Chapter Seven
Thirty minutes later, we were parked near Jax Brewery and walking the few blocks to Café du Monde. Café Maspero’s had a line a mile long wrapped around the corner block of Toulouse. Those waiting for platters of fried seafood, overstuffed po’boys, and the best French onion soup in town sipped on dollar strawberry daiquiris as they waited. My mouth watered, thinking of cold, salty raw oysters with horseradish sauce, but Maspero’s was two blocks away from Jackson Square. Too far away.
A cacophony of noise that was distinctly the French Quarter filled the night—sporadic laughter, plates and glasses tinkling, jazz music, car horns, random shouts, horses clip-clopping as they pulled tourist carriages along Decatur, and the distant horn of merchant ships on the Mississippi River. Café du Monde wasn’t as crowded as usual. A bearded man played an upbeat rendition of “When the Saints Go Marchin’ In” on his saxophone at the entrance.
“Hmph. Wish they’d hurry,” I mumbled.
“What’s that, Drake?”
“Oh, nothing.”
I squeezed past the smiling tourists dropping dollars and coins in his open case and beelined for a table on the outer edge of the awning. Malcolm followed. I winced as my stomach bumped the back of a chair right over my wound, but hid my grimace, not wanting Malcolm to ask unwanted questions.
“Didn’t know you were a fan of this scene,” he said from behind.
“Sometimes.” I smiled tightly, scooting my chair away from bumping the table behind me. They crammed as many teeny-tiny round tables in this place as possible, and usually every one of them was full.
I glanced at Malcolm, who gave me a nervous smile. We’d never been anywhere but class or study group together. I hated lying to him. Worse, I hated using him, but who was I kidding? I wanted to know who this Kat person was. I’d just get a glimpse, then I’d be satisfied. That’s what I told myself, anyway.
“Order?”
A pallid Asian woman in a white uniform wiped the remains of powdered sugar off the table, never even making eye contact.
“Two orders of beignets and café au lait,” said Malcolm.
Within six minutes, we were served and enjoying the famous delicacy. Funny thing was, I usually did enjoy the ambience of the Quarter and its distractions. Tonight, my eyes were peeled for one and only one person. My Vessel senses prickled along my skin. I smiled inwardly because I could actually feel the slow change. I was becoming aware, as Jude had said. I could feel my VS, Vessel Sense, on a primitive level, some secret awakening tickling along the outer edges of my mind and body. There were definitely Flamma out tonight, but I was either too far away or they were good at hiding. I couldn’t find them in the crowds, but I knew they were there. Still, I felt no immediate threat zoning in on me.
“I swear, it was the coolest thing ever. Peter Jackson is a freakin’ genius,” Malcolm was saying. “So, you want to go see the new one coming out?”
“I’m sorry?” I asked, sipping my chicory coffee.
“You know, the new Peter Jackson flick. It’ll be awesome!”
“Sure,” I mumbled, scanning the Square across the street.
“Awesome.”
Malcolm bit into his fourth beignet, having finished his order and moved on to mine. After all of my faked enthusiasm for beignets, I could hardly eat a bite. I was draining the last of my café au lait when I saw him.
Striding across Decatur like a man on a mission, he wore black jeans, a black leather jacket and black boots. No matter his dark allure, something about him made everyone step clearly out of his way. I knew what that something was—eau de Jude. Despite his magnificence, he emanated an aura of back-the-fuck-off wherever he went. My heart skipped a beat, even though I’d firmly resolved to keep my heart out of this. I’d decided Jude was entirely off-limits in the dating category, but he knew a hell of a lot more about what I was than he was letting on. I needed answers, and if that meant I had to resort to becoming the stalker in this relationship, well, then, so be it. Oh hell, who was I fooling? Honestly, I just really wanted to see who this Kat person was.
I didn’t see a sword hilt sticking up anywhere and wondered if my ability to see through the illusion had faded. Not likely. He marched directly toward the stairs leading up to the riverfront. Malcolm was still talking away, but I totally couldn’t focus on whatever he was saying.
“Hey, let’s go take a walk along the river. It’s nice tonight.”
“Yeah, sure,” agreed Malcolm.
