Frenchman Street_A Novel of The Sentinels of New Orleans Page 18

  “And,” I added, “maybe Florian thinks if Rand is dead, the elves will retreat into Elfheim without a leader, because he doesn’t know who takes charge if something happens to Quince Randolph.”

  Alex frowned. “I’d assumed there was some council of senior officials that would make decisions until the next-eligible Synod leader came of age.”

  “Then you had assumed wrong.” I gave him my sweetest smile. “The widow of the current Lord of Elfheim takes over. I would be in charge of Elfheim and the elven seat on the Interspecies Council.” Until I was murdered. “So put that in Zrakovi’s pointed wizard hat and smoke it.”

  I leaned forward. “If the Elders are behind this setup, or they’re happy keeping Rand in jail to get him out of their way, you might want to suggest that a walking, talking, asshole Quince Randolph is better than a dead Quince Randolph and an elven leader named DJ Jaco.” Not that I’d live very long or the elves would follow me, but no need to mention that.

  “I’ll take care of it.” Alex gave me stone-face. Cop face. He did it very well. “When did you find out about that widow thing?”

  “Very recently, and I’m not any happier about it than Zrakovi will be. No matter what he believes, I’m a wizard.”

  “You know, I would’ve made a deal to get you back into New Orleans if I could have.” Alex looked out the dining room window, saw a painter’s butt and an expanse of aqua wooden siding, and changed positions. “Who bought your property?”

  If he’d been sniffing around this morning, he already knew. “Rene. He’s been wanting a place in town and figured I could use the money, and he was right.”

  “So he stuck the back of his house six feet from my best windows just to piss me off?”

  I nodded. “Pretty much.”

  Alex almost smiled. Almost. “You said you were in Elfheim. How’s Eugenie?”

  The question hit me like a blow to the gut. I didn’t see any reason to hide it. “The baby came early; they didn’t make it.”

  Baby Michael, I would lie about. Zrakovi had tried to use him as a political pawn before he was born, and Alex had cooperated.

  “Oh, God.” Alex looked down into his coffee cup, and I swallowed down the hurt that stung my nose and brought tears to my eyes. “I’m sorry, DJ. I know that will sound hollow after all that went down last fall, but I really am.”

  “I know.” Alex had liked Eugenie. He’d just liked doing his duty more, and if it meant Eugenie and her baby got hurt, it was all for the greater good as defined by Zrakovi. None of us could have foreseen what would happen.

  I set my coffee cup down. “Well, okay, I’m going to see Rand, if they’ll let me. In the meantime, consider whether you and your shifters want to join forces with my people to monitor the parade routes. Florian’s going to make a move soon.”

  “Your people?” He gave me a scathing look. “We have our own plans, thanks. I’ll get Randolph out of jail. It might take a day or two for the paperwork to play out.”

  There was no more to say, except that in another day or two, Rand might be dead.

  Chapter 20

  My good-bye to Alex was as chilly as his concern for Rand’s welfare. He was too close to Zrakovi, and still too angry at me, for him to think clearly. He also was too arrogant to think anyone else could plan security for the Mardi Gras parades. I’d have to warn Rene that his people and the Fae Hunters and any elves Rand could provide would have to be on alert for shifter patrol as well.

  I went back to Rand’s house, fetched Gruff’s leash, and took him on a walk to the bakery a half-block down Magazine Street. I had to clip his leash to an outside table while I went in to grab some chicken salad on a fresh croissant. He howled the entire time I was gone; I could hear him. So could everyone else in a two-block area.

  By the time I returned to the table, he had acquired a crowd of admirers, including a pug dressed in a purple and orange Clemson sweater.

  No, you don’t need a sweater, I told him when he looked up at me and whined. It’s undignified for dogs to wear clothing.

  But it looks warm. Is that chicken? I love chicken.

  I tossed him a bite of my sandwich. He gave me the shifter-alert bark a few times when I first settled in to eat. One set of shifter-barks alerted me to Alex, who was staring across the street with such intensity he almost tripped on his way to climb into his big black Range Rover.

