by Mur Lafferty
Zoë realized she didn’t know how, or what, the dragon ate, and got a bit uncomfortable.
“Let’s argue as we walk, OK?” Zoë said, pulling her coat back on and heading out the door.
Sounds of celebration and parties drifted from the French Quarter. Laughter, music, horns, cheers, the sounds of New Orleans. An hour earlier Zoë had been enjoying that. Well, in a drunk haze while running away from her problems, but enjoying it nonetheless. Zoë rubbed her arms against the slight chill and hurried to follow Opal and Bertie back into the French Quarter.
It was still difficult to maneuver through the drunken revelries, but Zoë found that her own buzz had left, thanks to adrenaline and shock, and she made her way with purpose, following the baby dragon.
“So do you think Kevin will be at this bar?” Zoë asked Opal, who leaned forward as she walked.
Three young men on a balcony, holding plastic hurricane glasses and draped with beads, catcalled to them, asking to see their tits. Opal didn’t even look up, but Bertie paused, faced the men, and lifted his shirt. His back was to Zoë, so she didn’t see what he showed them, but the drunken men went silent, stepping back from the balcony. It looked as if one of them started to cry.
Opal dragged Zoë’s attention back to her. “I don’t know where he will be. He’s never been the most compliant child,” Opal said. Her fangs were out, and she bared them when she spoke.
“So there’s no sort of bond between you two?” Zoë asked. She itched to take out her notepad to write this down, but she felt that would be bad form. “Like being able to find one another?”
Opal gave her a withering look as she shouldered her petite form past five people with white demon masks. One grumbled a warning and Zoë realized they weren’t wearing masks.
“There is no bond. Not like that. He is compelled to obey me, but he’s fought that since he was turned. I think perhaps now he’s severed it completely. My heart is breaking.”
She didn’t sound as if her heart was breaking. Her voice was sharp and focused, without any of the mothering tone Zoë had heard before.
Zoë picked up her pace to keep up with the angry vampire, and noticed Bertie had fallen behind to raise his shirt again, again with the effect of quieting the revelers. She ran into Opal’s back when the vampire abruptly stopped.
“Sorry,” she muttered. “Why are we stopping?”
“Bertie said Kevin was on Bourbon Street. We are here. Which way?” She looked both ways, nostrils flaring.
Bertie joined them then, ambling up the street. He had several strands of purple and red beads around his neck.
“That bachelorette party actually appreciated what I have to give,” he said as Zoë pointedly looked at his beads.
“Which way is the bar, Bertie?” Zoë said with forced calm.
“About two blocks. I’ll show you.”
Their progress was considerably slower now that Bertie was leading them, and Opal’s hands clenched and unclenched as they walked.
“Do, uh, do you have a plan?” Zoë asked. “We need to find out where he was and everything. See if he has an alibi.”
Bertie looked over his shoulder. “You don’t have a plan yourself? You seem to never have a plan. Don’t you think that’s dangerous?”
“I have a plan,” Opal said. “And, Zoë, I appreciate you giving him the benefit of the doubt, but do you really think he is innocent? He’s a vampire who’s been chafing at the bit of both his sire and his employer. I can sense he is out of control tonight. Of course he’s guilty.”
Zoë blanched. “Seriously? You’re sure? But—then why are we doing this? Why not just call Public Works?” Her hand went into her coat pocket for her phone, but Opal clamped her hand onto Zoë’s and squeezed. Zoë winced.
“Because if Public Works gets him, I won’t be able to.”
The vampire bar was disappointingly dull. Vampires had centuries to refine tastes, save up money, and build great things, and what did they have? A bar on Bourbon Street with the windows painted black and a big drop of blood in red over the black paint. This of course meant you could only see the symbol when up close, and it looked as if it had been painted by high school sophomores with the goal of decorating for the Halloween dance in a condemned house.
Perhaps that’s what they were going for, Zoë thought.
They walked into the bar, Opal first. She hissed at the bouncer, a small black teenage boy who thumbed through a copy of Rolling Stone as he sat on his stool. The boy snapped his head up and hissed back at Opal, and even though Zoë knew they could both rip her throat out without a thought, it was clearly only a display of tail feathers.
