Pirate's Alley by Suzanne Johnson
CHAPTER 1
I’d spent the last five minutes contorted into the wizard version of a pretzel. Damn it, what was the point of being a hotshot sentinel with mad elven fire skills if you couldn’t put those skills to good use?
I’d been trying to simultaneously turn the starter valve and the gas release to ignite a gas log fireplace. To do it properly, I’d need the wingspan of a bald eagle and a healthy body. Thanks to a compact frame from my Alabama ancestors and a gunshot wound and bruised ribs caused by the crazed elven version of Lizzie Borden, I had neither.
Besides, who’d know if I cheated and used a little magic?
I turned the gas valve, and the nausea-inducing odor of rotten eggs filled the living room of Eugenie Dupre’s house.
“Oh God, I’m gonna be sick.” My best friend raced down the hallway with a thunder of boot heels and her hand clapped over her mouth. Her face turned a sickly shade of pale green that clashed with her auburn hair.
Ignoring the mental nag that reminded me how often I’d criticized my father Gerry for saying the same thing about his casual use of magic, I flicked a spark of energy against the gas, watching with inordinate pride as a neat row of flames danced into motion around the ceramic fake log. Anytime my magic involved fire and didn’t destroy something or cause an explosion, I considered it a victory.
My victories have been rare.
I slipped my right arm back into its sling, closed the protective mesh fire screen, and waited for the last of the gas fumes to dissipate, soaking the warmth into my skin. New Orleans was rarely pleasant in winter, never mind that winter only lasted about eight weeks. During those weeks, the air hung heavy and damp, constantly buffeted by a cold and bitter wind.
Every once in a while, though, we’d have a true winter. I’d even seen snow once or twice in my lifetime, including Christmas Day 2004, before Hurricane Katrina struck the following August. A white Christmas in New Orleans should have been a hint that the apocalypse, or the New Orleans magical version of it, was fast approaching. The hurricane had not only led to the failure of the levees and almost destroyed my hometown, but its barometric pressure had turned the border between the human world and the preternatural Beyond into a sieve. The city had been flooded with pretes.
Preternatural creatures were like poor relations after a big lottery win. Once you let them inside, they have no inclination to leave. First, they wore down the wizards and persuaded our Elders to form an Interspecies Council to set magical policy. Now, they had the gall to actually demand representation on the council. Negotiations were chilly.
Almost as chilly as the weather. November’s balmy and thunderous weather had given way to plummeting temperatures as we headed into mid-December. If we were lucky, today’s high might climb to a toasty thirty-three, with snow flurries. Other parts of the world might scoff, but damn it, I was freezing. I’d never tolerated cold well but this year had been worse, and my injured shoulder ached more with every falling degree.
Eugenie clattered back into the high-ceilinged living room and collapsed on the worn orange sofa, a garage-sale find we’d lugged home in my old Pathfinder a few years ago. That would be the Pathfinder turned into a twisted metal carcass by an errant shot of my elven staff, aka Charlie. I missed the SUV. Actually, I missed driving. Since I’d also inadvertently caused the destruction of a rental car, every agency in town had me on some kind of secret “do not rent to this woman” hazard list. Arnie the United Cab driver and I had become way too chummy.
“Feeling better?” I asked. Eugenie’s face had lost most of its green undertones. “The gas smells awful, but most of the eau de sulfur has burned off. You’re looking better.”
“I’m okay.” She clutched a throw pillow to her midsection and curled up on the sofa. “It wasn’t the gas. I probably have a virus or something.”
“How about some tea? If I’m going to crash here, you might as well let me take care of you.” I climbed to my feet with the speed of a slug. Since my house across the street had burned down last month, I’d been living in the semi-finished first floor of Gerry’s old Katrina-flooded house in Lakeview. My significant something-or-other Alex had made it habitable, but hadn’t gotten around to installing heat.
He also hadn’t gotten around to inviting me to stay at his place during the cold wave, although I knew he wanted to keep up appearances that we weren’t in cahoots before we had to testify at tomorrow night’s Interspecies Council hearing.