I was never, ever coming to Faery again, at least not willingly. These people and their world were insane. I was going to have to apologize to Jean for dragging him here, if we survived.
The melted ice in my hair blended with the sweat that had formed on my face from the sudden humidity, but at least I wasn’t in immediate danger of falling on my backside.
“Let us go in haste while we are able,” Jean said, breaking into a trot. I ran and he trotted rather than leave me in the dust, thanks to my shorter stride, but my regular morning runs with Alex paid off. By the time we reached the end of the next block and were almost knocked off our feet by a powerful blast of icy-cold air, Jean was breathing harder than I was.
He wrapped an arm around my shoulders and I held on to his waist as we leaned into the frigid wind. “Look—The Arch is just ahead!” Jean shouted, his voice sounding faint as it was carried and dispersed by the airborne currents.
I struggled to look ahead, but couldn’t see a damned thing. The wind hitting my face forced me to keep my eyes cast downward, which was the only thing that kept me from following Jean to the ground when a step appeared in front of us. He stumbled and caught himself on the third of what appeared to be a broad set of marble steps leading upward.
The wind died as quickly as it had begun. For the first time in what seemed like the hour it had taken us to cross that treacherous stretch of five or six city blocks, the air around us was neither hot nor cold. The sky overhead was a clear, robin’s egg blue.
We both stopped to gawk at what lay ahead of us. At the top of the marble stairs stood a neoclassical-style building constructed of what looked like tiny slivers of mosaic glass arranged to form shifting scenes of nature. A dense forest, layered with dappled sunlight and shade, remained static for a few seconds before some of the green and brown shimmers of glass shifted position or flipped around until, instead, we viewed an open sea with restless, shifting swells and a stormy sky.
A jaw-rattling explosion—or was it thunder?—broke the trance we’d been lulled into by the building, and I whirled to look behind us. Florian stood atop a boulder-size chunk of plaster from the ruined building next to the Royal Tower, his arms stretched heavenward.
“Run, Jolie! Courir!” Jean raced up the steps, not bothering to drag me behind him. “We must get inside!”
I followed but slowed to take another look over my shoulder at Florian, so I saw the fireball leave his hand. I doubted this one was a fake. I whipped Charlie out of my bag and shot a blast of fire toward his fireball; they collided in midair and exploded, harming nothing. I had no time to congratulate myself on my perfect aim, though; another of Florian’s fireballs followed. He’d shot two back-to-back.
“Jean, down!” I threw myself up a couple of steps, grabbed a black boot, and tackled the pirate a half second before the marble in front of us exploded, pelting us with a volley of sharp stone slivers.
Jean reached behind him and I grabbed his wrist. He dodged the damaged steps and put on a burst of speed to reach the top, never releasing his hold on me. The world shrank to noise and pain and motion. I wasn’t sure how much I ran and how much I was dragged.
Then it all stopped. Maybe I passed out. All I knew was that I returned to an awareness of my surroundings lying flat on my back in a sea of silence, looking up at a star-studded sky of midnight blue—until a familiar pair of almond-shaped green eyes looked down into mine. The face—high-cheeked, full-lipped, with a slightly upturned nose—was unfamiliar. I’d know those eyes anywhere, however. They were a mossier green than those of the evil prince, which meant it was the prince we’d been seeking.
“Christof?”
“Well, at least you’re alive, no thanks to my psychopathic brother.” He paused. “Although you stink of canine. You didn’t bring a dog here, did you?”
He helped me sit up, and I realized I wasn’t outside anymore but lying on the floor in the hallway of a large building; the night sky was a ceiling, an illusion of shadow and light. The marble floor, a confection of blue tones with white veins streaking through it, was spattered with blood. Charlie lay on the floor beside me, as did my messenger bag.
“No dog.” I really needed a bath, apparently. What I didn’t see around me was my pirate. Panic tightened my throat and I fought the urge to strike out. “Where’s Jean?”
“Here, Jolie.” I finally spotted him across the wide hallway from me, next to broad double doors of dark wood. He, too, sat on the floor, leaning against the wall, his face covered in small bloody cuts, one leg bleeding heavily. “How is she, Christof?”
