Pirate's Alley (17 page)

Sightseeing? Something smelled rotten in the state of the historical undead. “I’d enjoy that, too.” I’d hate every second of it and might well freeze to death. “Can I go with you?”

Another pause. Damn it. He was up to something.

“But of course, Drusilla. We will have a dinner date at noon and then we shall enjoy a stroll.”

Explaining the difference between a lunch date and a dinner date didn’t seem worth the effort. I glanced at Alex’s bedside clock. Holy crap; it was almost eleven a.m. already. “I’ll come to your room as soon as I can get back to the hotel from Uptown.”

Next to me, Alex grumbled something into the mattress. I probably didn’t want to know.

“I shall await your return.” Jean hung up.

“Yeah, bye to you, too,” I said to the undead air.

“Pirate’s on the move.” I poked Alex in the hip, probably harder than necessary, but I owed him. “I’ve gotta go.”

“Au revoir,” he said into the pillow.

I waited a moment to see if he was joking, but he went back to sleep, or pretended to. One way to find out. “Okay, I’ll just take your keys and leave the Range Rover with the Monteleone valet. I’ll text you the ticket number.”

He jerked the pillow off his head and threw it on the floor. “Having you sleep here seemed like such a good idea last night. Now, not so much.”

Yeah, well, he hadn’t complained during the makeup sex. One of us had to work for a living, even if it meant babysitting an undead pirate who was plotting some type of mayhem.

If possible, the drive back to the Quarter was worse than last night’s trip. The snow had tapered off, but more fools like us were out trying to drive around. The city had made a valiant attempt at dumping sand on a few of the major streets to provide traction but all it did was make a mess.

By the time we turned onto Royal Street, my nerves were fried and I wasn’t even driving. “Why don’t you park and come into the hotel for a while? Don’t you have transport watch at the Napoleon House in a couple of hours?”

Alex grunted, which is what passed for conversation with him until he’d been up awhile.

“I don’t speak caveman. You’ll have to translate.”

He pulled the SUV to a cautious stop in front of the Monteleone, which meant his answer was no. “I don’t want to see Lafitte before I’ve had coffee. Or after. And don’t let him touch you.”

I kissed him, lingering over it a moment. We needed more time together than half an argument followed by makeup sex; our fledgling relationship was already treading water. Maybe all the pretes would retreat to their respective corners of the Beyond for Christmas and leave us alone for a day or two. A girl could dream.

“Talk to you tonight?”

“Later,
Jolie
.” He must be waking up. He’d managed to smile instead of scowl.

I took off my coat as soon as I got inside the Monteleone lobby so security wouldn’t mistake me for a panhandler with bad fashion sense and toss me out on the curb. Then, on the elevator ride to the eighth floor, I felt guilty for that thought, and wondered how the city’s shamefully large homeless population was faring during this weather.

Many of New Orleans’ homeless were the working poor, whose hard minimum-wage jobs didn’t provide enough money to pay the city’s inflated rent and utility costs. Between misbehaving pretes and personal crises, I hadn’t heard the news in a couple of days.

A dark-suited room-service waiter exited Jean’s room as I approached down the eighth-floor hallway. “Is Mr. Lafayette in?” I asked. “I’m staying across the hall and was supposed to meet him for lunch.” Maybe Jean had gotten tired of waiting for me and ordered his own meal.

The young man smiled. “The dude ordered two entrees, so unless he’s really hungry he ordered for you.”

Great. Lunch
a deux
in the pirate’s suite. “How thoughtful of him. I’ll have to give him a special thank-you.”

If he ordered me snails, he could eat them himself.

I knocked on his door before going to my room. I heard a clatter of dishes behind the door, and then it opened to the man himself. “Ah,
Jolie
. You … Pardon, but do you realize your attire is the same as when you paid me such a delightful visit yesterday in Old Barataria?”

“Thanks for noticing.” When I’d put the clothes back on last night, I hadn’t anticipated an all-night elven paternity intervention followed by makeup sex. “I need to take a quick shower and then will come back for lunch. It’ll take a half hour.” Give or take thirty minutes.

“You are welcome to avail yourself of the shower in Eudora Welty’s rooms. I could be most helpful with your
toilette
.” He grinned, and I grinned back. One of these days I would agree to one of his smarmy suggestions and freak the hell out of him. But not this one, and not today.

