Pirate's Alley

Uh-huh. He planned on getting lucky. “The river nymphs haven’t started up their ‘escort service’”—I made little quote marks with my fingers—“in the Quarter again, have they?”

 

 

I’d shut them down a few months ago after they brought satyrs in to “escort” the female clientele. A nymph could mainstream with humans, but satyrs couldn’t. They might hide the nubby horns and long tails, but the cloven hooves just couldn’t fit in any kind of shoe that looked normal.

 

“Not that I know of. Mina wasn’t involved in that mess anyway.”

 

“Well, I’ve recovered so you can go ahead and go on your date whether Jean’s back or not.” I chewed on a chunk of andouille. It was awesome; I wish I’d just ordered a big plate of sausage. “Then you won’t have to witness me eviscerating your business partner.”

 

Rene laughed. “That would almost be worth staying for.” But he got up and checked for his keys and wallet. “You sure? Jean should be back soon.”

 

I smiled. “Yeah, have fun.”

 

On his way out, he stopped next to the desk, bent down, and pulled my coat from beneath some papers in the trash can. “Think I’ll take this with me, babe. Force you to find something else.”

 

Fine. I’d buy an overpriced coat in the Quarter and charge it to the ElderCard. Don’t leave home without it.

 

Once I had the room to myself, I turned up the TV and finished my dinner to the drone of the local news. I’d fallen completely out of touch the last couple of days. A former city official was being sent to jail on corruption charges, where he’d have plenty of friends waiting for him. I figure politicians made up at least twenty percent of the state’s inmates. Fortunately, his trial had been in the federal courthouse instead of the closed-down parish district court.

 

Mostly, though, the local newscasters talked about the weather. A guest meteorologist from Baton Rouge had come in to rant about the “once in a lifetime” weather pattern New Orleans was experiencing. We’d gotten two feet of snow, were enjoying a short respite, but could get another two-to-three feet of white stuff tomorrow. Outside a twenty-mile radius in any direction from the central city, however, normal winter weather in the fifties prevailed. They couldn’t explain it.

 

It wouldn’t go above freezing the next forty-eight hours. What the hell could I wear to avoid a repeat of the hibernation fiasco? Of course I had no car; maybe the concierge would send someone to buy some long johns and polar fleece at one of the sporting goods stores, if they weren’t sold out. Maybe I’d get some for Rand, too.

 

No, forget that. It was convenient having him essentially imprisoned in his house, and he didn’t deserve special consideration. He could’ve warned me that our bond left me vulnerable to spontaneous hibernation, plus he was being an ass about Eugenie. Surprise surprise.

 

Sirens are almost a constant in New Orleans, and I’d learned to ignore them. But when what sounded like a whole fleet of NOFD ladder trucks roared by, sirens blasting, I ran to the window. A half-dozen police cars followed, nudging the few pedestrians out of the way and turning toward Chartres Street.

 

“We have a breaking story from the French Quarter,” the TV reporter said, and I turned to watch video of people pouring out of a building from whose upper windows smoke billowed and flames licked at the night sky. “A multiple-alarm fire has struck a crowded nightclub called…”

 

I didn’t need to hear the rest. I recognized the place. It was the vampire bar belonging to Etienne Boulard, former friend and now avowed enemy of the unaccounted-for Jean Lafitte.

 

L’Amour Sauvage was in flames.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 15

 

Calling Jean every bad name I could think of, I jammed my feet into the cold, wet boots and looked around helplessly. Rene had taken my coat. Going out in wet shoes was risky enough; coatless, I was asking for another round of hibernation.

 

On the other hand, it should be toasty warm next to the burning vampire club.

 

I went into the bedroom and opened the armoire where Jean kept his clothes. I considered the heavy terrycloth hotel robe, but if it was already snowing, the terrycloth would just absorb all the cold water. Damn it. The pirate didn’t have anything useful.

 

More sirens sounded outside. This had to be bad. I grabbed my messenger bag, made sure the staff was wedged firmly inside, and ran down the hallway. The elevator moved at the pace of an elf in Antarctica, but finally it arrived at the lobby. I cut into the gift shop, grabbed a couple of heavy sweatshirts, charged them to the room, and pulled them on as I crossed the shiny marble floor toward the street.

 

Suzanne Johnson's books