Belle Chasse

by Suzanne Johnson

  “Adrian’s out,” I said. “Rene and Jean can’t go for the same reason as Collette; there’s no way for them to fight the wizards’ physical magic.”

  When the pirate opened his mouth to protest, I added, “I forbid you to make this journey, Jean.”

  He rewarded me with a flash of outraged blue eyes followed quickly by a growing look of amusement. God help me, we were way too compatible. Too bad Alex didn’t understand me half as well.

  For a nanosecond, Alex popped into my mind as a possible escort for Eugenie, but he couldn’t protect her without blowing his cover of loyalty with the Elders and putting himself in danger. Plus, I wasn’t sure he’d do it and it wouldn’t be fair for me to put him in the middle any more than he already was.

  I looked at Jean. “What about Christof?”

  The Faery Prince of Winter and the pirate Lafitte had formed an odd, unlikely friendship, although I hadn’t seen him since we’d all fled the disastrous Interspecies Council meeting. I assumed he was lounging around in Faery doing faery prince stuff, whatever that might be.

  “Would he be willing to run interference?” At Jean’s frown, I interpreted, “Would he agree to escort Eugenie and keep her safe?”

  I wasn’t sure what type of magic Christof had at his disposal other than manipulating the weather and changing his appearance, but elves couldn’t function in extreme cold, and Christof could freeze out any wizards who approached unexpectedly. The human meteorologists would be delighted.

  “Perhaps.” Jean crossed his arms and studied the wide cypress floor planks, his expression focused and determined. Thinking. Strategizing. In such a moment, I could easily see him organizing and commanding the thousand men he had under his command in his human life.

  About two centuries ago, he’d managed to play one nation against another so that he and his allies flourished. In the end, the world changed into a place where there was no room for a man like him, but for a couple of decades his power and wealth had been unrivaled in this part of the world.

  The room fell silent as we waited for Le Capitaine to weigh his options. I doubted Christof would help us. He and his brother, Florian, the Faery Prince of Summer, were locked in a struggle for power, anticipating the eventual death of their aunt, the childless Queen Sabine. Openly providing assistance to a member of “the opposition” could have negative political ramifications for him. And everyone currently living at Maison Rouge qualified as opposition.

  “Bah, I have no answers,” Jean declared. Judging by his sour expression, indecision didn’t suit him. “Christof is in Faery, and travel there is much too treacherous at this time. Mademoiselle Eugenie, you simply must not journey to Shreveport.”

  Eugenie’s red-eyed, teary gaze met mine, and I remembered the pain of losing Gerry, of losing Tish, of the look of stark pain on Rene’s face when his twin brother, Robert, had been murdered. We’d seen so much death, but at least we’d had the chance to publicly mourn our losses and say good-bye. Eugenie deserved to do the same.

  “DJ, I can’t miss my sister’s funeral.” Eugenie’s tears flowed freely. “How could I ever explain? I know they’re already trying to find me, and it’s adding one more worry. Even if I can’t stay long, I need to be at that funeral.”

  Yes, she did, and I only knew one way to make it happen.

  “Give me until tomorrow morning.” Ken had left word with Jake that the funeral mass was going to be held tomorrow afternoon. By then, I’d either find help or be dead. “I’m going to Faery to ask Christof for help.”

  Jean would shout and try to frighten me out of going, but I had no intention of going alone. He was going with me; he just didn’t know it yet.

  “Non! This is unacceptable!”

  Yep, there went the shout. Ignoring Jean’s bellows of protest, I returned to the study and retrieved my backpack and Charlie. By the time I reemerged into the entry hallway, the room was empty but for the outraged pirate. Everyone else had run like rats escaping the rising flood of Jean’s fury.

  “You shall not do this, Drusilla.” Jean’s dark-blue eyes sparked glints of warning. “You will put down your belongings and stop where you are, tout de suite.”

  I edged around him and marched toward the front door. It was almost a full mile to the transport out in the middle of Grand Terre Island and there was no time to waste. “Put a sock in it.”