“I’ll see you in a few.”

“A few what, Drusilla? Truly, your modern folk have the most disagreeable habits of language.”

Whatever. I unlocked my door, retreated to the quiet warmth of my room, and gave a longing look at the neatly made bed. I’d rather eat and nap than let Jean drag me all over the frozen city. I was part elf, after all. I now had an excuse for my winterphobia.

The hot water of the shower finally beat the rest of the chill out of my skin, and I took my time choosing layers of clothing that would add warmth without bulk: a T-shirt that said
NEW ORLEANS: IT’S NOT THE HEAT, IT’S THE STUPIDITY
, a thin black sweater with a tight weave, a bulkier red sweater, and black cords. Two pairs of socks, one wool. I finished drying my hair, looked at my makeup bag, and left it closed. This wasn’t a lunch date. Normal women carried oversize purses filled with cosmetics and personal items. I walked across the hall carrying my ugly coat, the elven staff, my boots, and the messenger bag containing my portable magic kit.

Jean must have heard me because he flung open the door to his suite and greeted me before I had a chance to knock.

He too wore layers. He’d added what looked like a long, fitted suede jacket over his usual white linen tunic. I fingered the lapel; it was thick but soft. “This is spiffy. Did you buy it or tan it?”

“It was given to me in trade by an Acadian who wished to purchase a pirogue. In those days we did not experience such winters, so I had little use for it.”

I couldn’t help myself. “And what year might that have been?”

He pursed his lips and shrugged. “I do not recall, but believe it was before the war.”

That would be the War of 1812. “It’s held up very well.” Of course, so had he.

“
Merci
. And I must say you look…” He appeared to struggle for a word I wouldn’t find offensive. Captain Lafitte and I had very different ideas about the proper attire for a woman, modern or otherwise. “… warm.”

“Exactly. And I’m hungry.” I eyed the room-service cart buried under silver-covered dishes. “You didn’t order snails, did you?”

“
Mais non
. I inquired, knowing how anxious you were to sample these delicacies, but the weather delayed the ship filled with escargot for the hotel.”

I started to explain that a
shipment of escargot
differed from a
ship of escargot,
but why bother. Thank God for blizzards. “That’s a real pity.”

Much to my surprise, he had ordered burgers dressed with bacon, creole chutney, and cheddar cheese. Extra fries had been piled onto his plate in an artistic pyramid. I’d have to jog through the snow to work this off.

I gave him a mock salute. “Congratulations, Jean. You have discovered hamburgers, a great American tradition.” The few times I’d been around him during meals, he’d proven to have an adventurous palate—developed at sea, no doubt, during a time when one ate whatever one could catch, trap, or plunder from an enemy vessel. If he’d ever resorted to trying
long pork,
as roasted human flesh was called due to its supposed porklike flavor, I didn’t want to know.

“Our mutual friend Rene introduced me to this
hamburger
delicacy, although he has been unable to explain to me why it is called thus when it contains no ham. No pork at all, in fact.”

I stopped with a French fry halfway to my mouth. I thought it had something to do with Hamburg, Germany, but wouldn’t bet on it. “Did he explain why French fries are called thus even though they don’t come from France?”

He picked up a crisp potato and studied it. “I beg to differ,
Jolie
. Even in my youth, we consumed
frites
at my home near Bordeaux and later in Saint-Domingue. We did not have the sweet red sauce, however.” He dumped a quarter of a bottle of ketchup on his plate and dragged a fistful of fries through it.

We spent the next half hour discussing the many variations on the hamburger, leaving Jean anxious to try a Big Mac—I think it was the lure of special sauce that attracted him, plus my opinion, after much sampling, that Mickey Ds had the best fries in the universe.

“
Tr
è
s bien,
that was most enjoyable.” He settled back and gave me a sly look that sent my antennae of suspicion skyward. “Do you still wish to join me in a walk through the city, to avail yourself of its winter beauty? Or perhaps you would prefer to rest while I enjoy my stroll.”

“I want to stroll.” Actually, I’d rather crawl under the duvet in my own hotel room—alone—until spring. “I’m ready when you are.”

