She looked like she might be sick. She swallowed before answering. “No, but you’ve helped me realize something.”
“And that is?”
“You need to go.” She shook her head, eyes shining with unshed tears. “I can’t be in this house with you.” A muscle in her jaw twitched and her words came out thick with emotion. “You’re not a bad guy, you’re really not, but you’re a constant reminder of everything I never had. Of everything I’ll never get a chance to have.” She turned away and headed downstairs. “I’m sorry, but the moment this house is legally mine, I want you out.”
Chapter Twelve
Augustine couldn’t remember a time in his life when he’d had to set an alarm. The annoying buzz in his ear made him hope he’d never have to do it again. Normally, he’d be coming home at this hour, not waking up and heading out. Life as Guardian was going to take some getting used to. He smacked the old folding travel clock scrounged from one of the guest bedrooms, silencing the alarm, and pushed himself upright.
His chest still throbbed from the brand. He reached for the pot of salve Yanna had given him. The pain had made falling sleep last night difficult. That and the guilt over the upset he’d caused Harlow. He rubbed some of the ointment over the fleur-de-lis. He shouldn’t have started up with her, but she vibrated with acrimony anytime anyone said a word about being fae or Olivia and he couldn’t abide it.
Livie hadn’t even been eulogized yet. He closed his eyes and groaned, realizing Lally had been left to take care of all the arrangements. Tipping his head back, he swore he’d do whatever she needed him to as soon as he got back from meeting Fenton.
He lumbered into the bathroom, hoping a hot shower would wake him up enough to function until he could get some coffee. It did, reminding him halfway through that he hadn’t done a thing with the weapons roll. Rinsing off, he snagged a towel, wrapped it around his waist and hustled back to the sitting area at the far end of the attic. He grabbed the roll and unfurled it onto the sofa where he’d tossed it last night.
The thickness was mostly because the leather was well padded, but there were still a fair number of weapons inside. Including one that looked like it had seen better days. A banged-up, tarnished hilt held a rough gray stone in its pommel, which was all that was visible, but beneath the leather, the blade’s length matched the roll’s. Unquestionably a sword. The size of its compartment within the roll also meant it was probably stored in its own carrying sheath.
He unzipped the compartment and took the weapon out. He’d been right. Black leather encased the blade, a black-buckled strap hanging down. So far, the sheath was a lot nicer than the weapon. He fitted his palm to the hilt and drew the weapon out. A real clunker. The dinged, warped blade was pitted with nicks and gouges. He gave the weighty thing a halfhearted swing. Little chance this blade could cut through anything.
A slip of paper stuck out of the top of the sheath. He set the sword down and pulled out the paper.
Hold firmly to the sword’s hilt, then read these words: Peto hoc gladio per Guardianus scriptor rectus.
Why not. He picked the sword up, wrapping his fingers around the hilt and applying pressure, then held it out before him. “Peto hoc gladio per Guardianus scriptor rectus.”
Pain shot through his hand like his palm had been set on fire. He opened his fingers and dropped the blade onto the sofa. Pinpricks of blood covered his skin. He looked at the sword’s hilt in time to see tiny, blood-covered, needle-thin prongs disappearing into the metal. They vanished so thoroughly there was no way of telling they’d been there.
The entire sword changed. The blade gleamed with fresh polish, all signs of age and wear gone. The hilt was no longer tarnished, but wire-wrapped and burnished to a soft shine.
The tiny cuts had already healed, but he wiped the blood off on the towel. Then he picked up the sword again, this time by the pommel. The stone it held was no longer a rough gray, but a gleaming black cabochon. When he stared into it, it seemed to… stare back.
And now the weapon weighed almost nothing. He swung it in a figure eight, unreasonably pleased with the way it sang through the air.
Fae magic. That was the only explanation. He’d ask Fenton when he saw him, but Augustine had a feeling that the sword was also now tuned to him in some way. He grabbed another blade, a small dagger, and exchanged it with the one he normally carried there. Whatever else remained in the weapon roll would have to wait. Being late for his first official day as Guardian would only firm up Loudreux’s belief that he wasn’t fit for the job.