  The thud of his boot heels followed me across the verandah and down the steps onto the wooden banquette. The sand crunched behind me as he trailed a few steps behind but didn’t try to stop me or even talk to me. He was too busy muttering to himself in French, probably trying to figure out what this had to do with socks. I stifled a grin. Jean would go with me to Faery because he hadn’t yet realized I’d figured out how to exploit both his masculine desire to be my protector and his obsession with being in charge.

  Dominique was on sentry duty at the transport, which had been etched deeply into the soil of a clearing up the hill from the beach. Despite it being late afternoon, the Beyond’s constant full moon still shone so brightly in its midnight-blue abyss it hurt my eyes to look at it directly, but it made the outlines of the transport clear even in the areas outside the range of the flambeau Dominique used for illumination.

  As soon as we’d arrived, Jean’s muttering had been aimed at his brother. Guess he needed to bitch at someone and knew I wouldn’t be receptive, or was trying to enlist Dom’s help in keeping me out of the transport without my using Charlie to burn off any of their body parts. My aim had improved.

  I interrupted their exchange. “Any clues as to the transport name I need to say?”

  Two pairs of eyes, one pair dark blue and the other brown, both annoyed, focused on me. “Tête de cochon femme,” Jean muttered.

  “Oui,” Dominique said. “Je vous l’avais bien dit.”

  Jean had either said I was pigheaded or outright called me a pig. I don’t know what else Dominique added, but he obviously agreed. They could call me whatever they wanted; my stubbornness would force Jean to go with me. He simply needed an extra nudge.

  “Fine. I’ll just transport to the name ‘Faery’ and see where I end up.” I knelt and held the staff toward the transport edge, knowing full well Jean would step in at the last second, if only to save me from myself. I might be impulsive, but I wasn’t stupid enough to go traipsing off to Faery alone. Jean didn’t know that, however.

  An inch before Charlie touched the transport edge, at which point I’d have to devise a new trick to manipulate him, Jean stepped in next to me, holding Dominique’s pistol in one hand and a dagger in the other.

  Heh.

  “Vous serez la mort de moi, Drusilla,” Jean hissed at me, then in a firm baritone pronounced, “Winter Palace, Faery.”

  Yeah, well, I might be the death of me, too. In fact, my death was much more likely than his. Plus, mine would be permanent. We’d find out once we arrived at the Winter Palace.

  Only as time and space compressed around us did it occur to me that I might need a coat.

  CHAPTER 6

  We landed in the middle of an empty room about ten feet across and perfectly round, its walls of solid ice rising around us and out of sight, as if they reached to heaven itself. Tiny rivulets of water cascaded down the smooth sides, making them glisten. Behind the water the walls were thin enough to reveal shadowy bulks beyond but too thick to see what the shadows were.

  “The Winter Palace is made of ice?” I tucked Charlie into my messenger bag and walked toward the edge of the room with my arm stretched out to touch the wall, but got only a single step before my feet went skating without me. I pinwheeled twice and did a graceless, spinning one-eighty before landing on my ass. Guess I’d waited too late to begin my figure-skating career.

  My bad-tempered escort stood in place with his arms crossed, looking down at me with a disapproving arch of dark eyebrows. “Did you expect that the Prince of Winter would live in a hot and dry desert, Drusilla?”

  Well, when he put it
that way.

  I tried to get up but couldn’t gain purchase even with my sturdy rubber-soled boots, which formed the height of fashion with the camo shorts that reached just below my knees and a red sweater full of holes. I held out a hand to Jean for a boost and he stared at it without moving.

  When would the pirate learn that I’d figured out how to play him?

  A threat to destroy the palace around us should work. “Hm … I wonder what would happen if I used the elven staff in this room?”

  I reached toward where Charlie stuck out the top of my messenger bag, prompting Jean to wedge the dagger beneath his belt, take a slow step forward, grab my arm, and hoist me to my feet much more roughly than I thought necessary. I almost pulled us both down.

  He let go of me and regained his solid footing. “You are a menace, Drusilla.”

  And I worked hard at it, merci beaucoup.