“You’re both going to be sore tomorrow but nothing serious. You were lucky. What the hell are you doing here? Don’t you know the capital is a war zone?” Christof cursed as another explosion outside sent what sounded like a rain of marble chips against the doors.
“Come farther inside The Arch. Now that you’re here, DJ, maybe you can set up a transport we all can use. I think Florian’s blown up the one outside. Never mind that he might need to use it himself, the fool.”
He pulled me to my feet, and I took a quick assessment of my body parts while the faery prince helped Jean up. Both knees had been scraped, and blood ran freely down my right leg. My left thigh, still sore from the gunshot wound, screamed at me when I took an experimental couple of steps, but it held my weight. Everything ached but nothing was broken.
“Has something happened? Does Florian always greet visitors this way?” I watched as Jean took a few steps. Other than a slight limp, he, too, looked to have escaped serious injury.
“Sabine has taken ill,” Christof said, flipping a switch on the wall that raised the cover to a monitor. The screen showed a view out the front of the building, where a monsoon seemed to be falling now. “And as you can see, Florian is trying to kill me so he can claim the throne without challenge.” His voice took a sarcastic edge. “It’s so much easier than winning the trust of the majority and letting the people choose their leader.”
“If everybody knows he’s insane, it probably is easier,” I said, and when he arched an eyebrow at me, added, “Sorry.”
“No need to apologize. Truth is truth.” Christof shut down the monitor. “Come to my office and let’s see about that transport. You both need to get out of Faery, and I need an escape hatch Florian doesn’t know about.”
We followed Christof down a back hallway ending in another set of wide double doors. Open doorways along the corridor had revealed a number of offices and what looked like laboratories. I’d seen nothing that looked even vaguely archlike.
He opened the doors into a plush office the size of my burned-down house in Uptown New Orleans. Two walls held banks of monitors showing different scenes, including the view out the front of the building. The monsoon continued to rage.
“Hold on a minute.” Christof sat at a polished desk the dimensions of a queen-size bed and began furiously tapping at a computer keyboard.
On the monitors showing the front of the building, the fall of heavy rain began to slant, coming at a ten-degree angle, then twenty, then thirty. When it was almost horizontal, Christof punched another set of keys, and a wind stiff enough to rip the awnings off a couple of buildings on the capital street blew the rain offscreen. Within moments, a thick fall of snow had taken its place.
“Well, that should take care of the son of a bitch for a little while.” Christof slammed his keyboard tray back under his desk and propped on his elbows, studying us. “We have a few minutes, so tell me why you risked coming here before we get to the transport.”
“Uh, about that.” I limped over to a chair on the other side of the desk and fell into it. “My magic—elven or wizard—didn’t work on the transport at the tavern. My wizard’s potions don’t work at all here, but the elven staff does. Do you think it would work in this building?”
Christof threw up a long, slender hand in a dismissive wave. It was pale against his black sweater and slacks. He could’ve gotten dressed out of Alex’s closet. “Mick
’s is a neutral transport, which means both Arch and Academy power has gone into it. Your wizard’s magic won’t work in The Arch, but your elven magic will. You can establish a transport here and power it with the staff you carry.”
“What are The Arch and The Academy?” I pushed myself to my feet, yanked my portable magic kit from my bag, and began laying down the interlocking circle and triangle of a small transport in an open corner of the office floor.
“It is the magic of Faery, what in human terms might be called nature and science. There is always tension, and in The Asylum are those who’ve tried to combine the two.” Christof handed Jean a small cigar that I recognized; Jean provided them in bulk to Rene, who I suspect sold them on the sly. I gave a delicate cough when they both lit up, which they ignored. Maybe they wouldn’t know I reeked of dog if they smoked awhile.
“Those are the Hybrids, like Mick at the tavern?”
“Yes, Mick is one of the fortunate Hybrids. Some are quite … odd.” Christof shrugged, obviously not thinking a ginormous human-bear qualified as odd. “This building houses The Arch, symbolizing the laws of nature. At the opposite end of Tower Street is The Academy, our center of physical law. What are you using for the transport?”
