Royal Street

by Suzanne Johnson

  Holy cow. I didn’t know that, and I should have. Did Gerry not know, or did Gerry not tell me?

  “Are you a werewolf?” I studied his dark shaggy hair and powerful build, wondering how that big body could be condensed into a four-legged canine.

  “I’m not a were-anything,” he said. “Next full moon, I’ll look the same as now.”

  Too bad. A werewolf partner might have been interesting.

  “So, who reports to whom?” I asked. “And how exactly do you see this partnership thing working? I’ll tell you right now—my first priority is finding Gerry St. Simon, at which point you can go back to Jackson or wherever you came from.”

  “We both report to the Elders, and we’ll both be looking for Gerry. Day to day, we’ll play it by ear. If a prete comes across, we’ll try it your way, with your little spells and potions. As you said, I’m backup if your magic doesn’t work or if we get too many things to handle at once. I’m already working on a potential case.”

  “What kind of case? Finding Gerry is our case.”

  He strode to the front door, crunching over my broken stained glass and grabbing a briefcase from the porch. He’d shown up at my door with a shotgun and a freaking briefcase. In what universe was that normal?

  He set the case on the coffee table and opened it, pulling out a file.

  I craned my neck to see what an enforcer might carry in his briefcase. I couldn’t help myself.

  He handed me a sheet of paper containing a rough sketch of a decorated cross atop two wide, shallow rectangles. Two boxes shaped like sarcophagi sat to either side of it. Stars and squiggles came off the figures at different points.

  I’d seen that symbol before, on TV. “There was a murder right after Katrina hit. Wasn’t this drawn on a building at the murder scene?”

  “Good memory. Do you know what it means?”

  I looked at it again and shook my head. “No idea.”

  “Me either, but it’s been at both crime scenes.”

  I handed the paper back to him. “Crime scenes—as in plural?”

  He nodded. “There was another one last night, down in …” He grabbed the file again and opened it. “An area called Faubourg Marigny—you know where that is?”

  “Sure, it’s just east of the French Quarter. One of the unflooded areas.” I sat on the arm of a chair, exhausted and beginning to feel rubbery as the adrenaline drained from my system. “How does this involve us?”

  Good grief, what was I saying? There was no us. “How does this involve you?”

  Alex shrugged. “I just wanted to see if you recognized the symbol—the Elders have us on high alert for pretes right now, and I’m in a good position to look. The NOPD is shorthanded so they’re willing to let the feds come in and help. I’m consulting on both cases.”

  No kidding. The local cops were not only shorthanded. They also were stressed-out and jumpy. “You think it’s something supernatural? The Elders didn’t mention it.”

  Alex stuck the folder back in his briefcase, keeping it turned so I couldn’t see inside. “Nothing to indicate the supernatural is involved, not yet,” he said. “But according to police reports, there were voodoo ritual items at both crime scenes—black candles, dead roosters. It might be supernatural, or it might be a plain-vanilla serial killer.” He locked the case. “Just something for us to keep an eye on.”

  Seemed too paranoid to me. We had enough problems without looking for more. “You go ahead and work with your police cases. I’ll look for Gerry.”

  He propped the briefcase against the wall next to the fireplace. “We’ll both work on it if it turns out to be related to the breaches with the Beyond, and we’ll both look for Gerry. By the way, what do you shoot?”

  He might as well have asked what planet I’d hailed from. “I’m a Green Congress wizard,” I said. “We don’t shoot.”

  “You’ll need to learn. I’ll teach you as we have time.” He pulled the handgun out of his shoulder holster on the table and looked at it, then at me.

  “Let me see your hand.” He held out his own.

  “Why?” I stared at his outstretched hand, which looked roughly the size of a catcher’s mitt.

  He grasped my arm and pulled it toward him. “I won’t bite. I want to see how big a gun you need.”

  Thumbing a chip of plaster off my knuckles, he spread out my clenched fist using fingers that looked strong enough to choke a horse. Or a wizard.

  I snatched my hand away. “I don’t need a gun.”