The boy let Opal through, but stuck his hand out after she walked past. Zoë ran into his arm, and then Bertie plowed into her. Although the bouncer appeared young and slight, his body had the ropy steel muscle that Zoë identified with vampires.
“Vampires only,” he said, with a heavy Southern accent. Then he looked thoughtful. “Unless you’re lunch,” he added.
“I’m with her,” Zoë said. She really didn’t want to lie and say that yes, she was lunch. She’d had bad experiences with that ruse before, and had nearly been dinner for an incubus.
Opal charged down the hall ahead of them, which was draped with bare lightbulbs and black cloth. The place was tacky. The hallway turned left and presumably opened up to a larger room, but Zoë couldn’t see around the corner. The earnest crooning of ABBA karaoke floated down the hall.
“Is that ‘Dancing Queen’?” Zoë asked, smiling.
“Yeah. And?” the boy said. He pushed her back out the door. “No humans. And no whatever he is.” The boy jerked his head toward Bertie.
Bertie drew himself up. “I am a wyrm, young man, and over two hundred years old.”
“Big deal,” the boy said, examining his fingernails. “I’ve got two hundred fifty.”
“Wow, who turned you so young?” Zoë couldn’t help asking.
“That is none of your goddamned business,” the boy said, frowning at her. “I don’t ask about your parents, do I?”
Zoë was about to tell him to go ahead, she didn’t know anything anyway, but Kevin interrupted her, barreling toward her down the hallway. He shoved the boy aside and pushed past Zoë with the force of a charging bull.
Zoë and Bertie shared an uncomfortable moment of being tangled together, and before they could right themselves, Opal went storming after Kevin and into the night.
Zoë and Bertie righted themselves and ran after the vampires, ignoring the outraged questions from the bouncer.
“Where?” Bertie asked. The street was full of revelers, but no vampires. There wasn’t even a sign of their passing.
Zoë had never seen a vampire in full sprint before. She had seen Phil attack humans and zombies, and knew he was a surprisingly quick and brutal fighter. But she had never seen them run.
It was clear that Zoë and Bertie had no chance to catch up to them.
Please, if there’s any way you can give me a hint as to which way the vampires went, I’d really appreciate it, she pleaded to the city silently, and felt a mental pull to the left. She could have been imagining it, like kids playing with a Ouija board, but she had nothing else to trust and Bertie wasn’t helping.
Honestly she didn’t know how she was supposed to prevent the vampires’ fighting. She couldn’t stop a truck from running down a hill; angry vampires didn’t seem much different.
Zoë crossed the street as quickly as she could to get into the flow of the crowd, Bertie on her heels. She had to jerk him away from lifting his shirt again to screaming groups of men and women. “Later,” she said through gritted teeth.
A thought struck her as she shouldered past a large, half-naked man. “Hey, vampires can’t fly, can they?” she asked Bertie.
“The very old ones can,” he said in an offhand manner. Zoë guessed it took some pretty impressive flying to impress a dragon.
“Kevin’s nowhere near very old,” Zoë
said. “He’s like five or something. I don’t know how old Opal is.”
“Kevin would be old enough to run, though,” Bertie said. “We’re not going to catch them. You know, your sense of team leadership is illusionary at best.”
Zoë glared at him and turned down St. Philip Street on a hunch—or maybe guidance from the city. She didn’t know. After a few blocks she heard a howl and a thump.
“The train yard,” she said, and ran. Luckily she had seen it during her walk that day, and knew the most direct way there.
Again, it was painfully obvious that her body was a lumbering sack of organs and muscles and the others were fueled by magic or blood or something. Still, she was in shape, and she sprinted with Bertie grumbling behind her. Then Bertie was ahead of her. Still grumbling, but faster than she was.
“Sure, I’m a secret member of the almighty coterie, the hidden citytalker, powerful and sly. And I run like an ox.”
Another thump. “What are they doing up there?” she shouted to Bertie, who was outdistancing her.
