security wards behind us and giving a bleary wave to the three tiny dragons eating rats on the floor. One had a bandage on its neck. I followed the guys up the stairs, cut away Rene’s sweater, and cleaned and bandaged his injured shoulder.

  I stretched out on the rug for a quick rest, and in a few moments, Gruff settled down beside me. When I opened my eyes it was morning and Rene was gone.

  And there were three parades today.

  Chapter 27

  By the time I got up, everyone was downstairs stuffing down bagels and juice, having the security meeting that had never happened the night before since Jean never showed up, Rene was injured, Rand had a dragon to tend to, and I was snoring on the rug.

  This morning, Rene looked as stiff and sore as I felt. Sleeping on the floor had left my joints telling me my eightieth birthday was approaching instead of my twenty-ninth.

  I took a chair next to Jean, who had slathered half a tub of cream cheese on his bagel; he’d probably developed at taste for them at his beloved Monteleone breakfast buffet. “Did you have Sex on the Beach?”

  He looked at me with bloodshot eyes that still managed to twinkle. “Many times did I avail myself of this pleasure, Drusilla. Modern women have such appetites.”

  I didn’t want to know which appetites he referred to, so I looked across the table at Faulkner Hearne, who sat between Lia and the Hunter named Romany. “How do you think it went yesterday?”

  “Florian had some success with his Hunters, so I think he’ll use them until the attrition rate gets too high,” he said. “Good shot on that one last night, by the way. He didn’t bleed out, unfortunately, but he won’t be marching in any more parades. Next time, go for the kill shot.”

  Yeah, well, I didn’t seem to do too well at kill shots. I’d just wanted to stop him and get Rene to safety.

  “Did the communications system seem to work?” Rand asked. “Anything we need to tweak on that end?”

  “Maybe keep the dragons from getting so close,” I said. “How is the one that got injured?”

  “She’s fine. I gave her an extra rat.” He slid several newspapers down the table at me. “She made the front page of USA Today, the New York Times, and the Washington Post. They think she was a deluxe balloon and a herald of the biggest Mardi Gras ever.”

  Great. Even more publicity. “Jean, when you go to work on Monday at DeFazo’s office, make sure he is aware of all these things.”

  “Should I inform Mademoiselle Linda? I fear the mayor is not a man of great intelligence.”

  I shook my head. “The fewer who know about us or who know your real identity, the better. We don’t need the mayor to be smart, just discreet.”

  After much discussion, it was decided that Rene and Faulk would alternate days to coordinate Florian watch, at least for the smaller parades. Today, with the Krewe of Pontchartrain in the afternoon and Sparta and Pegasus running back-to-back tonight, the Hunters would cover the whole route with Rand monitoring things from home base. That left Rene and me a day to recuperate.

  I ached to crawl in a nice, soft bed, pull the covers over my head, and sleep for a solid twenty-four hours, but I had another mission. When the Hunters left to get ready for the day’s work and Rene took off for his own bed and a date with a healing potion, I turned to Rand.

  “I want to go to Elfheim.” I finished the last bite of my bagel and washed it down with organic ginger tea, which I’d developed a taste for since I’d moved in with Mr. Healthy. “Florian was there by himself for a while, so I want to scan it for faery transports the way I did in Old Orleans. You don’t want secret faery transports all over your house.”

  He frowned. “I don’t know. That’s the last place Florian was seen, and he might go back looking for clues about Kirian. But the flooding has gone down, and the people have returned to the village near the manor house, so I guess it’s okay. Can you destroy them?”

  “No, but I can reroute them,” I said. “I’ve been sending them to Greenland.”

  He arched a brow at me. “Good. I didn’t appreciate that bunch of soggy vampires you sent to the Synod meeting house.”

  Oh well. “Are the manor house staff members back?” Maybe I could renew my acquaintance with Clematis and give the midwife a piece of my mind.

  “No. There’s no point until I can repair the house. I do have guards there.”

  Probably corgis. Gruff could visit his uncle.