  A whisper of a smile crossed his face. “My gun would be too big for you, so I’ll find something that’s a better fit. And Lafitte’s needs to be checked out before it’s used again.”

  He turned back to the table and began pulling other lethal objects off his person, having apparently confirmed that he needed no protection from me. He raised the bottom of his shirt—revealing an alarming set of abs, not that I noticed—and unstrapped a double-bladed silver knife from a sheath around his waist. I bit my tongue as he propped a black boot on one of my upholstered chairs and pulled out another knife and handgun. With a quirk of a smile in my direction, he reached for another clip on his belt and unhooked what looked like a small grenade.

  “Do you think you brought enough firepower?” Talk about overkill. He could take down a small third-world country.

  He looked at the stash and shook his head. “I didn’t expect trouble today, except maybe with you. I was told you could be, ah, hard to handle.” He gave me a slow once-over. “Might be more fun than I thought, but you sure do need a shower.”

  That did it. This day felt like it had lasted a month. I got up and wiped blood and plaster dust off my face with the doctor’s scrubs still piled on the sofa, and walked over to look at my door, or what was left of it. “Here’s the deal, Alexander Warin,” I said as I studied the shattered panes. About two-thirds were broken but the wooden framework was intact so it could be saved. “I’m too tired to even think about this right now, and I sure don’t want to play flirt with the enforcer.”

  I turned to face him. “Let’s set a few ground rules. First, turn the sexist crap down a notch. Make that two notches. I’m sure lots of simpering women fall for your tall-dark-and-dangerous routine, so save it for the next simpering woman you see. It isn’t me.

  “If we have to be coworkers, fine—at least until we find Gerry. But if you think I won’t report you for sexual harassment, think again.” Of course, first I’d have to find someone to report it to. Somehow, I doubted the Elders would care.

  No response.

  “Second, if you’re going to be the cosentinel, we decide together the approach to take with interlopers like Jean Lafitte. You didn’t need to shoot him, and because you did, he’s going to come back looking for revenge, and I’ll be the one that has to deal with him, not you.”

  His mouth twitched.

  “Finally, can you keep the arsenal out of here? Especially grenades.” I shuddered. What kind of person walked around with a grenade clipped to his belt?

  He gave me a tight smile. “Here’s the deal. I’ll follow your lead on cases until you need me to step in, and I’ll decide when that is. The guns stay. A grenade’s the best thing to use on a zombie and this is New Orleans, after all, so it stays too. And you will learn how to use a gun. I need a backup I can count on.”

  He took a step closer and his voice had a soft, dangerous edge. “Kindergarten is over, DJ. As we say in Mississippi, if you want to play with the big dogs, you have to get off the porch.”

  I hated him. My fingers itched to grab his knife and poke it in his arrogant back, which would be easy since he’d turned away to look at the door.

  “We’ll need to patch over the missing glass. I have a small sheet of plywood in my trunk that will work, and I need to bring in my stuff. Which room will be mine? Needs to be downstairs.” He turned back to look at me, unaware that I’d been considering how he might enjoy a nice cup of tea laced with horsetail and birch oil to make hair grow out h
is ears.

  I searched his face for any sign he might be joking. I didn’t find one. “You’ve been working on police cases, so you must have been staying somewhere.” Competition for unflooded housing was fierce among relief workers and would only get worse as more people returned to the city.

  “I’ve been driving in as needed from my family’s place in Picayune,” he said. When I didn’t respond, he added, “Mississippi, about an hour north of here. I’ve been based in Jackson, covering the Southeast for the FBI’s prete force, but they’re putting me in New Orleans full time now. It’s too far to commute every day, so I need a place to crash.”

  Pain began throbbing behind my right eye again. “Since when does the FBI have a preternatural force?” Gerry had never mentioned it. I would have remembered.

  “Officially, it doesn’t.”

  Right. I tried to shake off the exhaustion settling over me. The room spun when I closed my eyes more than a blink. “Fine. You can stay here tonight and find a place tomorrow. There’s a daybed in the office right off the kitchen.” I watched as he arranged his weapons in a line on the sofa table. A tad obsessive, our enforcer.