“Fighting!” he shouted back. “Do you have a plan how to deal with this?”
“Why does everyone want to know if I have a plan! Jesus!” She honestly didn’t know what she could do. Threaten to fire them? Call Phil and put him on speakerphone? See if she could summon up one of those demon dogs to help her out?
The large warehouse buildings of the train yard sat at the edge of the Mississippi River, casting shadows on the gravel lot. Above them, a tangle of struggling limbs leaped into the sky.
“I seriously don’t have a plan to deal with this,” she whispered.
Opal flew Kevin higher and higher until they were a dark spot in the light-polluted night sky. “Oh man, she isn’t going to—”
Opal dropped him. Kevin fell, arms and legs flailing, reaching terminal velocity quickly. It took only a few seconds for him to reach the warehouse roof, where he slammed with a great boom that even cut over the noise of the parties up the street. Then Opal drifted downward, arms out, palms up, like a slowly falling angel.
“Baby vampires can’t fly,” Bertie said softly when Zoë caught up with him. They stood under the gutter of the warehouse, the tin roof beginning about ten feet above them. He leaped lightly and suddenly was gone.
Panting, Zoë stared at the roof where she had lost sight of most of her writers. She stood there, dumbly, and watched Bertie wave at her over the edge.
“What’s going on now?” Zoë asked.
Bertie leaned over the edge. He grinned at her. “Can’t get up here, can you?”
Zoë looked around for a ladder to prove him wrong, and then made a face up at him. “No, smartass. What’s happening?”
“This is why you’re not a leader,” he said conversationally as he leaned over and held his hand down.
“There’s no way you can leverage me up there,” Zoë said, but took his hand anyway. With a yank that nearly removed her arm at the socket, Bertie pulled her up to the roof.
“And you forget, I’m not human,” he said.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re so smart and old and strong. All hail the baby dragon. Is that enough thanks for you?” she said.
“It’s getting there.”
Despite his fall, Kevin was still alive. He and Opal struggled like Irish wrestlers, wrapped around each other, each trying to get the upper hand. Finally Opal lifted him as if he were a sack of flour and threw him—in the direction of Zoë and Bertie.
“Oh God,” Zoë said, and ducked. Bertie slid out of the way immediately, but Kevin’s foot caught Zoë in the back of the head and knocked her down, where she rolled toward the edge of the warehouse. Woozy from the hit, she tried to slow her progress, trying to gain purchase on the tin roof. Her feet slid over the edge, but she finally slowed enough to grab on to the edge to stop herself.
She panted for a moment, trying to get her wits about her, and only too late realized she didn’t know where Kevin had landed. But by then he had already grabbed her leg and yanked her off the building.
CHAPTER 13
Dining
STRIP CLUBS
EXCERPT FROM THE UPCOMING BOOK TROILUS’S EATS, NEW ORLEANS RESTAURANT GUIDE
Hers N’ His: A Bourbon Street Speakeasy
There is a reason New Orleans is consistently rated one of the best places for incubi and succubi to eat, and that reason is Bourbon Street. Not only can the succubi feed by simply answering the call of “Show your tits!” but some of the more exclusive sex clubs cater to a wide variety of human tastes. While Hers N’ His is a members-only club, visiting incubi and succubi can get a night of dining (or “work” as the humans would call it) by calling and asking for the Tree Man. (A woodland spirit, he’s called that because of his massive size.)
As with most speakeasies, any prostitution in the back room is illegal and hidden and under a strict no-tell policy. Public Works knows of all the clubs in New Orleans, but turns the other way unless someone gets hurt. So, as with usual encounters, know when to stop.
CHAPTER TWELVE
It sucked to be unconscious. Zoë had only a fuzzy knowledge of what was going on around her. Unmoving, she lay on top of Kevin, who wriggled beneath her. He gnawed at her leg, but didn’t seem to have enough strength to actually break through her jeans, much less her skin. Then Opal lifted Zoë as if she were a rag doll and threw her, snarling.
Oh, sorry to get in your way, she thought.