He dressed quickly, strapping the sword on under his black leather duster so it sat low on his hips, then went out through his bedroom window so he wouldn’t wake Harlow or Lally, although Lally was probably already up.
The gray, drizzly day showed no signs of breaking. He turned his collar up against the damp and started toward the cemetery. On the empty street in the still-dark hour, his only company was the patter of rain and the rustle of leaves.
A few blocks and he turned onto Prytania, stopping when he reached the cemetery gates. He glanced both ways. A few of the prep cooks stood outside of the Commander’s Palace restaurant at the end of the block, but they were busy talking to each other. Satisfied he wasn’t being watched, he pressed his fingertips together and called upon his magic. As he eased his fingers apart, sooty lines danced between them. Using mental direction, he guided the smoke into the lock.
The soft heat of the magic work warmed his bones as the form solidified into a key. At last, he snapped his fingers away to break the connection and turned the key.
The gate creaked open, announcing his presence. He started to cringe, then remembered he was Guardian. He could do as he pleased. Hell, he could have leaped the gates without a care for someone seeing him. The realization lightened his steps. He removed the key, shut the gate and relocked it, then crushed the key in his hand, returning it to smoke that drifted away to blend into the gray sky.
Lafayette Cemetery Number One was a popular tourist destination. Why had Fenton wanted to meet here? He picked his way through the rows of grave sites looking for the Miller crypt. At last, one row away from the very back corner, he found it by way of the cypher in front of it.
Fenton sat on the crypt’s crumbling steps, sipping coffee. Guz and Rat, the goblin fae who’d been with him the night of Livie’s murder, stood a few crypts away. Bodyguards, maybe.
“Morning. How’s the brand?”
“Almost healed.”
“How did you enter the cemetery?”
Augustine glanced back toward the gates. “Smoke key.” Was this a test?
Fenton nodded. “Good enough, but slow. If you were being chased, how would you have come in?”
“Same way, I guess. Or over the wall. I could jump that.”
“And your pursuers would have seen you.” Fenton shook his head. “What about coming through the wall?”
Augustine smirked. “I’m not a ghost.”
Fenton frowned. “No, you’re a self-taught fae. Which is fine, but there is so much more you can do.” He tapped his finger on his chin. “You’re part shadeux, part smokesinger. Your half form should render you ephemeral enough to pass through walls. Is that not the case?”
Augustine shrugged. “I have no idea. I never tried.”
“It should be doable,” Fenton said. “No matter. I know your education has a few holes. We’ll work on that. Now, on to the crypt.”
“Good. I was beginning to wonder why we were here.” The crypt was in worse shape than most of the others, the grass and weeds around it robust with abandon. In places, the plaster had fallen away to reveal the brick beneath. Nothing about this mausoleum made it seem like anything special. Was he supposed to know the Miller family? He didn’t.
Fenton stood and turned toward the crypt’s stone door. “Why don’t I show you?” On one side of the dull marble door was a rusted metal sconce designed to hold flowers. Fenton grabbed it and twisted.
Augustine
expected it to come off in Fenton’s hand. Instead, the door swung back so quietly there was no way the hinges weren’t oiled regularly.
Augustine shook his head. “You have got to be kidding me.”
Fenton twisted the sconce again and the door shut. “You try it.”
Augustine climbed to the second step, grabbed the sconce and turned it. The door opened.
“Do you know why that’s possible?” Fenton asked.
“Fae magic?” There was a lot of that going around. And a lot he didn’t know, apparently.
“Yes, but it’s not like any fae could walk up and do that.”
“Is this another shadeux/smokesinger thing?”
“No.” Fenton undid two buttons and pulled the neck of his shirt to the side. He bore the same silver fleur-de-lis brand that had been seared into Augustine’s chest last night. “This mark does more than just show you’re the Guardian. All of us who serve bear it and the magic imbued in it is what grants us access to the most secret places.”
