The Hoodoo Detective (10 page)

“So what do you think?” Sam asked her. “Did the killer stick around to watch the action? And if so, why take a shot at us?”

On the sidewalk, they passed a young trio of musicians, whirling out a gypsy tune.

“It's possible,” Riga said. But it was a big risk. And though she didn't believe the Old Man was wheelchair bound, she couldn't see him evading Ash either.

The crowd thickened as they headed toward Bourbon Street, and the music grew louder, more grating. New Orleans might be known for jazz, but all manner of music filled its streets.

“You don't think the killer's trying to use our show for extra publicity?” Sam asked. “That might explain why he took a potshot at you.”

“It's possible,” she said. And if the police came to that conclusion, that was the end of their collaboration.

“Anything's possible,” Sam said. “But what do you think?”

“I think we don't have enough information to jump to conclusions.” But she'd already done that, hadn't she? She'd decided the Old Man was involved. He
had
to be involved.

“Things are getting interesting though,” Sam said. “And that Crazy Cat video has reached over half a million views. There's a local PR consultant I know… I’d like to bring her in so we can capitalize on this.”

“Riga?” A woman's voice called.

She stopped, turned.

“Riga!” A dark silhouette, short and squat, waved from across the street.

She frowned, her brows drawing together.

“Keep moving,” Ash said.

“No, I know that voice.”

Two figures, one short and round, one tall and narrow, walked across the narrow street. A third, masculine figure, separated itself from the crowd and followed. They paused for a horse-drawn carriage then hurried toward Riga.

“Riga!” A short, older woman with gray pin curls and thick spectacles peered up at her and clasped her shoulders. She beamed at her sister. “I knew she'd make it, Peregrine. Didn't I tell you?”

“Mm,” Riga's other aunt, Peregrine said. She looked down her hooked nose at Riga. “You might have been right.”

“Aunt Peregrine, Dot... What are you doing here?”

“We're here for your aunt Livinia's memorial service,” Dot said. “And so are you.”

Riga shook her head to clear it. Her aunt Livinia had died last winter. She thought of Livinia's flesh crumbling to dust, her odd, gypsy clothing sagging to the ground, and shuddered at the memory. “I didn't know—”

Dot wagged a thick finger at her. “But you did, my dear, or you wouldn't be here.”

“Manners, Dot,” Peregrine said.

“Oh! How rude of me.” Dot took a step back and turned, her baggy gray skirt flaring about her ankles. “And this is Livinia's dear friend, Marek Loyola.”

A severe, dark-haired man stepped forward. He took Riga's hand and bowed over it, pressing cool lips to her flesh. Still bent, he looked up and met her gaze. One of his fingers brushed her pulse.

Her gut lurched unpleasantly.

“And you must be Riga.” His voice was a honeyed southern drawl. Straightening, he released his grasp.

“Marek's been kind enough to help us with the arrangements,” Dot said. “This city was such an important part of Livinia's life, and we wanted to do it right.”

“Which is why the arrangements took so long,” Peregrine growled.

Dot clapped her hands together. “Now. Who are your friends?” She touched Ash on the elbow. “You, I know, young man. Has life treated you well since last we met?”

His lips quirked. “Good enough.”

“Sorry.” Riga motioned to the women. “My aunts Peregrine and Dot. This is Sam Waters, the field producer for
Supernatural Encounters
. John Wolfe, our cameraman. And Angus McDugan, our sound crew. Man. Person.”

Wolfe lowered the camera, and everyone shook hands.

“A memorial service?” Sam asked.

“I wanted it in a church,” Dot said, “but of course we couldn't do that.”

“Why not?” Angus asked.

More beads of sweat broke out on Riga's forehead. “Aunt Livinia was an atheist.” She shot her aunts a look, willed them to keep their mouths shut.

Marek's lips quirked. “So you're here for one of those so-called reality shows?” His nostrils flared. “You smell of death and old fear.”

Sam tilted his head. “Smell—?”

“I'm also working as a consultant to the police on a case.” Riga laid her hand on one of the horse-head shaped hitching posts, rubbed between the horse’s ears. “A necromanctic sacrifice.”

Peregrine's brows rose. “A necromancer here? In New Orleans? That seems rather unlikely.”

A man in shorts and a tank walked past, wearing a sandwich board advertising beer.

“It is hard to believe,” Dot said. “The only thing more dangerous to a necromancer than another necromancer is a vampire.”

