The opera bellows through the walls—full orchestra now, some man wailing like a goat in heat. Carpets swallow footfalls. Nobody sees me. Nobody hears me. I move like I belong.
I duck into the washroom near the lobby. Small mirror. White basin. Blood on my shirt where that bastard got me in the gut. Tore the stitch. Ain’t bad, but it’ll leave a mark. I press a damp cloth to it, clean what I can. Wipe my brow. Pat down my coat.
Money rustles like dry leaves every time I move. Good sound. Heavy.
Back through the lobby. Dim light. Smell of perfume, lamp gas, floor wax. An usher yawns near the stairs, don’t spare me a glance.
Alice waits in the booth where I left her, pretty as dawn. Pink gown wrinkled, cheeks flushed from drink, eyes half lidded and dreamy. I slide in beside her.
She don’t turn right away—just hums like she’s trying to remember a tune. Then she blinks slow and says, “Mmm…hands. Bear, mmm, hands?”
I pause. The hell is she going on about? Her hands?
I take her gloved fingers in mine, let our hands tangle quiet between us.
“Reckon I oughta hold ’em then.”
She smiles, posture loose, and leans against me.
I sit back, breathing deep. Her hand, small and warm, in mine. Money scratching like straw under my coat. Good nights like this don’t last. She leans on me, expression bright but empty as bottle glass, and I hate leaving before the lady onstage finishes her dying. But I don’t wanna push my luck. “How ’bout we get outta here?”
She nods and lets me lead, even gives the empty chair a little wave.
We slip into the street where the music can’t reach, and I walk with my woman back to the hotel.
Chapter 18
ALICE
Kodiak’s tall, broad figure blocks the light from the window, where the rumble of city life seeps through the glass. He’s dressed like a gentleman again, though not as formal, in a crisp white shirt, waistcoat, and trousers.
The sheets beside me are rumpled and carry the faint trace of something masculine. Had we…? Surely I’d know if that monstrous thing had been inside me. The only ache I feel is the pounding in my head.
Sitting up slightly, I notice a cart beside the bed with a tray of fruit, pastries, and coffee.
His back is turned, but he glances over his shoulder with a crooked smile. “Mornin’, lamb. How are you on this fine day?”
“You poisoned me.”
When he moves toward a small writing desk, the light from the window blinds me. Lowering himself into the chair, he lets out a low chuckle. “Now, what profit would I have in that?”
The evening is a blur of crystals and pearls. Of music. Of painted nuns whirling like specters. What on earth?
“No,” he drawls. “Nothin’ more than you dancin’ with the green fairy. Absinthe, oysters, and opera—that’s New Orleans in a night, sure as anything.”
I should have known better than to trust this city. French architecture and kind folk lulled me into a false sense of safety.
His pen scratches across the page. “Had breakfast brought up, if you’re hungry.”
He sleeps in the dirt, swims in creeks, gets stabbed half to death in the countryside, and yet, here he is, dressed like a mayor on holiday, working at a desk in a grand hotel with breakfast catered.
“I suppose they brought hot water as well?”
“That they did.”
I fling my legs over the side of the bed, take stock of the room. It’s the same as before, though a large leather suitcase sits near the desk, one I hadn’t noticed yesterday. “Are you leaving?”
“Not yet. Still business to see to in the city.”