I noted he’d never said he
wanted
me to join him on his stroll. With the pirate, the words he didn’t utter were often more revealing than the ones he did.

“Shall we then?” He opened the door as I struggled into my coat, but then blocked my way. “Pardon,
Jolie
. Your coat does not do justice to your beauty. Do you have another you might wear?”

What a delicate way of saying the coat was hideous and he was ashamed to be seen with me. “I can’t afford a whole new wardrobe as well as a new coat, not being a wealthy historical figure with an unlimited supply of gold at my disposal.”

“Ah, well, we must remedy this.” He turned and strode down the hall toward the
lifting room,
as he called the elevator, leaving me to chase after him. I wasn’t sure what his remedy might be, but maybe he’d get me a raise.

I barely managed to jump into the elevator before the doors whisked closed and took off for the lobby. So that’s how we were going to play it. He was going to do his best to wear me out or ditch me, whichever came first.

Game on, pirate. My stride might be short but my competitive spirit was gargantuan.

As soon as he walked and I trotted through the lobby and out the front door onto Royal Street, I slipped my arm through his. He either had to walk at a pace I could maintain or blatantly brush me aside, which I didn’t think he’d do, courtly old-world gentleman pirate that he was.

I nailed it. After a suspicious glance at my arm, his mouth twitched. I’d seen through him; he’d seen through me.

“Ah,
Jolie
. We are perfectly suited to one another, as I must continue to remind you. A woman of your intelligence is wasted on such as
le petit chien
.”

I’d let the slam at Alex pass. “Where are we going?”

“Let us stroll to see the cathedral, even though it means I will be forced to also regard the monument to the arrogant Andrew Jackson.”

Rumor had it that Jean had won the historical undead representative’s seat on the Interspecies Council after a contentious election with the undead former president Jackson. During his human life, Jackson had lived in New Orleans briefly during the time of the Battle of New Orleans in 1814, which gave him enough local memory power to pop over occasionally in his undead form.

Rumor also had it that Jean had won the election by cheating. Since the source of said rumors was Alex, they were likely true.

During weekdays, Royal Street was open to traffic. Which meant that not only were the streets a slick layer of ice since the city had made some attempt to shovel the snow to the sides, but every few yards we came across people staring morosely at their fender benders.

“It does not appear snowfall is useful to automobiles and—
Mon Dieu
!” Jean dodged an icy snowball lobbed by a red-faced, cursing Mini Cooper driver. He’d been aiming at a pickup owner who’d turned the back of his cute little car into mangled yellow aluminum foil. The only thing dumber than driving in this mess was driving a car that weighed less than my cat. Of course, that was a low shot coming from a woman who no longer had access to anything motorized.

I retained a firm grip on Jean’s left arm and elbowed him in the ribs. Once he’d escaped the flying ice ball, he had slipped his right hand inside his Daniel Boone coat, where, if experience proved true, he’d stashed a weapon. It was too cold for a preternatural incident.

“Don’t you dare shoot anybody. I’d have to clean it up.” My teeth had already begun chattering, and it would take forever to modify all those human memories. Plus, I’d have to call Blue Congress wizards to erase the bloodstains from the snow; I had nothing in my portable kit that would work.

“Bah, very well. My intention was to stab the blackguard, not fell him by pistol.” Jean resumed his speedy charge toward St. Louis Cathedral, tugging me along, slipping and sliding beside him.

We made it to Jackson Square with no further life-threatening situations, and I couldn’t help myself: I pulled my phone from my pocket and began snapping pictures like every other snow-struck New Orleanian who’d wandered into the streets.

Jean scooped up a handful of snow and packed it into a firm snowball. In perfect pitcher’s-mound form, he threw a hard line drive at Andrew Jackson’s snow-covered, bronze head. Hit him right between the eyes.

“Nice shot. Do you feel better?”

“Bah.” Jean turned back and smiled at the sight of St. Louis Cathedral draped in snow and ice, which I had to agree was a pretty spectacular sight. “It would prove more enjoyable had I been able to strike the arrogant toad himself.”

No love lost between the pirate and the president, apparently. Alex said Jackson had been banished to Old Tennessee after causing such a public stink over the election-cheating incident that it threatened to expose the historical undead to humans.