And Dot would know, Riga thought. She and Peregrine were both necromancers, and though Riga carefully avoided asking, she knew they wouldn't have lived to be senior citizens if they hadn't killed their share. Dread pooled in the pit of her stomach. Why were they really here?

“And of course this city is simply packed with vampires,” Dot said.

“Of course,” Sam said faintly.

Wolfe raised the camera to his shoulder.

Riga put her hand on the lens and pushed it down. “No filming family.”

“Oh, we don't mind.” Dot's lips pinched together. “Why, Marek here—”

“Finds this fascinating,” Marek interrupted. “Necromancers in New Orleans? This is a tale I'd like to hear.”

“So would I.” Sam crossed his arms over his chest.

“Well,” Dot said, “of course you know the first New Orleans vampire legends began with the Ursuline convent, right here in the French Quarter. In the city's early days, women of the rougher classes were shipped from Spain to the new world. Spending months below decks, lips stained with blood from tuberculosis, the women were taken straight to the convent upon arrival. With their pale complexions and bloody mouths, the rumor circulated they were vampires.”

“I'm disappointed, Dot,” Marek said. “Repeating such ridiculous fables. Of course they were vampires. Tuberculosis indeed.”

“Just like poor Uncle Arnold.” Dot shook her head.

Marek quirked a brow. “Your Uncle Arnold was a vampire?”

“Certainly not.” Dot sniffed. “He died of tuberculosis.”

Peregrine snorted. “He did not. He died of hemorrhagic fever. Nasty business.”

“What? I was certain he had TB.”

“Cousin Percy died of TB. Don't you remember? They had him in that awful institution—”

Dot shook a gnarled finger. “Now I know that just isn't true. Aunt Anabelle was institutionalized. Percy died at home.”

Riga gripped the base of the horse head, throttling it. “Can we forget about Percy?”

“The point,” Peregrine said, “is that since necromancers work death magic, we have a certain degree of authority over vampires. And since New Orleans is vampire central, it's not a healthy place for people like us. There are simply too many to manage safely.”

Riga stared in horror. The last time they'd met, her aunts had been annoyingly secretive. Now they were spilling everything to her film crew.

“‘People like us’?” Sam asked.

“Visiting New Orleans is one thing,” Peregrine continued. “Living here would be madness.”

Dot shook her head. “Which unfortunately, our kind is prone to. Could Riga be right?”

“‘Our kind’?” Sam asked.

Riga laughed weakly. “You two have been drinking the Hurricanes without me. Why don't we get you back to your hotel?”

“Oh, pish.” Dot waved aside her concerns. “We're not drunk, as you well know. Don't worry about your friends. They won't even remember we've had this conversation, and if what you say is true, it's important we have it. Marek, would you mind?”

He gave a short bow. “Not at all.” His gaze deepened, and a wave of delicious cold rippled through the air. “Forget.”

“For Pete's sake...” Riga turned to Ash. His face was slack, his eyes blank. “Ash?” She looked around. The film crew wore similar sheeplike expressions. She grasped Sam's arm, shook it. “Sam? Snap out of it.”

“I wouldn't do that. Marek's not finished,” Peregrine said.

“What?” Riga whirled on Marek. “Stop that.”

The heat flooded back.

Sam blinked. “Wha... Oh. Hello. Who are you?”

Riga crossed her arms over her chest and scowled at Marek. “That wasn't funny. Don't ever do it around me again.”

“I don't see the harm,” Dot said.

“It's unethical!”

“I'm not sure what ethics have to do with it,” Dot said, her chins quivering.

Smiling primly, Peregrine re-introduced them to the film crew.

“Nice to meet you,” Sam said. “Like I was saying, Riga. There's this great PR consultant I know right here in New Orleans. She's agreed to meet with us tonight.”

Sound and laughter roared behind them. Involuntarily, Riga turned.

Donovan strode down the middle of the street, and Riga’s heart leaped. Behind him, a bachelorette party caroused, shrieking with laughter, drinks in hand. The bride wore a short pink veil and even shorter miniskirt. She tripped over her high heels, her drink splattering on the pavement. Laughing, her friends caught her.

Riga felt a strange stretching, reality bending. A sense of déjà vu descended. And then she was in a forest, darkened by tall trees, shrieks of laughter and water splashing nearby. The scent of damp earth and the taste of wine on her lips, and a fierce joy that threatened to drag her to its knees.