  It’s true, Alex. You are no longer even a source of dog hair to me. So there.

  Too bad he couldn’t hear me.

  I spent the next hour chewing and thinking about how I could spring Rand from jail without waiting on Alex and his red tape. God forbid he should not do things by the book.

  Finally, I walked back to Rand’s with a plan and a phone call to make. First came former NOPD homicide detective Ken Hatchette, who’d been recruited by Alex into the FBI’s special shifter squad. Ken and Eugenie had been the only humans who’d been told about our existence.

  Ken answered on the second ring. “DJ? Are you back? Are you safe?”

  A buttoned-down, serious man who had served in Afghanistan with Alex’s cousin Jake, Ken had earned my respect as well as my friendship. I didn’t mince words, but told him, first, about Rand’s situation and, second, about parade security. He could do what he wanted with the second bit of information, but I needed his help to spring the elf.

  He agreed, but not happily.

  Next, I needed wheels, although I’d take a cab before I touched the Rolls parked inside that innocuous-looking detached garage out back. I figured Rand had had someone from Elfheim drive it around town since I’d left, though, so I peeked in the garage and saw several bullet-sized holes in the driver’s side door. Guess the faux-Rand had been seen in the elfmobile.

  I went back inside and rambled around Rand’s desk drawers until I found a set of keys to the old Plantasy Island van he used to drive when the nursery was open and making deliveries. It was a converted lime-green, vintage VW bus with ferns and hibiscus and other assorted plants painted on the sides. It was parked in a covered area next to the garage and was about as inconspicuous as a farting dragon.

  I knew this because Pen had eaten too many rats. The rat box was empty, he’d shrunk to the size of a highly inflated beach ball, lying on his side, and his gas emissions were so noxious that California wouldn’t allow him to fly there. Even Sebastian had taken cover upstairs under Rand’s bed.

  I had nothing to help him, so I apologized and left for the second part of my mission.

  Finding a parking spot in the Quarter was usually a challenge, but I found one only a block from my target—the Hunt Club. I pulled out Faulkner Hearne’s business card, and it led me to a narrow, dead-end alley off Ursulines Street. I walked all the way to the back before I spotted the well-camouflaged door.

  I took a deep breath and knocked. Before long, a slit along the side of the door opened and a blue eye peered out at me, then a woman opened the door.

  She was striking, although she seemed tall for a woman of Faerie. The few I’d seen had been very petite. She had the tipped-up eyes to go with her straight blond hair, but a few freckles splashed across her nose. She wore ordinary clothes—a blue sweater and jeans not unlike my own.

  I introduced myself, and she nodded. “I thought so, from Faulk’s description of you. I’m Liandra, his lifemate—or wife, I guess you’d call it here. Most people call me Lia. Come in.”

  The Hunt Club looked like a normal bar, with a small dance floor, dark walls, and lots of polished wood. Romany waved from his spot behind the bar, wiping down glassware.

  “Faulk is back in the forest room,” Lia said. “I’ll take you there.”

  She fished a key from behind the bar and led me down a short hallway with rooms opening off both sides. “These are the playrooms,” she said. “Humans who want to play out certain fantasies come here, and we accommodate them.”

  Okay, I’d bite. “What kind of fantasies?”

  She laughed. “Star Wars has been
popular lately. We glamour up a spaceship and some of our people glamour themselves into alien invaders, and they play. And you’d be shocked at the women who love the forest room here in back, where they can either hunt or be hunted.”

  We were getting close to TMI territory. “Sounds, uh, kinky.”

  Lia grinned as she unlocked the door at the end of the hall. “Oh, the BDSM rooms are always booked. I can show you the toys if you’re interested.”

  “No.” I probably said that too quickly. I didn’t want to offend them, but I felt no need to see the BDSM rooms. In fact, I wanted to change the subject. “I have a favor to ask of Faulk. I hope he won’t think I’m being too presumptuous since we just met.”

  “Of course not,” he said, meeting us at the door. “Thanks, Lia. The knives are looking great.” He kissed her, and she left us alone. Faulk locked the door behind her.

