Royal Street (30 page)

Authors: Suzanne Johnson

Tags: #urban fantasy

“You too, my friend.” Louis dabbed at my face with a handkerchief. I looked in confusion at the blood on my shirt, and wiped my hand across my nose. It came away bloody. A nosebleed. All this, and I had a freaking nosebleed. I’m sure there was irony there somewhere.

I felt dizzy again, but it was a regular kind of dizzy, from the buzzard’s beak and blood loss. With the staff in my hand,
my emotional walls felt strong and solid, and while I was tired, I wasn’t nearly as exhausted as I should have been after using that much magic. I looked at the staff again, and I thought it purred.

Pierre Lafitte stayed to help Jean, but Dominique lifted Jake like he was no heavier than a baby—maybe a baby wolf—and one of the other pirates carried Gerry. Alex had managed to get back into his jeans and was able to walk on his own, albeit slowly. The wound in his thigh had already drenched the jeans scarlet, but his face had darkened from sheet-white to something just south of eggshell.

I fell in beside him. I wanted to tell him how worried I’d been, and how I wouldn’t have wanted to survive this if he hadn’t made it. I wanted him to know how important he’d become to me—as a partner, a friend, maybe more. I didn’t know how to start.

Instead, I reached for his hand. His fingers curled around mine and squeezed.

“You okay?” I gave him a poor imitation of a smile.

He managed his own twitch at one corner of his mouth. “I will be.”

We both looked behind us at Dom, carrying Jake. Alex’s eyes met mine, and an unspoken promise traveled between us: We’re getting him through this.

We finally reached the transport, sticking to side streets and bypassing the busy sections of Rampart. The transport was too small for all of us, so I took them across one at a time, using the staff for energy. My own magical battery was drained.

Gerry was in the worst shape, so I took him first, trying not to think about the way he was breathing—shallow, rapid breaths followed by what seemed like long stretches with no breath at all. Back in his bedroom, I pulled him outside the circle, stroked his cheek, then forced myself to go back.

As Dominique laid Jake inside the transport, he leaned close and spoke softly. “I do not share Jean’s fascination with you, wizard. Should you hurt him again, remember that.”

I didn’t reply, but locked gazes with him as I fired up the transport. Great. Another immortal enemy.

I dragged Jake onto the bedroom floor next to Gerry, whose pulse was thready. Then I went back for Alex, my muscles aching.

When I got to the Beyond again, Dominique was gone. Good. I owed him one, too, but thought I might find his price too high.

Alex leaned on me heavily as we got ready to leave. He didn’t talk, just grunted when I asked how he was doing.

I gave instructions for Louis to break the transport as soon as we were gone. “We wouldn’t have made it without you,” I said, trying to smile. I don’t think I did a very good job of it, but he was a kind man and didn’t judge.

“It’s okay. I got to walk in the sunshine again,” he said. “I got to play some music for a new bunch of people. I’m ready to stay here now. I’ll break that symbol once you’re gone, and that’ll be the end of this spyboy’s adventure.”

I held on to Alex as I fed the transport one last ragged burst of energy from the staff.

When the light and pressure subsided, we stumbled into the bedroom. Gerry lay on the floor where I’d left him, but Jake had regained consciousness and managed to prop himself against an armchair with his eyes closed. His breath was ragged.

Gerry wasn’t breathing.

I sat on the floor beside him, looking at his face, those so-familiar features. I wondered if I’d ever really known him, if we ever know anyone beyond what they’re willing to show us. I leaned over and kissed his forehead, and tears tinged with my blood dropped on his face. I wished I’d known how to make
this end well for him, or if he might have survived had I made different choices. I would have to live with that.

Alex had staggered to the bathroom, and I heard him rummaging around in the medicine cabinet. His injuries had worried me at first, but I kept forgetting about the shifter genes. He’d probably heal by morning. Jake was another matter.

I turned to him and found him watching me through half-closed lids.

“Hey, you’re awake.” I pulled a throw off the bed and crawled to sit beside him, putting pressure on his leg and telling a big old lie. “We’re going to get you to a hospital—everything’s going to be okay now.”

He put a hand on top of mine, his strong, tanned fingers shaking.

His voice was little more than a rough whisper. “What are you?”

A month ago, I could have answered that question. Before the storm, before Gerry, before finding that blasted staff. Now I couldn’t.