She landed on gravel, hitting her head again, which was just insult to injury at this point. Bertie had leaped off the roof and watched impassively as Opal, weeping, slammed Kevin into the air, and then down on his back. She reached down and closed her hands around Kevin’s throat.
That seemed like a stupid idea to Zoë, as the vampire had no air requirements. What was she going to do?
Opal’s arms bulged as she squeezed, and Zoë winced as Opal ripped Kevin’s throat out with her fingers. She kept swiping at it, spreading the blood and gore out on both sides, coating herself in it, then let out a heartfelt cry that would have moved Zoë to tears, if she hadn’t been unconscious.
Which she was. Right?
Something behind her snarled.
Well, that’s not good.
She got to her feet and took stock of her injuries: what felt like a broken left wrist, two large bumps on her head, one of which streamed blood into her face, and ripped clothing from skidding along the gravel. Which wasn’t necessarily an injury, but they were her favorite jeans.
The endorphins and adrenaline rushing through her body kept the pain at bay, but she had no idea how she was standing, as it didn’t feel as if she was actually driving her own body. Maybe it was all a dream?
I’m sorry, but you looked like you needed a hand, the shy voice said in her head, and Zoë would have jumped if she were actually conscious enough for her body to experience involuntary reactions.
Anna? The ghost? You’re possessing me? How is that possible? I didn’t let you in!
You’re injured quite badly. That reduces your defenses. I can leave if you want, but you’ll lose consciousness again.
No, I think being aware would be a good thing right about now. I’m still not in fighting shape. Not to mention I don’t have a weapon. Why did I go out without a weapon? Oh yeah, had a vampire with me, thought she could help me. Those wacky vampires. Always ripping throats out. Don’t suppose you brought a weapon?
No, I’m sorry, I can’t touch things unless I’m in someone’s body.
Yeah, I was kidding.
The growl again. Then something came around the corner of the warehouse. Step step hop. Step step hop.
Oh. It’s that dog thing. An unagi? No, inugami. Right. Do you know what that is, Anna?
She wanted to pull her phone from her jacket pocket, but her hands wouldn’t obey. She had expected reluctance from her left hand, with the wrist being broken and all, but the right one annoyed her.
So do you know how to deal with one of these things, when you’re one-handed and
injured?
I don’t think I’ve ever seen a demon like this.
Japanese vengeance demon, apparently. He killed an important cat tonight. A friend of mine is looking for him.
The demon still had blood around its mouth, matting the yellow fur. Its feet and claws were also bloody, with cat fur caught between them.
I don’t think he’s done being vengeful. Maybe we should run, Zoë thought.
Zoë felt her body’s control return to her, and she felt much heavier now. She took one step and fell down. Her ankle must have been sprained.
“So running is out. This is really going to hurt tomorrow,” she said out loud, and momentarily was delighted to hear her own voice. But how was she going to let Eir and Gwen know the dog was here?
The dog leaped at her, silhouetted against the moon. Time seemed to slow, and Zoë had a bizarre flashback to the movie Watership Down, and wished she had a General Woundwort to distract it for her.
Battle cries sounded to her left, and Eir ran forward, ablaze with her divine Valkyrie glory. Behind her a dark cloud of sparrows followed, Gwen in battle mode, but they were too late. Zoë braced herself and raised her right hand to shield herself, but the dog’s jaws opened and her hand went straight into its mouth.
She waited for more pain, but none came. Instead of hitting the back of the dog’s throat, her hand went straight down its gullet. Before she had a moment to think it was impossible for this to happen, she was up to her shoulder in the dog. She nearly expected to see her hand come out the other side, but her fist instead found something, and Anna pushed her, her influence making Zoë’s hand convulse and grab tight to something. The dog’s eyes went wide and it whined. It thrashed once, not biting down, and went limp.
Zoë pulled her arm free. She was covered in black goo reminiscent of the snake demon that had swallowed her a month prior. In her hand she held something red and white, about a foot and a half long. It looked like a coral snake with a white dog’s head, and it thrashed in her grip.
In revulsion she dropped it, and it dove into the ground, disappearing and leaving no trace behind it.