  “Lia is the daughter of a metalworker in Faerie; he has a heavily human bloodline, enough so that he, and she, can handle metals. She’s developing weapons we can use without gloves.” He picked up a dagger so sharp and intricately carved Jean Lafitte would love it. “It has a tip of cold iron, so it’s lethal to another faery, but the rest of it has a coating so we can handle it safely.”

  “Do Florian’s people have the same thing?”

  Faulk shook his head. “No, and Lia’s weapons have already proven very valuable to us. Not fast enough to help Christof, unfortunately. It was his idea to have her make them.” He showed me around the large room, which looked like a real forest at dusk, with dense trees, straw-covered paths, and—when he turned down the lights—a full moon. I shivered at the thought of being hunted here. Maybe only those who’d never been hunted could find it entertaining. Been there, didn’t want to do it again.

  After the tour, Faulk turned to me. “So what favor would you ask of us?”

  I explained, in as few words as I could, about Rand being set up and arrested, and Alex saying it would take a couple of days to get him out.

  Faulk crossed his arms over his chest. “That puts the Lord of Elfheim in great danger. Florian must not yet know about it, or he would have killed him already. We need a strong Elfheim to prevail against him, along with the wizards. I suspect the vampires have already backed him.”

  “I agree.” After I explained my idea, I gave him a way out. “It’s dangerous for whoever helps us, and I don’t want to devalue the life of any of your people. So if you don’t want to get involved, just say the word, and there will be no hard feelings. I’ll figure out another way.”

  My backup was a camouflage charm and the elven staff, which probably wouldn’t go well, but my planning time had been limited.

  “I understand the dangers, but it’s the best way of keeping the Lord of Elfheim safe,” Faulk said. “You’ve done as much for Princess Kirian, so how could I refuse? Come with me; I need to make a call.”

  Ten minutes later, I walked back to the van with a male Fae Hunter named Methier. He was the right height and had long blond hair, but was built more like Alex the gym rat than the more slender Rand. No one would know the difference.

  I filled him in on the basics once we got in the van. He’d pulled on gloves and was careful not to touch any metal on the old VW. That intolerance really did put the fae at a disadvantage in the human world, but I had a couple of magic tricks in my pocket.

  Methier hadn’t been in the city long, I discovered, but he seemed dedicated to Falconer, as he called his leader. Apparently, Faulk was the true prince of the Autumn Court and an ancestor of the original Hearne the Hunter.

  “If he’s the prince, why isn’t he ruling the Autumn Court in Faerie?” I asked.

  Methier shrugged. “Didn’t suit him. His brother, Yuri, rules the court. Faulk wanted to lead the Fae Hunters and chase down those who’ve crossed the veil from Faerie illegally.”

  I was saved from further small talk and long silences by our arrival at the plain, institutional rectangle being used as a temporary detainment center while a new Orleans Parish Prison was being built; the hurricane had sent several feet of water into the old one and, as usual, the city did nothing quickly.

  Bypassing the front doors, we walked to the employee entrance at the side, where Ken Hachette waited for us. Mr. Cool barely blinked at being introduced to his first faery.

  “I won’t volunteer any information to Alex about this, DJ, but I won’t lie to him, either.” The detective led us through a nondescript back door and down a claustrophia-inducing hall with scuffed tile floors and institutional mint-green walls. It smelled equally of dirt and disinfectant. “I think you’re right that Randolph needs to get somewhere safer, though, and Alex won’t take shortcuts on paperwork.”

  At one time, Ken Hachette wouldn’t have taken shortcuts, either. I think knowing about our preternatural world had knocked some of the starch out of his boxer shorts.

  Another door blocked the end of the hall, this one with a guard sitting at a desk and a locked, barred metal door.

  Ken leaned over the desk and spoke too softly to the guard for me to understand. While the guard was distracted, I had Methier spray a charm onto the lens of the security camera.

  Our story was simple: I was Rand’s wife, and Methier was his cousin. There had been a death in the family. Ken wanted a private room for us to break the news to Rand, who would be processed out and released in a couple of days anyway for lack of evidence.

