“Hello, Larry. I’d shake your hand, but I’m afraid you’d rip my arm off.”
I’d recently lost an arm, and though it had been successfully reattached, I had no desire to go through that ordeal again.
“No hard feelings,” said the werewolf hit man. “It was business. You were obligated to serve your client to the best of your abilities, and so was I.” Larry did not look like the sort of person who would voluntarily drink the high-maintenance concoction he had just ordered, but I made no comment about it.
I put in my order for Robin’s cappuccino and my coffee, and the barista looked relieved that I had asked for something comprehensible. While we stood at the bar waiting for our drinks, I considered Larry and said impulsively, “Say, have you ever considered working private security? I’ve got a client who needs a little muscle, somebody to keep the peace.”
Larry’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Who is it?”
“The Full Moon brothel. They’re being harassed.”
The werewolf let out a low howl. “Been there. Nice place, nice ladies. Would be a plum of a job.” He shook his muzzle. “But I’m already working as a personal bodyguard.”
“For whom?” I asked.
He didn’t sound proud of it. “Harvey Jekyll.”
My heart sank. Jekyll was the most hated man in the Quarter, and I could imagine he’d need a bodyguard to walk across his own kitchen. But . . . Larry? “I’m disappointed in you. That’s the best you can do?”
The big werewolf shrugged. “A paycheck is a paycheck.”
The barista called his name, and Larry picked up the tall foamy, half-caff, extra-hot, single pump of vanilla, skim milk, dash of nutmeg, one pack of sweetener, double-sleeved coffee beverage. “This is for him,” Larry said.
I was tempted to spit in it, but I doubted the werewolf would let me, even if I asked nicely.
Chapter 10
Whether in the Quarter or in the outside world, it’s never a good sign when you hear fire engines and wailing sirens roaring across town.
Fires have many mundane causes—cigarettes left burning, kids playing with lighters, or an electric space heater running too close to a stack of those annoying coupon newspapers the mail carrier keeps cramming into your box, even though nobody wants them. In the Unnatural Quarter, though, the cause of a fire is more likely an amateur incineration spell gone wrong, or a pissed-off fire demon who had caught his wife cheating.
At Chambeaux & Deyer we’re not ambulance or morgue-wagon chasers, but the fire trucks were making such a ruckus late at night that Robin and I went out to investigate. We could see the orange flames from the windows of our second-story offices. After flitting ahead, Sheyenne returned with a report. “Big blaze over at the Greenlawn Cemetery.”
“Was somebody trying to do a Viking funeral again?” Robin asked. “They need permits for that, and most of the time they’re disallowed.”
We hurried through the wrought-iron gates and saw that the elaborate theater stage for the Shakespeare in the Dark festival was an inferno. The faux half-timbered walls and the artificial thatched roof crackled as tall flames rose into the air. Curls of smoke wafted toward us with an acrid stench, like the fumes of unkind theater critics getting what they deserved. Humans and unnaturals had gathered to watch the big stage burn.
In case of a demonic fire, the firefighters wore special protective gear—hex-painted clothing and rescue packs—but this turned out to be a perfectly normal blaze. Due to city ordinances to beautify Greenlawn, all fire hydrants had been painted tombstone color and disguised to blend in with the landscape . . . which meant the firefighters had trouble finding them, and by the time they engaged the blaze, the Shakespearean stage was unsalvageable.
Some sluggish zombies shambled into the cemetery, attracted to the bright light and commotion like moths to a flame, but the blaze was extinguished by the time they arrived, so the crowds began to disperse.
“Shakespeare’s original Globe Theatre burned down,” Robin pointed out. “I can see the irony.”
“It’s not irony—it’s arson,” I said, unable to swallow any other explanation. I suspected Senator Balfour’s minions were both upset and violent enough to light a match or two, just to make a point.
Next morning, Sheyenne went to make a fresh pot of coffee in the office, even though I couldn’t taste the difference between the new gourmet stuff and the tarry residue at the bottom of yesterday’s pot. Nevertheless, Sheyenne claimed that brewing coffee made our office smell fresh and homey. I suspected that she did certain things just to remind herself of what she’d once had in life, clinging to a few routine details—making coffee, going out to lunch, taking a walk in the fresh rain. I did the same thing; that was half the reason why I spent so much time at the Goblin Tavern. Since death had left us behind, we clung to the few anchors we had.
Sheyenne was rinsing the pot in our little kitchenette when a young man entered the office. He wore a slightly scruffy camel-colored suit and had rakishly tousled blond hair, a handsome face, and a disarming smile: good-looking in a way that made him seem a natural-born salesman, or a con man. If he was a client, we would help him in any way we could. If he was a salesman, I doubted we were buying.
Sheyenne flitted back out to welcome the visitor, and I heard the coffeepot crash to the floor, spilling water everywhere. The young man grinned at her. “Sorry I missed your funeral, sis.”
“Travis!” There was definite shock and alarm in Sheyenne’s voice; I couldn’t tell whether she was delightfully surprised or angry. She had never mentioned a brother before, but from the similarity in features, it was obvious that they were siblings.
Robin came out of her office, shocked to see the broken coffee urn and the mess on the floor. “I’m Travis.” The young man extended a hand to Robin while he looked at me with a hint of intimidation, sizing me up. “Travis Carey.”
I had met Sheyenne at the Basilisk nightclub, where she was a singer, and I thought of her by her stage name, although I knew her real name was Anne. “Shy Anne.” I sometimes call her Spooky, because that was the first song I ever heard her sing, but I never knew her last name, never asked. Even while she was lying in a hospital bed, in the last throes of the toadstool poison that had killed her, Sheyenne told me she didn’t have any family, no living relatives, no one I should contact.
Something fishy was going on here.
I stepped closer to Travis and did my best to loom, just in case she needed backup. “I’m Dan Chambeaux, Sheyenne’s employer. . . and very close friend.”