The Lafitte Greenway had been created in 2016 on land that had, until that point, been ignored. The bicycle and pedestrian path was a twelve-foot-wide multiuse trail along the linear park, a nearly three-mile stretch connecting the French Quarter to Bayou St. John. The greenway also linked to the neighborhoods on either side via St. Louis Street and Lafitte Avenue. Counting the houses and businesses and warehouses along the length of the park-in-progress, it was a heck of a big place to hide enemies, especially in the rain and the dark.
We thought we knew where the vamps and their prisoners were hiding, but it never hurt to be careful. Eli and Derek, in separate armored SUVs, took different streets along the greenway; Derek was on Lafitte, with Rick, Brute, and Gee, checking out the neighborhoods for anything that felt or looked wrong; and Eli, Edmund, Bruiser, and I toured the St. Louis side. We drove slowly, in meandering circles, the storm runoff abated just in time for more rainfall. Three blocks from the warehouse, Eli spun the wheel, taking us along a side street to circle each of the blocks, studying every house, empty lot, business.
The wind and rain again increased, almost as if the storm had spotted us and worsened on purpose. I checked my cell and followed the progress of the spiral arms of the storm on weather radar. No, something was, for once, coincidence. The newest wave of rain and lightning was right on time. The weather map showed red blobs within the storm band where dangerous wind and hail were, and pink bands where sleet was falling. It was cold for New Orleans, temps now hovering well below freezing. Not normal.
I closed my cell and took in the industrial buildings, many marked with mixed gang signs and some really artistic graffiti. We passed little empty lots, a few two-story Creole town houses, and lots of Creole cottages. The residences were painted vibrant shades of purple and yellow and rusty red, most with small gardens anywhere soil could be found, along the sidewalks and between the houses in the narrow pass-throughs. There were also pots everywhere, most pulled up close to the houses and under front porches, many covered with plastic against the cold.
One house, painted a rich green and white that I could make out even in the dark, in the flash of headlights, sported a claw-footed bathtub on the ground in front of the front porch. On the porch itself were several huge planters and an honest-to-God urinal all planted with winter veggies and winter flowers. Everything was beneath plastic shower curtains printed with flying tropical birds. Because—New Orleans.
We circled slower as we neared the warehouse, the suspected lair of our enemies, windows down, Bruiser and Eli in front, comparing notes on tactics for getting inside, me behind the driver’s seat, my nose out the window, sniffing. I caught the smell of blood at one house, but there were people sitting in the front window, watching TV, so I figured it wasn’t a dead body. And I caught the smell of vamps, unknown vamps, powerful and deadly, the herbal scent of lemon verbena and anise and the rich scent of leather. Had to be Le Batard, Louis Seven, and the strangers from the dinghies. I smelled the Marchands, the little traitors, and a faint trace of Sabina. Riding above the scents was the tingle of magic, though that might be from the storm, which was gathering strength. Wind pummeled the SUV, gusts rocking the heavy vehicle.
Overhead, the clouds danced with lightning, and when I pulled on Beast-vision, I spotted arcenciels pirouetting in the flashes of power. Soul, Opal, and two others. Now there were four of them: one in blues and greens and crystal brightness, one copper tones and flashing brass, one in opal shades of fire and stone, and the last one in silvers and grays and glimpses of moonlight. They were stunning. But no one except Gee and I could see them. To the others they were simply lightning flashing cloud-to-cloud. And I worried. Why were they still here? Why were they not outside of time? Were they stuck in the clouds? Arcenciels could be trapped in crystal and ridden, their magic stolen by the person who rode them. Their time-altering abilities used. It was telling that they were here, in real time, not in their own little bubble of time, and that my time magics were malfunctioning.
Unknown magic skittered across my flesh and was gone.
Over the coms, Derek said, “Big Bird has flown the coop.” It wasn’t code, but if someone was listening in, they wouldn’t know what had happened. Gee DiMercy had shifted shape and flown. A black-and-white image appeared on the screen on the backseat, the view from overhead.
My earbud hissed and then I heard Eli say, “Copy. We have visual. Initiating Operation Insertion. George will drive our vehicle. Give us until I mention my mama and then the big cat can come in. That’ll mean the way is clear.”
Big cat had to mean Rick.
“Roger that,” Rick said.
The smell of Tex-Mex food grew on the air, chicken and beef, lots of spices, ears of corn roasted over an open flame, hot grease. Pepe’s taqueria appeared at the end of the block, lights from inside spilling into the rain, making the lights flow like luminous liquid. Eli pulled over and shoved the SUV into park. In a street-tough, faintly Cajun accent I had never heard before, he said, “You ready?”
“I’m always ready.” It was a silly line, but I liked it.
We both exited on the driver’s side as Bruiser slid across the seat, put his foot on the brake, and shifted into drive. “Be careful,” he said. Because vamps might have a lookout inside. Right. Eli held out his hand. I took it and we raced through the storm and under the awning, where we brushed rain off us as we looked through the storefront window.
Eli said, “It’s smaller in there than we thought. We’ll have to put on a real show to keep their attention from the door.”
“Long as they don’t call the cops,” I said. “We don’t have time for the cops.
“Call the cops? In New Orleans? How long have you been living in this city?”
He had a point. Unless there were ambulances and near death, or rich people involved, cops didn’t come to domestics or bar fights. “Okay by me,” I said, with that same evil grin.
Eli leaned and caught my jacket in one hand, pulling me back. In that surprisingly good Cajun accent he said, loudly, “You don’ cheat on me. You hear?”
“You ass!” I shouted.
Eli twitched at my cussing. Just a tiny twitch, but it was enough. Inside I thought, Score! He shoved open the door of Pepe’s and yanked me behind him. He shouted, “You trying to tell me you din be makin’ eyes at Jimmy Ray?” He walked into Pepe’s with all the machismo of a street thug. Dragging me behind him by the jacket.
“I hadda look at him,” I yelled back. “He was passing me a beer. You want I should guess where it is?” I covered my eyes, stretched out my other arm, and made a dramatic waving motion. “You’re stupid, you know that? Now lemme go or things’ll get nasty.”
“You got a mouth on you, you do.”
I yanked my clothes free, fisted my free hand, and took a long step for momentum.
To the three people inside, he said, “You see what I gotta put up with this li’l bit—”