  Speaking of fire, I hadn’t felt the need to start my teeth-chattering, prancing-in-place-to-keep-warm routine, which was odd. Thanks to my fall, my legs were chilly and the backside of Rene’s shorts had gotten soaked to the hem. I sensed no need to go into hibernation, however.

  “Why isn’t it colder in here?”

  When Jean ignored me, I pulled the staff out of my messenger bag and poked him with it, just to remind him that I had it within my power to melt the whole Winter Palace of Faery. Not that I had any desire to spark yet another interspecies debacle. “You can be pissed off at me later. While we’re here, it might be helpful if we appeared to be on the same side.”

  Or at least on speaking terms.

  Jean sighed. “Très bien, but this headstrong behavior must be addressed when we return to Barataria, Drusilla.”

  Yeah, well, he could get in line behind Alex. “Why is it not cold in here when we’re surrounded by ice?” It was wet like melting ice, yet never really melted. There were no puddles.

  “This is the receiving chamber of Christof’s palace. He chooses not to encase his guests in true ice until he determines whether they are friend or foe.” Jean tucked the pistol’s barrel beneath his belt within easy reach and switched the short, triangular dagger to his right hand, but made no move to leave.

  Maybe because there was no door. I slowly pivoted a complete turn to make sure, being careful to move slowly in case I fell again and Jean refused to help me this time. No doors. No windows. Just ice. “How do we get out of here?”

  He shrugged. “We shall either be allowed to leave, or we shall not.”

  If he didn’t grow more forthcoming, I was going use Charlie to beat him over the head, which would get my point across without melting anything. “Jean…” I tried to put a warning of violence and mayhem in my voice.

  This time, when he glanced down at me, amusement had slipped back into his eyes. Yeah, he knew how to push my buttons, too. “We are being watched, Jolie, and weighed. These are dangerous times in Faery. If those who study us determine that our intent is to endanger Christof or his allies, we will find our last breaths to be cold ones indeed. If not, we will be allowed farther into the palace, perhaps to see Christof himself if he is in residence.”

  I pivoted again, trying to find a camera or other type of surveillance device. Nada. “How long will it take for us to be weighed and measured?” Sort of like fish.

  He shrugged. “As long as it takes.”

  Fab. It wasn’t exactly cold in our ice prison but neither was it toasty, especially with a wet butt. I tucked Charlie under my arm and stuffed my hands in the pockets of my shorts, trying to warm my fingers. In my right pocket, I found the envelope Ken had given me, forgotten amid the funeral crisis.

  Pulling it out, I slid a fingernail beneath the envelope’s seal and saw why it had been so heavy: A long chain tumbled into my palm, from which dangled a heavy gold locket in the shape of a paw print. I couldn’t help but smile even as a pang of homesickness cut through me. Leave it to Alex to find something that represented him—or his canine form, a monstrous dog-slash-pony I called Gandalf—without being overtly romantic. I slipped it over my head and let it slide beneath my sweater, near my heart.

  “A woman should receive protestations of love and gifts that reflect her beauty,” Jean said, eyeing my chest where the locket rested out of sight. “Not chains containing the feet of animals.”

  I opened my mouth to explain my own theory of romantic gifts, which had more to do with intent than appearance, but was silenced by the door that materialized in the wall before us. It, too, had been carved of ice, but rather than being clear, it shone a translucent, glistening ruby red. A perfect match for the gown of the woman who opened it a moment later.

  “You are Lafitte, I am told, and a friend of the prince.” She curtsied before Jean with the grace of a feline, which coordinated with the wild mane of amber curls that fell to her waist. “My name is Tamara. Christof is my brother.”

  I saw the family resemblance. Her moss-green eyes tipped up slightly at the corner and she was slender and fair-skinned, with the high cheekbones that the fae seemed to share. She had a good four inches on me in height, putting her at about five-eight.

  Her smile faded as she turned to me. “This one, we do not recognize.” She gave me the most thorough head-to-toe visual examination I’d had since trotting out some sexy new lingerie for Alex. “What are you?”