  I pointed at the device he’d been looking at earlier. “What was that gizmo you had before, the one that looks like a cell phone?”

  Alex handed it to me. It had a larger screen than a phone, and no keypad. A glowing red ball blinked rapidly in the center of the screen.

  “Tracker,” he said. “Special enforcer issue. Helps us detect magical energy, sort of like a homing device. I’ll have to calibrate it so your energy doesn’t interfere with anything coming in from the Beyond. You’re all that’s showing up on it now that Lafitte’s gone—it’s how I knew he was here. The Elders are supposed to send us a bigger one in a few days.”

  Great. I’d been reduced to a blinking red dot. I handed it back without comment, shuffled my bloody feet to a nearby chair, and flopped. Never mind the upholstery. The energy I’d used fighting Lafitte was catching up with me, not to mention the stress of Gerry’s disappearance, the horror of seeing all the Katrina destruction, and the appearance of the enforcer. I closed my eyes and waited for the sensation of vertigo to pass.

  A few minutes later, I heard chairs being pulled across the floor. I flinched and cracked an eye open as he positioned one facing me and sat in it. He pulled another chair alongside him.

  “What are you doing?” Did I really want to know?

  He opened a black case he’d set next to his chair and pulled out wet wipes and a long pair of tweezers. My first aid kit, which I guess he’d found rummaging through my kitchen. It had been a popular spot for plunderers today.

  He handed me one of the wet wipes. “Here, use that on your face.”

  I didn’t argue. It felt good after the heat and the blood and the plaster and the floor. My cheek felt swollen and throbbed in sync with my headache. I’d probably look like an abuse victim by morning.

  “You need to get that glass out of your legs. Put them here.” He grabbed an ankle and yanked it onto the chair next to him. What was it with guys pulling on my ankles today?

  I jerked it back. “I can do it myself, thanks. Go away.”

  He lugged my leg back in place, holding it immobile with one hand, and stared at me until I quit squirming. “It’ll be easier if I do it. If you’ll shut up and sit still it won’t take long.” He began tweezing slivers of glass from my skin.

  He only had my right leg immobilized and seemed to have forgotten I had another one. I raised my left foot to push him away but in one smooth motion he grabbed that ankle and pinned it too. Bully.

  “I assume you’re mainstreamed,” he said, tugging on a slice of red glass embedded deeply enough to make my eyes water when it came out. The stained-glass panes had been red, blue, green, and gold. Made for a colorful leg.

  “I’m mainstreamed as a risk-management consultant for Tulane University.”

  He paused, tweezers in midair, and gave me a skeptical look. “Which is what, exactly?”

  “Minimizing insurance and lawsuit liability. It’s a cover.” Well, not entirely, but I could almost see a neon sign above my head flashing the word geek.

  He snorted. “Hope they don’t have to call you too often. You can’t seem to manage your own risks very well, much less anyone else’s.”

  I’d have kicked him if I had access to my feet. Instead, I watched him pick out the glass for a while, then closed my eyes again and let him go at it. At least I’d shaved my legs this morning, so I was spared that humiliation.

  The sound of hammering startled me from a doze. How long had I been asleep? I couldn’t believe I’d fallen asleep with an assassin hovering over me with tweezers.

  Alex had already put the first aid kit away, found my toolbox, and was nailing a piece of plywood to my antique cypress door. I groaned in defeat. I’d do damage control on the house tomorrow. Tonight, as long as he left me alone, Mr. Fixit could do whatever charged his chain saw.

  To give him credit, he offered to finish cleaning up. It was almost six p.m., my head was pounding, and my arms sported blackening bruises in the shape of Jean Lafitte’s fingers.

  I got a few things from the truck and unearthed a couple of fluorescent lanterns from the back of the pantry, one for each of us.

  I yawned. “Guess I should reestablish my security wards. Storm tore them down.”

  Expressionless, Alex stared at me and tossed the grenade up and down, catching it without looking.

  “Then again, I guess you can handle anything that comes along.”

  I sidled out of the parlor and left him alone, heading upstairs with my headache, a cereal bar, and a lantern. The enforcer should be a sufficient security system for one night.

  SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 17, 2005 “Today in New Orleans, a traffic light worked. Someone watered flowers. And anyone with the means to get online could have heard Dr. John’s voice wafting in the dry wind, a sound of grace, comfort and familiarity here in the saddest and loneliest place in the world.”

  —CHRIS ROSE, THE TIMES–PICAYUNE

  CHAPTER 11

  I woke to stillness, a new New Orleans reality. Birds no longer sang in the trees; they’d either flown off in their own hurricane evacuation or been blown to Ohio. The streetcar lines had been destroyed, so no sounds of rumbling metal broke the quiet. River traffic hadn’t resumed, so no foghorns boomed through the riverside neighborhoods. The evacuation hadn’t been lifted, so little traffic moved on the streets. The soundtrack that ran behind life in New Orleans had fallen silent.

  My bedside clock remained blank and dark, and the house already felt steamy. I lounged in the throes of half sleep for a minute or two before thoughts of Gerry and my new partner jolted me awake. I groaned and buried my face in the pillow. I was stiff and sore. The list of body parts that didn’t hurt was shorter than the ones that ached.

  I had washed off most of the blood last night using bottled water and sterile wipes from the first aid kit, and then had fallen asleep without pulling back the covers. I was seriously overdue for a shower.

  I peered cautiously into the tub and turned on the water. The plumbing knocked and complained, but after a few spits a steady flow streamed out of the faucet. It looked like water, which was a positive sign. I wet my fingers and held them to my nose. The water didn’t smell bad—or no worse than usual. I’d read online at Gran’s that you could probably use it for bathing without boiling it first.

  The probably part was scary. Almost as scary as the herds of tiny gnats that had begun swarming out of the drains. A local academic had identified them as “coffin flies.” Ick.

  For now, however, grime trumped health concerns in my post-Katrina version of rock-paper-scissors, and I braved the shower. Maybe the coffin flies would drown.

  The soap lathered and the shampoo got sudsy, but nothing else felt right. Jean Lafitte and the enforcer had diverted my attention last night, but now Gerry’s disappearance claimed its place of priority. My heart felt too large
for my chest, the effort of filling and releasing air from my lungs too ponderous. My memories before I’d come to live with Gerry existed only in fragments. The clear memories, the deep ones that formed the bedrock of my every thought, every movement—he lived in all of them. I didn’t know how to spend my days without having him at least a phone call away, where he’d been every minute for the last eighteen years.

  I stood in the tub, staring at the tile, water cascading over my head and running down my body in rivulets. It had covered my feet before I even realized I’d dropped the washcloth. I bent down and pulled it out of the drain, and then scrubbed it across my face, not sure if I was wiping away tap water or tears.

  This wasn’t accomplishing anything. I swallowed down the bad thoughts, the ones that kept whispering he’s gone. I’d focus on what I could do today and let tomorrow take care of itself. Today, I’d go to Gerry’s house. I’d call Tish and tell her about his disappearance. I’d see if I could find a datebook in his study and start making a list of his recent contacts.

  When he came home, I’d do whatever he asked me to do and be happy for it. I’d never bitch about pixie-retrieval again. I’d debate arcane issues and laugh with him and appreciate the normalcy of it. We’d figure out a way to help New Orleans recover from this mess. When Gerry came back, everything would be okay.

  And the sooner I found him, the sooner Bullet Boy could be on his way back to Jackson. He was probably downstairs now, planning target practice, leafing through a copy of Guns & Ammo, and thinking of ways to undermine me with the Elders.

  I towel-dried my hair and opened a window, wishing for a rain to cool things down. Ironic how dry it had been since Katrina, as if the city had used up its quota of water for the rest of the year. I left the window open, figuring it would be safe enough during the daytime, at least for a while. I wasn’t sure how Jean Lafitte had found out where I lived, but it should be a week or two before he was strong enough to cross over from the Beyond again.

  That had been some fight—my first real physical battle. Despite Alex’s late arrival, I thought I’d done pretty well considering I didn’t have any advance warning and was magically unarmed. The smoke bomb was a stroke of genius. I couldn’t wait to tell Ger—