“Iron filings—they’re strongest.” I seemed to remember some fae lore about cold iron and paused. “Should I use something else? Salt isn’t as strong but it will work.”
“Iron is fine here. In The Academy it would be deadly. Florian and I are Queen Sabine’s oldest living family members who possess both Arch and Academy magic—required to be the monarch of Faery.” Christof paused. “Before you power the transport, tell me why you’re here. It must have been important for you to take such a risk.”
While I explained about the death of Eugenie’s sister, and our suspicion that it was a trap meant to lure her out of the Beyond, Christof approached me, his green eyes scanning my face, my neck, and my body. Then his gaze zoomed back toward my neck and he used one finger to lift the chain and tug the golden paw locket from beneath my sweater. “What is this?”
I tugged it away from him. “A gift.” None of his faery business.
“What is in the locket?” He reached for it again, and I took a step backward. I hadn’t even opened the locket, but now I did. Inside was a fuzzy tuft of golden fur that looked suspiciously like that of Alex’s canine alter ego, Gandalf.
“Hair of the Dog.” Christof’s sharp nose wrinkled as if he’d smelled week-old fish. I smelled nothing, but wondered if Alex had put the fur in the locket as an anti-faery charm. We’d learned recently that the fae hated dogs because dogs could see through their glamour and know what they really looked like.
Holy crap. The locket was why I had seen through Tamara’s attempt to change into me, and why Florian’s image in the mirror had changed but what I saw in front of me hadn’t. I doubted Alex had known the locket would have such a useful effect, but I loved him for it anyway. I thought it wisest not to share any of it with Christof—or Jean, at least for now.
“My boyfriend gave it to me; he’s a canine shifter,” I said. “I apologize for the reek.”
“No harm.” Christof shrugged. “Now, back to dear Eugenie’s sister. Who do you think is behind her murder?”
“The elves could be behind it, since Quince Randolph wants to get his hands on her until his child is born,” I said. When Jean cleared his throat, I reluctantly added, “Or the wizards, who think producing her and turning her over to Rand will help their alliance with the elves.”
I noted after the fact that I’d said their alliance, not our alliance. Despite my protestations otherwise, I’d stopped thinking of myself as one of the wizards.
“Abominable, in either case. And how is my lovely Eugenie?” Talk about unlikely friendships. Christof had taken an immediate liking to her during their one or two encounters, and I was pretty sure I disapproved.
“She’s determined to go to Violette’s funeral, but since we’re sure it’s a trap, we can’t figure out who could protect her and make sure she got there and back safely. I wanted to ask you, although, to be fair, Jean warned me that it was risky to come here. I insisted.” An apologetic look toward Jean earned me a small smile, but it was free of I told you so. “It looks like you have your hands full.”
Christof paced the room, his hands steepled in front of his chin. “If I have a transport in and out of The Arch, I should be able to leave long enough to accompany her and then return before Florian causes too much damage. I have allies who can protect my holdings,” he said. “But there’s one thing I feel the need to ask.”
Jean and I looked at each other. “What is it, mon ami?”
“How well is Eugenie guarded in Barataria, with both of you gone?” Christof leaned against the edge of his desk. “How do you know this wasn’t a ploy to distract you and take her while you were away?”
This time when Jean and I exchanged glances it was with a rising sense of fear; his alarm grew as quickly as mine. It hadn’t even occurred to me.
I moved faster to complete the transport, then went to get Charlie and my bag. She had to be okay. She was far from alone.
“The loups-garou are with her,” Jean said. “Also our mutual friend Rene. The vampires. My brother. She is guarded.”
Eugenie didn’t have to be alone to be vulnerable, though, and we all knew it.
We stepped into the transport, and this time when I knelt to touch the tip of the staff to the interlocking circle and triangle and directed it to “Maison Rouge, Old Barataria,” Charlie emitted a satisfying burst of energy.
Within seconds, we landed in the transport on Grand Terre, which lay unguarded. The mile-long run toward the house seemed to take forever, but we finally limped up, breathless and afraid.