His eyes brightened, and I hated myself a little bit more. The riverfront at night was dimly lit, perfect for couples and lovers who wanted privacy on a moonlit stroll. A cool autumn wind nipped the air. The crescent moon hung low, cutting a sideways smile in the starry sky. I felt sick deceiving Malcolm this way, especially when he slid a sweet smile in my direction, but my choices were limited. Out of nowhere, he took my hand as we climbed the stairs as if to guide me, but we both knew that wasn’t why. His palm was a little damp, and I let him hold my hand, let him believe what he wanted for the time being. Ugh. I’m such a bitch.
Ignoring the uncomfortable feeling of my hand in Malcolm’s, I tuned in to the dawning sensation creeping along my skin. I was close to Flamma. An ethereal tendril wove out of that secret place within, wrapping a warm layer around my chest, spreading over the rest of my body like a blanket alight with electricity. It was the oddest sensation I’d ever felt, though it seemed to happen of its own accord. I had no idea what this meant, yet at the same time felt protected.
As soon as we stepped onto the stone walkway along the riverfront, I saw them, conversing closely near one of the many stone sculptures dotting the riverfront.
Though Jude was definitely a specimen to draw the eye, I couldn’t help but gaze at the tall, slender woman standing next to him. She must’ve been six foot. Blonde hair braided tightly in a thick line halfway down her back and a pale face with wide, pretty eyes. She was dressed from head to foot in brown leather, including a duster jacket that hit her knees. The green-eyed monster hissed and spat, though I thought I’d locked the damn animal up good and tight. I suddenly felt small and insignificant in my faded jeans, white knit shirt and red denim jacket cropped short at the waist.
Malcolm guided me straight for them, but I pulled him to a stop. “You’re shivering. Are you cold?”
Malcolm wrapped me into a hug, rubbing my back. Another crafty way to get close to a girl—the ole you-must-be-cold-so-let-me-hold-you move. I didn’t protest. Now I had an excuse to watch the two over his shoulder without moving into their line of vision. My senses heightened. The smell of the muddy river mixed with salt water from the Gulf wafted over me. The cool, humid air clung to my skin. And sound amplified to a ridiculous degree. I honed in on the one sound I’d come for—the conversation between the model look-alikes not fifteen yards away.
“What kind of signs?”
“You know very well what the signs are, Jude.”
The familiarity with which she said his name twisted something in my stomach. To my utter disgust and that of my caged green-eyed monster, whose hair stiffened straight in the air, the woman’s voice was husky and silky at the same time. She had a bit of a European accent too, though watered down. Go figure.
“And have you spoken to George about this?” Jude asked her.
Her eyes narrowed at the question.
“No,” she said tightly. “I don’t need his permission to theorize, do I?”
“I never said you did.”
Though she was apparently beyond miffed at the mention of this George guy, Jude had a very amused expression on that gorgeous face of his. The woman continued in a much more businesslike manner, which was more to my liking. “My region has been overrun by servants to a high demon, one of the highest. He’s crafty, stays well hidden and not always here on our plane. He’s the reason I’m here in New Orleans.”
“He’s come here?”
I heard something I’d never heard before in Jude’s voice—a combination of excitement and anxiety. The blonde shook her head.
“No. His henchmen are here, though. Something big is going on. I think he could be—”
Suddenly, she went rigid, pulling a dagger lightning fast from somewhere near her thigh. I froze. She sensed Flamma. I glanced to my right and left, then back at them. Both Jude and presumably Kat were staring straight at me. Shock, then fury passed across those dark eyes I’d come to know so well. Without a second’s pause, he marched in long strides directly toward me, his eyes cutting to Malcolm before landing furiously back on mine.
To say I wasn’t terrified, as well as mortified for spying, would be a complete and total lie. Still, I held my ground, moving out of Malcolm’s arms and pushing my chin up a notch. I was getting good at acting. I fleetingly wondered if I should switch my major to Drama, or maybe Politics.
Then he was there. Whoa. Way inside my personal space. And Malcolm’s. Jet eyes staked me to the spot.
“Do you have a death wish?” His voice grated against my skin like sandpaper.
Malcolm pushed himself into the conversation. “Dude, excuse me. What are you doing?”
Malcolm made a hands-off gesture. He went to push Jude away but caught the look of death in Jude’s eyes and stopped himself. Holy hell! What was I thinking? I’d brought Malcolm up here based on my own selfish desire to get some answers and now I might be responsible for his untimely demise. I could see the headlines now in the Times Picayune:
Twenty-year-old Student Spontaneously Combusts into Pile of Ash, Source of Death Unknown.