  “There will have to be security in there, and you need to stay, too.” The guard leaned forward and pressed a button. The door clanged open, and yet another guard appeared. “Take them to room four and bring Prisoner Eight-Seven-Three out. Stay with them until they’re finished. Bereavement visit.”

  “Got it.” The guard greeted Ken by name and told us to wait while he fetched Rand.

  Room four had the same decorator as the rest of the place, only with the addition of a wooden table and four folding chairs. The table’s dark-stained wood had been carved into so many times—initials and obscenities and hearts and various genitalia—that it had a rustic charm if one didn’t look too closely.

  “You won’t have to hurt the guard, will you?” Ken asked, watching as I handed Methier another potion for the security camera since he was the tallest. The potions would cloud the lens and distort the images but would wear off in an hour or two.

  I laughed. “Don’t worry. I won’t have to do anything. We have the Lord of Elfheim to take care of the guard. He won’t be hurt.”

  “Is this dude really the head of the Elven Synod?” Methier uttered his first words since shortly after we’d gotten into Rand’s Plantmobile. Not the world’s most intelligent faery, but he was doing us a huge favor and taking a huge risk, so who was I to criticize? “And you’re his wife?”

  “All true,” I said. My and Rand’s relationship was too complicated to explain in a short conversation.

  Five minutes passed before Rand was finally ushered in by the guard. He was still the prettiest elf I’d ever seen, but he was holding onto his temper by a thread. His face was so red, he looked like he’d just returned from a week on a subtropical beach without sunscreen. It clashed with the orange of his jumpsuit.

  The guard pushed him toward one of the chairs and handcuffed him to a ring set into the middle of the table. I looked at Methier and nodded my assurance. I’d anticipated handcuffs, so before we left the van, I’d slipped him a pair of wide, transparent wrist bands magicked to be impervious to metals.

  I took the chair opposite Rand and held out my hands for his. “I have some news for you, honey, but first let me just look at you a moment. I’ve missed you so, so much.”

  Behind me, leaning against the wall next to Methier, Ken coughed. Even Rand looked bemused, but he put his hands in mine.

  I needed an excuse to stare into your eyes for a few seconds to explain the plan. The big guy over here is Methier, one of the Fae Hunters and an ally of Christof.

  Rand’s gaze shifted to the faery, so I dug my nails into
the soft skin between his thumb and index finger to get his attention. Ow! What’s wrong with you?

  We’re supposed to be in love, so look at me, not the faery. He’s going to finish your stay in jail until Alex gets the paperwork done for your release. If he doesn’t know already, Florian will figure out you’re here soon, and he’ll come after you.

  I figured he’d think I was in Elfheim. What happened?

  Later. Can you do some mental manipulation with the guard?

  “I missed you too, darling.” Rand gave me his prettiest smile. I wish I could say I was immune to it, but at least I knew a big part of any attraction I felt for him was the result of bonding, not my own stupidity.

  He turned to the guard. “Excuse me, could you remove these handcuffs while I talk to my wife?”

  I thought Rand would need to touch the man to influence him, but as usual, I’d underestimated the elf’s power. The guard had fallen under Rand’s mental control as soon as they made eye contact.

  “Of course, sir.” The guard’s gaze remained riveted to Rand’s while he fumbled with the keys and unlocked the cuffs.

  I nodded at Methier. “Go ahead and take his place. I want to make doubly sure those wrist guards are working. And you’ll need to switch clothing.”

  Methier balked. Apparently, risking his health by wearing steel handcuffs was preferable to the ignominy of wearing a prison jumpsuit.

  Rand was ready, however. He shucked the jumpsuit like an oyster and followed with the removal of what I felt sure were prison-issued tighty-whities. I knew, because I had plundered through his dresser, that he had a drawer full of Derek Rose Italian silk underwear. One pair with the price tag on it was almost two-hundred dollars. That elf had too much money.

  He also had a lot of…junk. My face heated, but I refused to let him intimidate me. I’d been around too many shifters to care about a naked elf.

  “I shall not put on that elf’s underwear,” Methier hissed at me.