  Speaking of guards, I might need one myself. I turned to Jean. “You want to go with me?”

  He looked pleased. “But of course, Jolie. Shall we go at this time?”

  Probably, in case Linda was lying in wait at the Monteleone with more cocktails.

  “Let’s do it.” I got up, clipped on Gruff’s leash, made sure the staff was firmly in its holster, and stood, waiting on him. “Time’s a’wasting,” I told him, pointing at my pink watch.

  “Perhaps you might speak to your mate about matters of etiquette,” Jean told Rand.

  The elf laughed. “Have you met my mate?”

  Ha ha. So glad the boys were bonding.

  It shouldn’t be cold in Elfheim, so I didn’t bother with my jacket, and Jean left his Daniel Boone coat behind as well. Within seconds, we stood in the ruined stairway landing at Rand’s manor house. The rug was stained with a reddish-brown blot on one side. Eugenie’s blood.

  The sound of a pistol safety-release echoed from behind us. I drew my staff as I whirled, and Jean had a dagger in each hand.

  At the top of the stairs stood what I assumed was an elven soldier, the first elf I’d seen who wasn’t a Synod power-player. He didn’t have the common features of the faeries, and he was awfully pretty, with dark-blond hair cut shorter on the sides and longer on top and blue-green, brilliant eyes. One of Rand’s fire elves.

  If I had any doubts, I had only to look at Gruff, who was leaping higher than gravity should allow. It’s Anatto! It’s Anatto!

  The guy knew me, or at least he bowed and said, “Lady Randolph. I’m Anatto, head of the Royal Guard of Elfheim.” A smile broke through as he added, “Hello, Gruffydd.”

  I released Gruff’s leash and laughed as he jumped around Anatto’s legs and yipped. God only knows what stories he’d tell about The Rand and The Dru.

  “I came to find any faery transports Florian or his people might have hidden in the manor house while they were here,” I said, introducing Jean as a friend of Rand’s, still an exaggeration despite their bonding moment this morning.

  I looked down to the open first flo
or, where Florian had held what could only be described as a temper tantrum. Furniture had been broken, including a piano tilting drunkenly from a missing leg. Rugs lay ripped in some places and burned in others. The chandelier spread sparkling shards of crystal across the floor. Chunks of masonry lay on the hearth where they had been torn or gouged from the stone fireplace.

  “Florian is a pig,” I said, adding a silent apology to pigs.

  Anger crossed Anatto’s features as he followed my gaze. “Indeed. When does Lord Randolph plan to make repairs? If you’ll be here long, I’ll have someone from the village come to ready a room and tend to your needs.”

  “Thanks, but no. I should be back humanside by tonight, and I think Rand—Lord Randolph—will wait until the fighting is done before making repairs.” I looked past him down the second-floor hallway and spotted a hole gouged in the wall. Florian or his Hunters had been up there as well. We needed to cover every inch of this house and grounds.

  “I think we’ll start at the top and work our way down,” I told Anatto. “If you can show us how to access the attic, we can find our way from there. And is the head of the Royal Canine Guard on the property? I think Gruffydd would like to say hello to his uncle.”

  Anatto smiled. “I’ll fetch him after I’ve shown you to the attic.”

  I’d only been guessing that there was an attic, but I’d been right. It was accessed by a door near the end of the second-floor hallway that was as obscure as the door Rene had found to the basement.

  As soon as we established that there were no secret passages, we left Anatto behind and climbed the narrow, creaking stairs to the attic. “Charlie, I’m looking for faery transports again,” I said, holding out the staff. “Anything up here?”

  Nothing. No vibrations. No glowing or sparks. I should have known by the number of undisturbed cobwebs. Gruff sneezed, and Jean wandered around picking up odd vases and books. The only light came from windows on either end of the long, rectangular space.

  “Nothing here, so let’s check out the second floor,” I said, carrying Gruff down the stairs while he licked my chin. Stairs had to be hell on legs that short.