  “Drusilla is the consort of Jean Lafitte, official council representative of the historical undead and famous privateer,” said the man himself, snaking a hand around my waist and pinching my side along the way. I took that to mean he didn’t want me hauling my sentinel ID out of my bag, which was fine since I’d been fired anyway. “Unemployed wizard” wouldn’t make a very impressive business card.

  “Yes, consort,” I said, casually sliding Charlie up the inside of my right sleeve. This consort was packing heat in the form of an elven fire staff, a fact that was on a need-to-know basis as far as Tamara was concerned.

  She did a slow stroll around me while Jean held me in place. “So this is what human men enjoy in these times? She is wearing short trousers.” Tamara stopped behind me. “Damp trousers.”

  “Drusilla is beautiful, although her taste in clothing is quite deplorable,” Jean said, assuming a regretful tone that I’d heard before. “And she has entirely too many male suitors.” Ever tactful, he ignored the comment about my cold, wet ass.

  “More than one suitor? Her? Really?” Tamara stopped in front of me again, as if the idea were beyond belief.

  Okay, this was getting old. “Could you tell Christof…” I paused, gaping, as her bones transformed, liquefying and reshaping her into a shorter woman with shoulder-length honey-blond hair wearing a pair of camouflage long shorts and a ragged red sweater full of holes. Only her face hadn’t changed. I’d seen Christof look like everything from a California beach boy to Justin Bieber, but he’d never changed in front of me. Faeries gave shapeshifting a disturbing new twist.

  “Mon Dieu.” Jean pulled me against him more tightly. “You must stop this immediately, Princess Tamara. I must insist. And it is urgent that we speak to Christof. He will be most aggrieved if we are too long delayed.”

  Just as quickly as she’d morphed into a poor imitation of me, she morphed back into herself—if the tall lioness was her real self. Jean’s clutch on my waist lightened, but not much.

  “I do not see the attraction to her,” she sniffed, then switched back into a brisk tone. “Christof is not at the palace. If your business is urgent, you will have to find him in the capital, in his office at The Arch.”

  “What transport should we use?” I asked, earning a sharp look from Tamara and another pinch from Jean. Guess consorts shouldn’t ask intelligent questions.

  “Transport to the Tower Tavern,” she said. “It is neutral ground, and you should be able to get word to Christof from there without fear of Florian’s spies unless things have deteriorated since my last visit. I don’t have to remind you that Faery is never safe for strangers even in less dangerous times th
an these.”

  With those cheery words, she exited the red ice door, which disappeared behind her. How did they do that?

  “She was a total creepfest.” I wrested myself from Jean’s grasp. “And you were pinching your consort a bit hard, don’t you think?”

  Jean continued to frown at the icy spot where the door had been. “My apologies, Drusilla, but when she assumed your lovely visage, I felt I must hold the real woman in my grasp lest I fall prey to the false one.”

  “That freak show did not look like me.” I propped my hands on my hips. “She had the size and the hair and the clothes right, but her face never changed. Pointy chin, green eyes. I have a better nose than that.”

  Jean studied me a moment. “To my sight, she appeared just as you are. Perhaps your magic protects you from her glamour.”

  “Perhaps.” It had never protected me from Christof’s ever-changing faces and hairstyles. Speaking of which. “Have you been to the capital of Faery before?”

  “Non, although Christof has told me of it.” Jean stepped back into the transport that had been etched into the ice floor. “It is a place of wild magic, Drusilla. Are you certain you wish to embark on such a journey?”

  It would be so easy to say no, to have the transport toss us back to nice, warm Barataria. But Eugenie’s sad, desperate face would be waiting for us, maybe lit with a moment of hope before realizing I’d failed her. Christof was the only way I could think of to safely get her to Violette’s funeral and back. If he would help us.

  “I’m not certain that I want to go,” I told Jean, “but I’m certain that I must.”

  CHAPTER 7

  The first thing I saw when we materialized at the Tower Tavern was a black bear with human hands, wearing a Clemson sweatshirt and holding a frosted glass beer stein from a spot behind a long, highly polished wooden bar.

  The second was Florian, the Faery Prince of Summer, standing at the end of the bar and shooting a spinning ball of fire from his outstretched fingertip directly toward my head.