I whispered back: “I don’t know.”

FRIDAY, OCTOBER 7, 2005
“After the Storm: Louisiana death toll [to date]: 988 … Percentage of Entergy customers in the New Orleans metro area without power, Orleans Parish 59% … For now, only first-class letters will be delivered into the New Orleans region … Water on the east bank of New Orleans west of the Industrial Canal has been declared safe to drink … Limited medical care is available.”

—THE TIMES–PICAYUNE

CHAPTER 42

I
said good-bye to Gerry about a mile from the pile drivers and helicopters of the Army Corps of Engineers as they worked to piece the broken 17th Street Canal levee back together again. That was one big engineering Humpty Dumpty if ever I’d seen one.

The mud covering the grounds of the park along Lakeshore Drive had dried and cracked. I guessed eventually the brown and gray landscape of mud would give way to green shoots of weeds and grass. Life would go on, even in this land time seemed to have forgotten. The rest of the world had moved on but we wouldn’t be able to leave Katrina behind for a long time.

The ground crunched as I walked to the edge of the water and looked at the mild blue waves washing on breakers of gray stone. In a small wooden box, I carried Gerry’s ashes, thanks to a quiet cremation courtesy of the Elders. It had taken a week, but Zrakovi finally calmed down enough to talk to me and Alex instead of shouting. The powers-that-be weren’t happy with either of us, and I didn’t know what our future held. Zrakovi said we’d talk soon.

Right now, he didn’t have time. The Beyond was in the middle of an uprising, and the Elders were fighting to retain control of the preternatural borders. Ironically, Gerry might get his wish about magic re-entering the world of humans, at least in New Orleans. Rumor had it several preternatural groups were already moving across, and the vampires and fae were running the negotiations. The elves were also said to be involved, and the Elders were making concessions.

The old gods of voodoo hadn’t been invited to the negotiating table, and Samedi had been stripped of all power. His preternatural buddies had thrown him under the proverbial bus as an opening concession to negotiations.

Detective Ken Hachette had arrested a West Bank resident with a history of mental disorders after catching him setting up a voodoo ritual in Broadmoor. Souvenirs from every one of the dead guardsmen had been found in his house. The guy was probably as much a victim of Samedi as anyone, but I couldn’t muster a lot of sympathy. He’d have a nice new home courtesy of the state of Louisiana.

I wished I’d handled things better, but whatever the Elders had in store, I wouldn’t make excuses for saving Jake. As for Gerry, I’m wrapped up in guilt and grief and anger. I feel responsible for his death, and I miss him, and I’m angry with him. Given enough time, people say, everything heals. We’ll see.

I wished I’d known more about my own abilities and their limits, and how I’d managed to use elven magic against Samedi. So do the Elders. The staff, Charlie, follows me around like a lethal, spark-spewing pet.

I wished I knew what kind of relationship Jean Lafitte thought we had now, and how he expected to be repaid for helping me. With the borders in flux, I had no doubt he’d be back sooner rather than later. I’d have to decide how to break it to the Elders that I promised the pirate a house and a business deal.

More than anything, I wished Jake hadn’t gotten involved, but I wasn’t sorry I’d met him or Alex. I don’t know what kind of relationship we can have, any of us, not yet. Alex and I are waiting to see what the Elders say, and Jake is in a Metairie hospital, recuperating from a “wild animal attack” that supposedly happened in the flooded wilds of St. Bernard Parish. He won’t speak to either his cousin or me. Alex says he’s trying to come up with a rational Marine Corps–approved explanation for everything that happened.

Good luck with that. We’ll have to talk to him before the next full moon. If he turns fanged and furry, he’ll need our help.

I wished Katrina had never happened, that the city I love so much hadn’t been so broken, its spirit so damaged, its naïve joy replaced by sorrow and cynicism and anger. Yet I know a lot of things I’ve come to love since the storm would never have been in my life without the pain.

Katrina took, and she gave.

I opened the box and said a prayer for Gerry as I flung his ashes into the calm, indifferent waters of Lake Pontchartrain.

A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK

NEW YORK

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ROYAL STREET

A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010

www.tor-forge.com

Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

Design by Ellen Cipriano

eISBN 9781429988476

First eBook Edition : March 2012

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Johnson, Suzanne, 1956–

Royal street / Suzanne Johnson.—1st ed.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-0-7653-2779-6