There was a snap, and it was just Donovan walking down the street in his trademark black, in the right place at the right time.

His green eyes pinioned hers. Riga moved toward him, laughing, the weight of heat and confusion vanished.

He pressed her close. She wrapped her arms around her husband's waist, reveling in the hard planes of his muscles and the warmth of his body despite the stifling New Orleans night. He smelled of forests, musk and wild places.

Donovan bent and pressed a kiss to her lips, inflaming her blood.

“Riga.” His voice rumbled through her, set her heart beating faster.

She traced a thumb along his jaw, lingering on the faint, cross-shaped scar there. “How did you find me?”

“I'll always find you.” He smiled, his eyes crinkling. “And Ash sent me a text.”

“How was Macau?” she asked, trying to make up for her earlier lapse. She brushed back a lock of raven-colored hair from his forehead.

“You want to talk about Macau?”

“I want to talk about you.”

The dog woofed, stepping on Donovan's polished shoe with one giant paw.

“And who's this?” Donovan asked.

“An orphan. I'm his temporary guardian.”

“That's a Rhodesian Ridgeback, a lion killer.” He scratched the dog's back, and the dog looked to Riga. “He seems quite taken with you.” Donovan gazed past her, frowning. “Are those your aunts?”

“Yes. They say they're here arranging for Livinia's memorial.”

He took her hand. “Let's find out what they're up to.”

Ash nodded to him as they approached and resumed scanning the street for threats.

“Peregrine, Dot, how nice to see you both,” Donovan said with a trace of coolness.

They stepped onto the sidewalk, and he pulled Riga close to him, his arm draped around her waist. He nodded to the film crew. “Sam, Wolfe, Angus.”

“Mr. Mosse.” Sam stepped forward, gripped his hand. “I'd heard you were in Macau.”

“I was, until the Crazy Cat video. I thought your crew would be staying in a safer hotel.”

Marek stepped a little away from the group.

Sam colored. “So did I. If we’d had any idea—”

“It doesn't matter. Riga and I will be staying in the French Quarter.” Donovan turned to her. “I didn’t think you’d mind. I've had your things moved.”

“It's... fine.” On this occasion, she didn't mind Donovan's high-handedness. Whatever hotel he'd chosen would be luxurious, and they could both use some space from the
Encounters
crew. But since she'd found the hoodoo crossing in her hotel room, she'd hung a do-not-disturb sign on the door, worried an unsuspecting maid would walk into another magical attack. Whoever had retrieved her luggage might have stumbled into something dangerous. “I'd like to go back to the old hotel though, just to make sure everything's okay.”

“Certainly,” Donovan said. “Shall we go, Riga? My driver's not far from here.”

“Wait,” Sam said. “The PR consultant – we need to meet with her tonight.”

“Riga's tired,” Donovan said, “and so am I. It can wait until morning.”

Sam blew his breath out through his nose but nodded. “You're right. It's been a long day. Come on guys. Team meeting tomorrow morning. Eight AM, sharp.” He led the crew away.

Riga approached her aunts. “We should talk privately. Where are you staying?”

“Right there. We’ve got a balcony view of the street action.” Peregrine pointed at a hotel across the street. “Call us when you've settled in. I'd like to hear more about your... show.” Eyeing the crew speculatively, she turned and strode down the street.

Dot toddled after her. Sketching a bow, Marek followed.

“We should get off the street,” Ash said.

Donovan plucked a leaf from the box hedge out of Riga's hair. “Rolling in the bushes?”

“That’s a story better told in private,” Riga said.

“Kinky.”

The three of them walked, the dog padding silently behind them, and reached a black limo. A chauffeur sprang from the driver's side, opening the door. Inside, Donovan flipped down a panel, exposing a bar. “It sounds like we could all use a drink. Riga? There's an excellent Cabernet in here somewhere. Ah.” He drew it out.

The dog climbed on top of her.

“
Oof
. Maybe later.”

Donovan glanced at the bodyguard. “Ash?”

“I'm on duty.”

“That bad, is it?” He uncorked the wine, poured a glass.

“Someone took a shot at her,” Ash said.

Donovan froze, the planes of his face hardening. “When?”

“About an hour ago,” Ash said.

Donovan set down his drink. A pulse beat in his jaw. Finally, “I’m glad you were here.”

“The dog knocked her out of the way. I was an afterthought.”