“Answer me, Genevieve. Why are you here?”
“You know this guy?” asked Malcolm, trying to cut in on the staring contest passing between us.
“We were just taking a walk,” I said, trying to keep my voice from quivering. “This is—”
“Lie.”
“Jude, seriously, I was just—”
“Do you have any idea how dangerous this place is for you?” He made a sound in the back of his throat that could’ve been a laugh if it weren’t for the expression of rage warring across his face. He glanced at my jacket with a shake of his head. “Little Red comes wandering in the woods infested with wolves.”
He was so close now our toes were touching. I inched back a step.
“Hey, dude! I don’t know who you are,” began Malcolm, putting an arm between us, “but you better back off.”
Jude fixed a glacier-melting gaze on Malcolm, standing at least a head taller. I swallowed, but there was no moisture in my throat. How had I gotten Malcolm into this?
“Kid,” Jude annunciated softly and slowly, a sure sign all hell was about to break loose, no pun intended. “You may remove yourself and go back home now. Alone.”
He sounded as if he’d just dismissed Malcolm back to his playpen, an errant child being put in timeout.
“What?”
Malcolm lowered his arm and turned to me. “You know this asshole?”
“Yes. Malcolm, um, this is a friend of, um, my dad’s. A work associate. From the dojo.”
I was stammering like an idiot. To say he was a friend of mine would’ve been laughable. Though he only appeared to be in his late twenties, he exuded maturity on so many levels. He in no way looked like a friend I might know from school, and for being a good liar, my brain was misfiring at the moment and not helping me come up with anything better.
Jude did not extend his hand in greeting. He did not welcome the introduction. He did not move an inch. As a matter of fact, I felt his presence swelling beyond the miniscule area where we stood, like a colossus breathing down on the pitiful people beneath his feet. He in no way appeared cordial or polite or even remotely human, for that matter. I had to get rid of Malcolm before this became seriously ugly. I put myself between them, pushing Malcolm gently back.
“Thank you for the beignets and the company, but Jude can give me a ride home.”
“I’m not letting you go anywhere with this guy,” he protested.
Wrong answer. I heard another scoff behind me that was supposed to be a sort of laugh but wasn’t.
“I’m sorry, Malcolm. This is my fault. My dad is kind of strict. There’s been trouble with the family business and stuff. I’ll let Jude take me back home.”
When did I become such a huge liar? Trouble with the family business? Was I embroiled in the mafia now? Malcolm didn’t know my dad, except from a distance. For all he knew, he could’ve been in the mafia. And Jude more than looked the part of the assassin. I insinuated in my tone there were things I couldn’t say, because of course there were.
“I’ll explain to you later, I promise. I’ll call you tomorrow?” I added lower, squeezing his hand.
Malcolm put his hands on my shoulders. I swear I felt two points of heat boring into the back of my skull. I wondered then about my “sixth sense”.
“Are you sure, Drake?”
I nodded. He pulled me into a brisk hug, then let go, giving the man over my shoulder a hard stare. I watched as he marched back toward Jackson Square, descending the stairs with one last scowling glance over his shoulder.
Taking a deep, shaky breath, I turned to face the executioner. I didn’t speak. Just waited. He was doing that thing where he appeared to be dissecting my thoughts, observing every line on my face, trying to solve a riddle that perplexed him. Flinty shards of gold sparked in his eyes. A shot of relief washed over me. Any fraction of light in those obsidian depths was a good sign. Or so I thought.
“Why are you here?”
His voice had lost its edge. Well, let me clarify, the razor-sharp edge that could slice an oak into splinters. There was still the blunt steel swinging in slow, even strokes, threatening to cut me if I made a wrong move. I glanced toward the sculpture. She was gone.
“Who’s Goth Barbie?”
His head tilted slightly to the left. His eyes narrowed, still glinting with golden stars.
“She’s a friend,” he finally responded. “Who’s Schoolboy Ken?”
He evaded, a special talent he possessed by the butt load. Two can play that little game.
“He’s a friend.”
Jude smiled. A genuine smile with teeth and everything. My heart stuttered with the sudden shift in mood. His gaze traced the contours of my face, hair, shoulders, lower.