Pirate's Alley

I’d awakened a short time later to hear sirens, had gone downstairs, and had found Jean Lafitte in the Carousel Bar with Truman Capote. The men appeared to have been drinking for some time.

 

I saw on the TV behind the bar that the fire was at L’Amour Sauvage, so I walked over to Chartres Street to see if I could tell whether or not the blaze had a preternatural cause. There, I spoke to Etienne Boulard, who escaped before I could arrest him, and the Sauvage host, Marcus, who opined that the heating system had shorted out.

 

I saw no evidence that Jean Lafitte had been there and no proof of foul play, so I returned to the hotel, where he and Mr. Capote were still drinking. I joined them, although the cherry from Mr. Capote’s cocktail went nowhere near my mouth.

 

I had to nip that notion right in the cherry pit.

 

Zrakovi didn’t look happy with my testimony, but everything I’d said was true. I simply changed the order of events and left out a few details. I saw no reason to get Rene involved in this mess, nor to mention being duped by an Etienne look-alike.

 

“Obviously, she’s covering for her good friend Jean Lafitte,” Mace said. “She has been known to frequent his pirate den in Old Barataria. I myself have seen her there, wearing a scanty costume and consuming alcohol early in the morning.”

 

Actually, I’d been wearing a fine early-nineteenth-century gown, and hadn’t really been drinking. He was angry that I’d thrown a heavy cut-glass brandy decanter at his head—and hit the bull’s-eye. “I only threw the brandy at you because you’d kidnapped and tortured me, you elven snake.”

 

“Please.” Zrakovi held up a hand. “Does anyone else have new information we should consider before concluding this matter?”

 

The sound of a chair scraping across the tiled floor sounded preternaturally loud. “Yes, Elder Zrakovi, I would like to add to the testimony.”

 

God, what a zoo. I looked around for the source of this interruption just as Christof stood. “I too was with Captain Lafitte.” He turned and gave me a stiff, formal bow. “Sentinel Jaco, I appreciate your honoring my request to keep my presence quiet, but this farce has gone on long enough. It’s clearly a witch hunt.”

 

Holy crap. Christof was pissed. I knew this not by his chilly words but because the temperature in the room had dropped at least ten degrees in a matter of seconds. I sure hoped nobody figured out it was caused by the anger of the Faery Prince of Winter and made the leap to New Orleans’ suddenly arctic weather, from which a leap to Jean and then to me was an easy journey.

 

Zrakovi recovered with some difficulty if his sudden coughing fit was any indication. “Your highness, you were with Captain Lafitte at the time of the fire?”

 

Christof nodded. “Quite by accident, of course. I had decided to visit the city to see if I could be of help in my official capacity as the Winter Prince.” He shook his head. “Such suffering in a place unaccustomed to these types of weather patterns. I’m happy to report that I should be able to relieve the problem and move this weather system away shortly.”

 

“That’s … wonderful news, I’m sure.” Confusion wafted off Zrakovi’s aura like toxic smoke. I fingered the amulet containing my little traveling mojo bag to control the antlike tickle as it washed across my skin from clear across the room. He was desperate to seize control of the meeting again. “And you ran into Captain Lafitte?”

 

Christof laughed, and it transformed his face into something playful and handsome instead of its usual hard planes. Of course, who knew if it was real or illusion?

 

“As you know, the fae are quite fond of carnivals and circuses and carousels, and I had heard of the famed Carousel Bar.” He ducked his head and raised his shoulders to accompany his winsome little oh-aren’t-I-a-silly-faery smile. “When I arrived to see it, there sat Captain Lafitte and Mr. Capote. They graciously invited me to join them. Ms. Jaco arrived some time later, and I asked that she keep my presence quiet.”

 

Mace Banyan made a rude, scoffing noise. “Why would you care?”

 

Another friendly gosh-darn shrug from Christof. “Ah, our monarch, Her Highness Queen Sabine, does not approve of her people, especially the princes and princesses of Faery, consorting in the human world.” He bowed his head and turned toward the woman in question, who looked like an ancient, slutty version of Ginger from the Gilligan’s Island reruns. “Your highness, I beg your forgiveness, but I felt it unfair to see an innocent man wrongly accused.”

 

Sabine held out her hand, and he kissed her oversize ring. I thought I might barf. “We shall speak of this later, Christof,” she said in her husky, dry, cornsilk-rustling, creepy voice.

 

Jean stood up. “I believe this assembly owes Jean Lafitte an apology for pursuing what is clearly a personal vendetta on the part of Monsieur Banyan. I am most disappointed, Monsieur Zrakovi, that you should have been forced to behave thusly.”

 

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