We spent the next half hour discussing the many variations on the hamburger, leaving Jean anxious to try a Big Mac—I think it was the lure of special sauce that attracted him, plus my opinion, after much sampling, that Mickey Ds had the best fries in the universe.
“Très bien, that was most enjoyable.” He settled back and gave me a sly look that sent my antennae of suspicion skyward. “Do you still wish to join me in a walk through the city, to avail yourself of its winter beauty? Or perhaps you would prefer to rest while I enjoy my stroll.”
“I want to stroll.” Actually, I’d rather crawl under the duvet in my own hotel room—alone—until spring. “I’m ready when you are.”
I noted he’d never said he wanted me to join him on his stroll. With the pirate, the words he didn’t utter were often more revealing than the ones he did.
“Shall we then?” He opened the door as I struggled into my coat, but then blocked my way. “Pardon, Jolie. Your coat does not do justice to your beauty. Do you have another you might wear?”
What a delicate way of saying the coat was hideous and he was ashamed to be seen with me. “I can’t afford a whole new wardrobe as well as a new coat, not being a wealthy historical figure with an unlimited supply of gold at my disposal.”
“Ah, well, we must remedy this.” He turned and strode down the hall toward the lifting room, as he called the elevator, leaving me to chase after him. I wasn’t sure what his remedy might be, but maybe he’d get me a raise.
I barely managed to jump into the elevator before the doors whisked closed and took off for the lobby. So that’s how we were going to play it. He was going to do his best to wear me out or ditch me, whichever came first.
Game on, pirate. My stride might be short but my competitive spirit was gargantuan.
As soon as he walked and I trotted through the lobby and out the front door onto Royal Street, I slipped my arm through his. He either had to walk at a pace I could maintain or blatantly brush me aside, which I didn’t think he’d do, courtly old-world gentleman pirate that he was.
I nailed it. After a suspicious glance at my arm, his mouth twitched. I’d seen through him; he’d seen through me.
“Ah, Jolie. We are perfectly suited to one another, as I must continue to remind you. A woman of your intelligence is wasted on such as le petit chien.”
I’d let the slam at Alex pass. “Where are we going?”
“Let us stroll to see the cathedral, even though it means I will be forced to also regard the monument to the arrogant Andrew Jackson.”
Rumor had it that Jean had won the historical undead representative’s seat on the Interspecies Council after a contentious election with the undead former president Jackson. During his human life, Jackson had lived in New Orleans briefly during the time of the Battle of New Orleans in 1814, which gave him enough local memory power to pop over occasionally in his undead form.
Rumor also had it that Jean had won the election by cheating. Since the source of said rumors was Alex, they were likely true.
During weekdays, Royal Street was open to traffic. Which meant that not only were the streets a slick layer of ice since the city had made some attempt to shovel the snow to the sides, but every few yards we came across people staring morosely at their fender benders.
“It does not appear snowfall is useful to automobiles and—Mon Dieu!” Jean dodged an icy snowball lobbed by a red-faced, cursing Mini Cooper driver. He’d been aiming at a pickup owner who’d turned the back of his cute little car into mangled yellow aluminum foil. The only thing dumber than driving in this mess was driving a car that weighed less than my cat. Of course, that was a low shot coming from a woman who no longer had access to anything motorized.
I retained a firm grip on Jean’s left arm and elbowed him in the ribs. Once he’d escaped the flying ice ball, he had slipped his right hand inside his Daniel Boone coat, where, if experience proved true, he’d stashed a weapon. It was too cold for a preternatural incident.
“Don’t you dare shoot anybody. I’d have to clean it up.” My teeth had already begun chattering, and it would take forever to modify all those human memories. Plus, I’d have to call Blue Congress wizards to erase the bloodstains from the snow; I had nothing in my portable kit that would work.
“Bah, very well. My intention was to stab the blackguard, not fell him by pistol.” Jean resumed his speedy charge toward St. Louis Cathedral, tugging me along, slipping and sliding beside him.
We made it to Jackson Square with no further life-threatening situations, and I couldn’t help myself: I pulled my phone from my pocket and began snapping pictures like every other snow-struck New Orleanian who’d wandered into the streets.
Jean scooped up a handful of snow and packed it into a firm snowball. In perfect pitcher’s-mound form, he threw a hard line drive at Andrew Jackson’s snow-covered, bronze head. Hit him right between the eyes.