To my left shone the lights of the Carousel Bar, and I could think of nothing that might warm me up faster than an Irish coffee, or maybe just the Irish without the coffee. As always, the bar pulled me in two directions. It was funky and fun and clever. It also was bizarre and disconcerting. The polished wooden bar in the center was round, with brightly colored stools ringing it on the outside, and a circular, mirrored display of liquor bottles on the inside. The whole thing revolved slowly so that you’d make a full rotation every half hour or so.
Business was brisk; the tourists still in the city had wisely decided to stay inside instead of roaming the French Quarter. But I spotted a couple leaving and somehow propelled my frozen, numb feet to hurry and claim a stool.
“What’s the warmest thing you have?” I asked the dark-suited bartender.
He laughed. “Martini or cocktail?”
Martinis were too small. “Cocktail. Big one.”
“Well, you’re lookin’ kinda pale. We got one called the Corpse Reviver—gin, Cointreau, absinthe, Lillet Blanc.”
Ironic. Too ironic. “Maybe something sweet.” Okay, I’m a wimp.
He studied me, as if my bedraggled appearance might give him the perfect cocktail suggestion. “The French Double-O-Seven: Grey Goose, pomegranate liqueur, and champagne.”
“Now you’re talking.” Because when I saw the Frenchman, I was going all James Bond on his ass.
By the time my drink arrived, the bar had made a quarter turn. I paid the twelve bucks plus tip with my own credit card, since it seemed wrong to make Zrakovi pay for the drink I was consuming to help me forget how much I’d lied to him. Sweet heat filled my mouth and burned its way down my happy throat, settling into my stomach, and I found myself wishing for a bag of smoked beef jerky.
Freakin’ elves.
As the bar turned, I studied the changing view of patrons sitting at the tables that were scattered around the edges. There seemed to be an even mix of tourists and business people. Maybe a few locals who’d come to the Quarter to see the snow and decided to warm up at the bar.
I glanced up at the glittering mirrored display of alcohol in the center of the bar and did a double take. Had that been Truman Capote?
I swiveled and scanned the tables looking for him and, instead, found myself capturing the gaze of a long-haired man with a vaguely familiar pair of green eyes. I couldn’t see who was with him because of a couple of businessmen who’d sat at a table between my perch and his, and I couldn’t quite place him. His eyes looked sort of like those of Christof, the dark-haired faery who’d been at Jean’s house in Barataria, but this guy had shoulder-length brown hair with a lot of red highlights.
He smiled at me and leaned over to say something to a companion. Finally, the businessmen moved to seats at the bar and left me with an unimpeded view. The green-eyed man might not have been Christof the faery, but his companions I recognized.
Truman Capote, a card-carrying member of the historical undead, and his equally undead companion.
I’d found Jean Lafitte.
CHAPTER 16
Call me suspicious, but I had no doubt Truman Capote’s only purpose in being at the Carousel Bar with Jean Lafitte was to serve as his alibi. Probably the other guy, too.
“Well, if it isn’t Cat Woman,” Capote drawled.
“You remember me, then.” Good. Not having to explain who I was made things simpler.
Capote had been part of the William Faulkner dustup after Katrina. A bunch of historically undead New Orleans authors had come across the border and broken into Faulkner House Books near Jackson Square, where the man himself had lived in his human life for a while. They proceeded to get drunk until I’d done a nifty bit of magic, turned them all into cats, rounded them up, and sent them back to the Beyond in boxes. As I recalled, Capote had turned into an oversize Maine coon.
“I’m not likely to forget such an experience.” He took off his dark glasses and signaled the waiter for another drink. The historically undead Capote was middle-aged and cocky, his neck draped in a pastel-striped scarf whose purples and pinks looked unsettling next to his somber black suit and fedora.
I was ignoring Jean Lafitte and his knowing little smile, so I held out a hand to the auburn-haired guy. “DJ Jaco. You look awfully familiar. Have we met?”
“We have.” He took my hand and pressed it to his lips in an old-world, courtly way that reminded me of the pirate I was ignoring. “I am Christof, the Faery Prince of Winter and, I hope, next in line to the monarchy. We’ve met twice, I believe.”
“But…” The eyes were the same, green and slightly almond-shaped. But he’d had dark hair slicked back at the council meeting and tousled at Jean’s—and not nearly this long. His title finally sank in. “You’re the Winter Prince? And why do you look different?”
“Perhaps you should give Drusilla a demonstration, Christof.” Jean stared at me a moment and suppressed a broad smile. What was that about?
“Of course. Excuse me for a moment.” The Prince of Winter got up and made his way out of the bar, disappearing into the lobby. I swear, I needed a vacation. Life had grown too bizarre.
The waiter brought a fizzy drink and set it in front of Capote, who took his little plastic spear, stabbed a cherry, and held it out to me. “Suck it. Let’s see those tongue skills,” he said.