The front door stood open, and inside we could see the entry hall, its floor littered with bodies.
CHAPTER 9
As soon we reached the verandah, Jean raced ahead to the blood-covered body of his half-brother, kneeling beside Dominique and placing a hand against his chest. Even I didn’t need to feel for a pulse to tell he was dead; Jean was going through the motions, and my skin absorbed the tangled ball of anger and anguish wafting off him. A baseball-size chunk had been torn from the side of Dominique’s neck.
Undead or alive, a pirate couldn’t survive the loss of a carotid artery, at least not in the short term.
Christof ran past me into the hallway and out of sight, following a snarling, enormous red wolf. I took a deep breath, said a quick prayer, and knelt next to the body of another wolf. Then I asked for forgiveness for being thankful that this injured loup-garou was Collette and not Jake, or at least it was a female. She was alive, her breath coming in shallow pants. When I touched her shoulder, she opened wide brown eyes and emitted a high-pitched whine, struggling to get up and snapping at me simultaneously.
I fought the urge to move away or show fear, not easy since she’d missed chomping off a finger by mere inches. “You’re safe, Collette, and Jake is okay.”
As was the case with Jake in his wolf form, I wasn’t sure how much her wolf understood but assumed there was at least some cognizance of friend versus enemy. I pressed her shoulders back to the floor, and she let me. “You don’t need to move or shift back into human form until you’ve healed more. Stay here.” Weres and shifters healed better in their animal forms. “Jake is fine; I’m going to find him.”
And also to find Eugenie, I hoped.
The wolf’s responding whine sounded like a yes to me, plus the sounds of shouting and breaking glass had begun filtering down from upstairs, and the stench of blood, thick in this room, threatened to empty what little food was left in my system.
The noise also was enough to bring Jean back to his feet. The anger wafting from him surpassed even that he’d expressed toward Etienne Boulard, the vampire who’d betrayed him so badly back in early November. I knew better than to remind him that Dominique would revive; he was fueled both by Jean’s memories and his own
remembered role in New Orleans history. Jean knew that, but it didn’t lessen the pain.
Plus, he’d not tolerate such an invasion of his home and his family.
A writhing pile of vampires formed a bloody, fanged tangle at the top of the staircase. I recognized Terri Ford’s bright red hair, and closed my eyes at the sight of Adrian Hoffman baring fangs and snapping off part of another vampire’s ear. It might haunt my dreams forever.
Jake’s wolf had bulldozed into the mix, and now, with the fight coming to a conclusion, he stopped to howl, dark-maroon vampire blood dripping from his jaws. Chill bumps spread up my arms at the feral, celebratory wail.
What was there to celebrate—more bloodshed? And where the hell was Eugenie? A few of the vampires had fled down the stairway when Jean and I had come running up. Had others gone ahead and taken Eugenie?
“Jacob, donner la chasse!” Jean shouted, stopping the wolf in mid-howl. Jake’s loup-garou looked briefly at his master—I had to call it what it was because, unlike me, Jake had chosen sides without a backward glance. He loped down the stairs and out the open front door in search of the vampires who’d escaped.
Damn it, the big transport I’d set up on the island for Rene to bring in supplies was still open, giving them an easy highway back to whoever hired them. No way they were acting on their own. As soon as the political struggles began, the vampires had been consistently loyal to whoever paid the most or made the most promises.
I pulled Charlie out, slipped my messenger bag over my head, and dumped it on the stairs. “I’m going to shut down that transport before any more of them can escape,” I shouted to Jean, although I doubted he heard me. Wielding his dagger, he was engaged, along with Adrian and Terri, in fending off the remaining vampire, a woman I’d never seen. Hired fangs, maybe. But hired by whom? Maybe Terri, Adrian’s vampire paramour, could give us the answers—she’d apparently used the attack as a way to get out of Vampyre. I just hoped she was loyal to Adrian and not to her leaders.
At the front door, I froze when Christof came up the front steps carrying Rene Delachaise. My heart stopped, hitched, and then raced. “Is he…?”
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