The doorman smiled as if he might be going to make jovial conversation, but thought better of it and rushed to open the door for me without a word. He probably feared I’d keel over in a dead sleep from my mysterious fainting-goat disease and hoped it wasn’t contagious.
As soon as I cleared the doorway, the wind hit me full-force. God, it was cold. My feet began to go numb before I’d taken a dozen steps, but I rushed onward, moving as fast as I dared. I cut over one block to Chartres Street and slowed, not only because the whole area ahead of me lay jammed with emergency vehicles and people, but because the fire roared like a living thing, its flames bright enough to make the snow falling between me and the club appear as a dark, moving curtain.
Was Jean insane? The Quarter was older than him—ancient by U.S. standards. Its venerable buildings were always in some state of disrepair, making us the American originator of urban grunge. Dilapidation was admired and coveted in New Orleans, especially in this part of town. The Quarter was also a monstrous firetrap.
On the positive side, by the time I began working my way through people and got within a block of the fire, the warmth hit me and hibernation was no longer an immediate concern. Every few seconds, I scanned the moving throngs around me, trying to catch a glimpse of a familiar, tall Frenchman dressed in a Daniel Boone coat.
I finally spotted a familiar face. Vampire Regent Etienne Boulard stood still as only vampires can, a rock amid the moving sea of firefighters, paramedics, cops, and ash-covered club patrons. He looked mad enough to chew wooden nails, but at least he wasn’t dead. I wasn’t sure I’d point that out to him as something for which to be thankful, however.
My first instinct was to turn around, return to the hotel, and pretend I’d seen nothing. But damn it, I was the sentinel here. New Orleans was my town, and if anyone was going to set fires in the French Quarter it should be me and my elven staff. I had to investigate. Besides, it might have nothing to do with Jean Lafitte.
I stepped up beside Etienne, hoping he didn’t hold a grudge after the little burning incident in Vampyre. He didn’t turn in my direction and I didn’t think he’d seen me until he hissed, “I hold you entirely responsible for this.”
So much for not holding a grudge. “If by this you mean the fire at L’Amour Sauvage, think again. I just got here.”
When Etienne turned to me, I winced. His blue eyes shone like marbles in a face covered in soot and tight, reddened skin. He’d been close to that fire. “You saved Lafitte, though, and he’s behind this.”
“Did you see him set the fire?” Besides that, we had a bigger issue. Namely, that Etienne should’ve been arrested the second he crossed back into New Orleans. I hadn’t seen the warrant yet, but I was pretty sure conspiracy and attempted murder were on his preternatural rap sheet. Should I call Alex or try to arrest him myself?
“I didn’t have to see him.” Etienne’s French accent had grown heavier. He usually sounded more Louisianian than the Frenchman he’d been back in his wizard days as a plantation owner. He’d lost his magic after being turned.
“Then you have no proof.” I startled as the glass blew out of an upper window and sent a shower of blackened shards to the sidewalk.
“As soon as the club opened this evening, it filled with undead pirates, behaving like ruffians and driving away my regular customers.” Etienne seemed to have forgotten his shaky legal status. He was so angry he’d even flashed a bit of fang, which meant I could add reckless exposure to humans to his list of crimes.
He turned back to watch the fire, the muscles in his jaw working as he clenched his teeth. How that teeth-clenching thing worked with fangs, I wasn’t sure. “Did you see one of the undead pirates set the fire? Otherwise, it could’ve been anyone.”
“God. Are you that stupid or are you being deliberately obtuse to protect your friend Jean?” Etienne motioned to someone in the crowd, and I saw the L’Amour Sauvage assistant manager heading toward us. He was a very polite metrosexual vampire who monitored the entrance of the club, keeping the crowds in check. His usually polished suit and tie were gray with ash, but I could still read his name tag: Marcus.
“Everyone got out,” he told Etienne, who nodded.
“Get my attorney on the phone and tell him to get his ass down here. He’ll need to deal with the human authorities. I”—he glanced at me—“must return to Vampyre immediately.”
Oh no he didn’t. I needed handcuffs, or a good obedience spell. All I had was Charlie, so I pulled the staff from my messenger bag and discreetly pressed its tip against Etienne’s side.
He stiffened. “You wouldn’t dare use that here.”