“Us? How many is that exactly?”
Fenton went up the steps and through the door. “It’s a fluid number, but as many as there needs to be.”
“Oh good, straight answers. I love those.”
Fenton looked back at Augustine from the murky depths of the tomb. “Coming?”
Augustine entered the crypt. Cobwebs and caskets lined the walls, filling the crypt’s shelves. “I’d ask what we’re doing in here, but I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”
“Watch and learn.” Fenton reached for another sconce, this one with a candle stub in it, and twisted as he had the first one. The door slid shut, leaving them with only the light filtering in from the cracked stained-glass window on the back wall. Fenton turned to face it. Augustine mimicked his actions.
A panel in the floor in front of the window slid back beneath the casket on the right side. “Stay close to the door when you enter or you’ll fall down the stairs when this opens.”
Stairs? But there they were, descending into where, he had no idea. They were hewn from the same marble as the crypt’s door, the center of each tread eroded as though they’d been heavily traveled. Soft light emanated from whatever was down below.
“Follow me.” Fenton headed down without waiting.
“To where exactly?” This felt like a lot of information.
“The Pelcrum. Our headquarters. We have much to do.” Fenton paused. “And you wanted to speak to the prisoner, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s go.” And down he went again.
Augustine followed, still perplexed. “How does this place even exist with the water table so high?”
“Through the power of complicated and ancient fae magic.” Fenton stopped when he got to solid flooring and waited for Augustine. “Have you heard of weaver fae?”
“Sure, they’re who build the charm and protection spells around fae houses, and who set the counter-spell to the witch’s curse so that vampires forget they can daywalk in New Orleans the second they leave parish boundaries.” Beyond Fenton was a long hall, all stone, with a couple of doors on the sides and one larger one at the end. Gas lanterns, like the ones used throughout the city, lit the way. “They’re our good witches.”
“Interesting you should mention witches.” He lifted a finger. “Remind me to speak about that later. As for the weavers, you’re exactly right. And New Orleans was privileged to be the home of one of the most powerful weavers ever born, Shavara.” He held his hand out toward the hall behind him. “She built the Pelcrum. With the help of a few other powerful fae. This is how New Orleans came to be a Haven city. The first, actually. She’s also the one who was able to mitigate the curse on the city.”
“Amazing.” Augustine felt like he was getting part of the education he’d missed out on. He moved his coat to the side to reveal the blade strapped to his hip. “She have anything to do with the sword you gave me?”
“Absolutely. That original spell was created by her, too.” Fenton smiled. “That sword is bound to you now. In anyone else’s hand, it will revert to the state you found it in.”
“Was it Khell’s before me?”
Fenton’s smile faded. “Yes.”
Time to change the subject. “So you—we—keep prisoners down here?”
“Prisoners we don’t intend to release, yes. We keep some other things down here as well.”
“I’m sure the vampire loved being hauled through the cemetery.” Vampires couldn’t tolerate sacred ground, be it a church or a cemetery.
“We did it as quickly as possible, but no, he wasn’t a fan. I’m sure he’s recovered by now, though.” Fenton glanced down the hall. “Are you ready?”
“Since the night you took him into custody.” The memory brought with it grief and anger. “I know you did that to force me into the Guardianship.”
“I did it to keep you from digging a deeper hole than you were already in. You would have killed that vampire, correct?”
“Damn straight.”
“Which would have prevented us from interrogating him and finding out why these vampires are flooding our city like rats. And caused you to be arrested.” Fenton’s face held an odd sadness. “I did what I thought necessary for both of us. Now, on to that prisoner.”
They went through the first door on the left and into a large room. On each side were cells. Phosphorescent paint coated the ceiling, giving the place an ambient glow.
Fenton pointed toward the end. “Very last cell. He’s all yours. Your brand will allow you to open the cell if you wish to conduct your interrogation more personally. Just turn the handle and you’ll be in.”
