Three men stood on the second floor with me and two on rafters above, where a hole had been cut in the ceiling to the attic, what would soon be the third floor, though in NOLA-speak it would be the atelier. But the hole was a lot bigger than I expected, covering the entire area from wall to wall. Way more demo than I had anticipated. I thought about weeping at the lack of sleep, but . . . I could survive being sleepy. I took in the smells: fresh pine wood with an underlay of garlic, beer, a little weed, hot peppers, and chili, from the men I didn’t know. Even less obvious was the scent of vamp from the one man I did know.
Two beams sawn with right-angled cutouts for risers and treads were lying on the floor and the far wall was covered with penciled lines and scuff marks to create a narrow stairwell next to the stairs from the first floor.
I waved at the hole overhead. “Can I see up there?”
Edmund looked at me, and at the hole, and knelt near me, his fingers laced together and his hands cupped for my foot.
“I expected to climb a ladder,” I said, my tone wry.
“It is an old house. The ceilings are twelve feet high and the ladders were not quite tall enough,” Ed said. “We had to stand them on the stack of drywall and plywood to cut the hole overhead, and those stacks are now upstairs. Longer ladders are on the way. Until then, the men are pulling each other up. Please allow me to boost you.”
I was tired. Vamps were strong. Beast was really good at catching us. I shrugged and stepped back, took a running start, and raced to Edmund.
My primo accepted and collected my weight without a bobble, tossing me high. I caught the rafters overhead and let momentum and Beast pull me into the attic. I heard the muttered comments of the crew as I landed, probably looking as if I’d flown up here.
“Bruja?” The men backed away, slowly, not turning their backs.
“Bebedor de sangre?” All the men crossed themselves. Several said, “Madre de Dios,” in tones of fear.
“Vampira.” Pointing to me, not Ed, who was coming up behind me. Which was funny.
“Noooo,” I said.
“Sí.” More crossing.
“Noooo,” I said back. “No vampira. No bruja. Just strong.” I made a muscle.
“Black Widow? From Marvel?” a guy with a droopy paunch asked. It came out Black Weedow?
The other guy said, “Natasha Romanova,” and shaped an hourglass figure in the air with his hands.
“Sorta kinda.”
Being a superhero was way better than scaring the humans with the truth. They elbowed each other in approval, saying, “Sí. La Araña Viuda. Sí. Sí. Sí.”
The space up here was amazing. There were dormers along one side of the roof system and the windows had been removed, leaving openings to the night. A new window rested below each opening, ready for insertion. Two-by-fours were up to indicate where the soundproofed walls would go, three smaller rooms on the back side of the house, with a minuscule bathroom and a large workout area on the front part.
After the walls were finished, the hardwood flooring was in, and the place was painted, the free weights and workout equipment would go up here, along with a rubberized fighting mat.
I nodded. Said all the appropriate things. And told them I had to get a nap. They laughed at me. I levered myself / dropped down to the floor below, dodging a man carrying an extendable ladder. I made another muscle, posing for him, trotted down to the first floor, and found my bed. Even with all the noise, I slept for hours.
I checked the weather when I woke, and the high today was supposed to be a chilly fifty-two degrees. I pulled on undies, leggings to protect my legs from the weapons harness, and a nice long-sleeved silk tee. Over that went the harnesses, the weapons, a skirt with slits for said weapons, a thin knit turtleneck tunic sweater that matched my eyes, and stakes in the top of my French braid. It was daylight, and I was overdressed for daytime in NOLA, but Bruiser was picking me up. It was lunch and business—the Gumbo Shop on St. Peter Street. I left a note for my partners, both of whom were still sleeping, before I tiptoed out. The sun was shining, the breeze was out of the south, and the weather was practically balmy. I texted Bruiser that I would walk in his direction to meet him, and he could pick me up. I initiated my GPS so he could follow my progress, and started down the street.
The sound of traffic was all around, a steady, never-ending roar. People talking. Music playing, some live from street musicians, some from cars as they passed, some from clubs. The smell of spicy food made with thick roux and onions and peppers, meat smoking on a grill, seafood fried in lard. Coffee. Exhaust. The mixed scents of water from the Mississippi, the bayous that ran through the city, and Lake Pontchartrain. Urine. Vomit. The city had hosted one of its ubiquitous celebrations the week before and we hadn’t had a gully washer since a magic storm held the city captive. Few humans could smell it, but I could. I passed two homeless men sleeping in a doorway. Another slept on the ground in an alley.
A car with a mismatched paint job and spinning wheels rolled past and two kids wearing navy blue hooded jackets leaned out the windows, sitting on the window edges, catcalling, telling me that they had some big . . . uh, things for me. I laughed and ignored them. If they tried anything I had some things for them too, and they were shiny and sharp with the word no written on them in blood.
They pulled away when they realized they weren’t getting a rise out of me. I strolled past two- and three-story buildings, almost all with galleries and wrought-iron balconies, restaurants and storefronts and candy shops, selling kitsch or food or drinks or a combo of all three. A surprising number were closed, working shutters latched, doors padlocked and sometimes sealed with chains. Rents were high in the Quarter and times were hard in the city. There had been an influx of money in the years since the last major hurricane, but the city was still trying to recover.
I hadn’t really liked New Orleans when I moved here. It was supposed to be a short-term job, then back to the mountains and my apartment in Asheville. And then I met Rick. And Leo offered me a more permanent job. And I found an excuse to stay for a while. I’d been stupid. Rick had “player” written all over him and I hadn’t bothered to notice. I had needed to solve the mystery involving the missing witch children, then kill off the vamps who had been taking and sacrificing them for the power in their blood. The continuing danger to the witches had been another reason to stick around. I’d needed to find a way to keep the local vamps in power when big bad fangbangers wanted to take over the city and its cattle, meaning humans and witches. Now there were the Youngers, my family by choice. And there was Bruiser. That man was a reason to stay here. I’d stayed. I’d cleaned up a lot of messes. If the Sangre Duello was the last mess I needed to clean up, I would have no reason to stick around. Except the Youngers and Bruiser. The Youngers were family. They had made it clear that they were in this for the long haul. Would my honeybunch want me to stay? We hadn’t talked about it. Hadn’t talked about what-ifs. Maybe things were too tenuous to plan ahead? To dream ahead? That left me feeling odd, empty. Maybe a little bit lost.
My Beast sent me images, one superimposed on the other, memories of snow piled two feet deep, pristine except for the prints of deer. Of tall waterfalls sliding between iced rocks. Of her lithe body leaping from an ice-crusted tree, thick tail rotating for balance and direction, landing on a buck racing down a steep ravine, sinking teeth in at his spine. Of dropping on one at a summertime watering hole, sinking teeth into its muscled throat, holding it until the prey passed out from lack of air. Of the spurt of hot blood and the taste of raw venison.
“There’s something to be said for warm weather, lots of rain, and dining on gator,” I reminded her. “But yeah. I miss the mountains too.”
Hunt cow. Hunt cow in Edmund’s car, she sent back. It wasn’t going to happen. Edmund’s car was worth over three million dollars. Beast didn’t understand money or numbers greater than five and, like a cat, figured she could either wear me down or outsmart me into getting what she wanted.
I was halfway to the Gumbo Shop when I felt it. My predator responses zinging. The presence of someone watching. I was used to casual observers. The MOC’s Enforcer got a lot of that from locals and tourists too. This was the interest of a hunter, my body in his sights. Or hers. A sniper had targeted me not so long ago and that experience had left some part of me hyperalert, always vigilant, in the back of my/our mind. Beast knew when we were being hunted.