The town had been at war for far too long, vamps and witches fighting, humans fighting both, the church stuck in the middle, taking sides as it could, and somehow surviving the bloodletting. At one point after the Civil War, the witches and humans had joined with the priests and taken the war to the vamps. There were beheadings and burnings and death in the streets everywhere. The Middle East today had nothing on Bayou Oiseau at the height of the vamp wars.
Eli stopped at the entrance to the gate and pulled his phone. He now had a bullet-resistant, Kevlar-protected official cell like mine, a leash to Leo, but handy in so many ways that he hadn’t been able to leave it behind. He scrolled through his address book and tapped an icon on the screen. He put the cell against his ear and walked away, so I couldn’t hear the person on the other end, even with Beast being nosy. A moment later Eli said, “Joe, my brother. Yeah. Okay. You? The arm? That’s good, that’s real good. Yeah, business. I’m in a little town called Bayou Oiseau, Louisiana. We’ve got a magical artifact here that the witches and suckheads are fighting over. The church had it for a while and then it was stolen back. According to some, the church sent a scholar to look it over. Would you take a look and see if there’s anything I need to know? Text would be great. Yeah, this number. Thanks, dude. Yeah, yeah, I might make that one. You too.” He closed his cell and gestured inside.
“You gonna tell me what that was all about?”
“I’d prefer not to. But if I have to, then yes.”
We walked through the gate of the church, and instantly the flesh on the back of my neck started to crawl. Predator/prey response. “We being watched?” I murmured to Eli, my lips not moving, so my words couldn’t be read by a lip-reader.
“Targeted,” he said casually, his lips equally still. “Eyes in the bell tower. One rifle barrel.”
“How did you see it?” I asked, curious.
“Birds shuffled.”
“Ah. That or magic glasses.”
Eli huffed out a soft laugh but didn’t contradict me. And that got me thinking about what the government might be able to do if they had witches helping them. The national registration of the supernats could someday happen, and if it did, the possible results and repercussions for those with magical potential were dire. Like forcing witches to work for the government, creating new and harmful weapons, and, worse, at the risk of families and friends being hurt if witches didn’t comply. I could see the Department of Defense chaining vamps to the wall and draining them for sips of blood before soldiers go into battle. I could see—
“You getting all the way from ‘maybe’ to ‘stupid’ with the conspiracy theories, yet?” Eli asked, an edge to his voice.
“Pretty close, after that phone call,” I said.
“Don’t. The glasses were five bucks at CVS on Decatur Street. Uncle Sam trained me well. That’s it.”
I smiled, using the excuse to tilt up my head. The rifle barrel was still following us, pointed down now. “I wasn’t trying to push your buttons.”
“Did it anyway.”
I shoved open the heavy wood door, and cool air flowed out. Cool air was one reason for the thick walls when building back in the days before central air-conditioning. “I’m sorry,” I said. And I was. I changed the subject. “Did Lucky mention the priest’s name?”
“‘Father’ usually works.”
“Hmmm. Is the bishop’s scholar still here?”
“Didn’t get that intel either. Flying by the seat of our pants, just like usual, ain’t we, babe?”
“Except for your mysterious phone call.” Eli didn’t reply, and I sighed again. “I shoulda asked Lucky.”
“Shoulda,” Eli agreed.
“I forgot.” Sometimes I wondered whether my adrenaline-addicted partner let me forget to find out stuff just so he could play commando games again. But . . . nah. Surely not.
The door closed behind us. We were standing in a darkened foyer sort of place, windowless, the interior walls constructed of wide planks of cypress wood, the finish darkened by time and damp. Ahead, I could see the sanctuary, which, if I remembered right, Roman Catholics called something else. Inside, it was obvious that the church was shaped like a cross, the thick brick walls pierced open with stained glass windows letting in the sunlight in colors of ocean blue and bloodred. The exposed beams of the roof system were far overhead, beams bigger around than my waist. Verdigris-stained brass chandeliers dangled on rusted iron chains. In niches were statues dressed in clothing from Roman times, all with halos, and some with wings. Saints and angels. At the front of the church was a cross, some twenty feet tall, with a plaster Jesus hanging there, all bloody and beaten, wearing a blue scarf over his privates and a crown of thorns. This crown looked nothing like the one in the street in the dark of a rainy night.
“Where do you think the priest is?” I asked.
“This time of day? The sacristy or his home. Or maybe he’s the sharpshooter in the belfry.” Eli pulled his cell and checked a text message, frowning.