“Good to know. Any protocol I need to follow?”
“You’re the Guardian. Interrogate as you see fit. But within reason. The Prime wants him alive until this whole thing is resolved.”
“Loudreux is not my boss.”
“No, but working with him will make your life a lot easier than working against him. Trust me.” Fenton pulled the door open and made a move to leave. “Come through the door at the very end of the hall when you’re done and we’ll finish up the rest of your orientation.”
“Great, thanks.” Augustine strode toward the cell, fresh anger and determination driving him. Screw what Hugo wanted. Once this leech gave up his boss’s location, Augustine would take great pleasure in making the vampire who’d taken Livie’s life his first official kill.
He stopped in front of the cell Fenton had indicated, but couldn’t see anyone inside. The cell looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in ages. He peered closer, cold realization settling in at what he was seeing. He uttered a vile curse. “Fenton!”
The cypher came running back in. “What?”
Augustine turned to him, fists clenched, barely able to control his rage. “There is nothing in this cell but ash.”
Harlow’s desperate need for coffee boosted her courage to walk into the kitchen even though that probably meant running into Augustine, but he was nowhere in sight. Probably still in bed. And happily, there was a fresh pot at the ready. Today was looking up. She set her LMD on the table and made a beeline for the coffeemaker. “Augustine always sleep this late?”
“He’ll be here when he’s ready.” Lally sat at the table, paging through a newspaper. “You want breakfast?”
“Not yet, I’m—” Harlow stopped. “Is that a paper newspaper?”
Lally looked up over the edge of her glasses. “Yes, child. Haven’t you seen one of these before?”
“Yes, but not in a long time. I mean, I knew they’d made a resurgence since the price of electricity skyrocketed, but it doesn’t take that long to get your news online.”
“I like to linger. Read the whole story. Look at the ads. And I always recycle them—I can’t be paying no fine. I guess I’m what you call old-school. Although your mama used to read her news online.”
At the mention of her mother, Harlow went back to getting coffee. She grabbed the biggest mug
she could find, then filled it and added three heaping spoons of sugar and a large glug of creamer. “You could watch the holovision. Get your news that way.”
Lally didn’t look up this time. “Too much holovision bothers my eyes. And that still uses electricity. Your mother never cared, but that bill belongs to you now and I don’t want to be running up something I haven’t got permission to.”
So there it was. “You can watch the holovision whenever you want for as long as you’re here. When the house sells, there’ll be plenty of money to pay whatever bills are left.” Harlow sipped her coffee. And grimaced.
“Something wrong?”
Of course, now Lally was looking at her. “Coffee’s just… different than I’m used to.”
“It’s the chicory. It’s how we drink it here.” She set her paper down. “I’ve got some plain coffee. Your mama used to keep it for finicky visitors. You want me make some of that?”
“No, this is fine.” She forced a smile and took another sip, desperate not to be considered finicky in the eyes of this woman who was clearly judging her for her treatment of Olivia. Maybe she’d add more sugar. Right after she changed the subject. “Augustine said this place used to be a whorehouse.”
At the word, Lally’s brows shot up. “Many, many years ago, this building housed a brothel, yes.” She folded her newspaper and smoothed a hand over the crease. “In the way back, all those places were out in Storyville ’cept for this one.” Her fingers crept to the chain around her neck. “The place here catered to the fae. All the girls were fae, all the customers fae, and the magic that kept this place hidden from human eyes and human law was fae.”
“That’s why it lasted so long.” Harlow shivered with the implications. “Was it built by the fae, too?”
“Yes.” Lally picked up her paper. “And a lot of folks know the history of this place since the covenant broke. Not many humans want to buy a place thick with so much powerful magic and old fae history. Some think that old song ‘House of the Rising Sun’ was written ’bout this house. And some say it’s haunted.” She looked toward the center of the house. “Some days, I think it is.”
House of the Rising Sun Page 14
