Three blocks from the river, I spotted Antoine down the block from the hole-in-the-wall eatery Rick had taken me to. The Cajun was wearing a T-shirt, baggy shorts, rope sandals, and dreadlocks in a thick ponytail knotted at his nape with rope. The hair threw me off for a moment, as it had been hidden under his big white chef’s hat before. He didn’t see me, so I stepped into a recessed door and watched. He was in a hurry, heading away from the river.
Antoine took a direct route, striding hard and fast. A man with purpose. So I followed. Hands in pockets, I ambled up the street, around corners, keeping back, lazy and innocent but moving Beast fast when no one was looking, shadowing him in the tourist crowd. He ducked into a side door of the Royal Mojo Blues Company. “Well, well, well,” I murmured to myself. Did I follow? Not sure, and content to just watch, I sat at the tiny table of an outdoor café, ordered beignets—French donuts—and a hot chai despite the heat, studying the RMBC, lazing and calling it work. Nothing much was happening, but I liked the mélange of scents on the wind.
I wasn’t far from the kill zone where the rogue had taken down the cops. That could be coincidence—the Quarter was small, after all—and Beast had noted a lot of vamp activity, but I didn’t know what to make of Antoine’s destination. While I people watched, I sweated and rested in the slow, heated breeze, eating three beignets, which left a dusting of powdered sugar on my shirt. Three more people entered the RMBC, two men and a woman in a long skirt and lots of dangling jewelry. Unlike Antoine, all went in through the front door, though the restaurant wasn’t open, a CLOSED sign in the front window. I was getting interested. I caught the eye of the waiter and held up a ten, which I left on the table for the bill and a comfortable tip.
Antoine had entered at the side, near the outdoor seating, so I hopped the gate and followed through that door, which swung on silent hinges. Not breaking and entering exactly, but trespassing for sure. Inside, the heat, which I had somehow forgotten as I sat and sipped tea, was shut out, the air colder than the inside of a refrigerator. Chill bumps rose on my arms as I stood in the blackness and let my eyes adjust.
The restaurant and dance hall smelled of old smoke, old beer, cleansers, a mixture of human and vamp scents, urine and sweat, fried grease, fish, beef, spices and peppers, and minty toothpaste, the scent dissipating as I waited. I followed the faint prickle of power on the air, Antoine’s power, familiar from the way it made my fingers tingle, as if the pads itched.
I followed the power signature through the club as easily as a scent, leading me to the back. I could still smell Bliss’ blood, and an aromatic whiff of vamp blood, from the aborted staking, and another witch scent, a spicy and tantalizing perfume buried beneath the power signature. The scent perfectly fit the woman in the long skirt and jewelry.
A door opened. The muted sound of a car engine passed, placing it at the front of the building. “Marceline? Anna? Y’all here yet?” It was the Joe. Rick. Which was just one coincidence too many. Or was it? Beast woke and rumbled quietly in my mind. I breathed in, sorting scents as well as I could in this form. Several vamps, including Leo, scores of humans, cigarette smoke. But no particular scent jumped up and screamed logic to me. Rick was getting closer. I had a feeling that if I just stayed put and asked what was going on, I’d be hustled off, so I looked for a hiding place. Nothing. No closets, no cupboards. I peered into the dark overhead. The ceiling was about fifteen feet above me, painted black, along with the exposed ductwork, wires, and fixtures. Beast liked the big duct, and I got an image of a huge tree limb on which to lie in wait for unwary prey. I could probably make the top of the duct if I jumped from the bar.
Beast fast, I raced from the shadows and leaped to the bar top. Crouched on the balls of both feet and the knuckles of one hand. Scanned the room. And spotted a small ledge behind the bar. I gauged the distance, jumped, and caught the ledge with one hand. Swung toward the mirror. Why do all bars go for mirrors? So unhappy drunks can watch themselves cry? So drinkers on the prowl can look for likely sex partners? My fingers slipped and Beast swatted me mentally. My toe touched the mirror and I pushed off, using the swing to get my other hand on the ledge and lever my body up, the new ring cutting into my palm and finger.
The ledge was eighteen inches wide, painted white to reflect tiny lights, which were off. Dust bunnies swirled around me, some big enough to be dust hippos. Beast sent an image of a rabbit the size of a small car. Good eating. I grinned and swiveled into a comfortable seat shadowed by, instead of on top of, the duct. From my vantage, I could see almost everything: tables, a curtained area behind the band’s stage, a long rack of individual keys behind a sign over the cash register. And Rick, walking into the room. The remembered stink of old cigar clung to him, and I wrinkled my nose. Fresh cigar smell is one thing. Old cigar is another thing entirely.