The traffic hit us before we crossed the river, slowing to a crawl as vehicles fought to get to someplace better than they were at now, creating long lines to take one of the bridges. Pain-in-the-butt traffic. More thumb twiddling.
On the far side of the river, Quint pulled through a mom-and-pop-style drive-through and handed over a huge bag of fried breakfast foods and paper plates, with plastic cutlery, including a family-sized bag of boudin balls fresh out of the fryer. They weren’t as good as Deon’s but they did relieve my twiddling. We shared the food on the disposable plates and ate as we rode into western NOLA, even Brute eating boudin from a greasy paper bag with the sides rolled down.
A few blocks into Algiers, the white werewolf perked up and looked out the window. He sniffed and snorted, licking grease off his jaw and pawing the window glass. Quint pulled over, I opened the door, and the werewolf, with the grindy again holding on to his ruff, jumped from the seat to the sidewalk. I oriented myself and cleaned my sticky hands with sanitizer before joining the others on the sidewalk. I smelled like fast-food boudin and bacon. I smelled heavenly. Best perfume ever.
Brute was ahead of us, standing in the parking area of a storefront church that had been damaged by vandals, the windows smashed. The area looked abandoned, though someone had made an unsuccessful attempt to clean the graffiti off the exterior walls, and the glass had been swept into a pile at the entrance. Brute stuck his nose into a broken section of glass and sniffed. He backed away, uncertainty wrinkling his forehead and the furry skin over his crystalline eyes.
Holding his huge head high, Brute sniffed the chilly air and took off at a brisk trot. Quint pointed at my door and we all got back in the SUV. She drove as we followed the white werewolf with the neon green grindy clinging to his head. Brute led us deeper into Algiers, winding around neighborhoods—which left me stunned at the number of residents who decorated for Thanksgiving, including oneplace that had an inflatable rainbow-hued turkey, a good twelve feet tall, that shook drumsticks at passersby when the wind fluffed it.
We passed storm-damaged areas where no hurricane repairs had been started, others that were nearly renovated, and we stopped at old churches. Some were tiny buildings tucked between larger ones, others were fancy places of brick and stained glass. A lot of them had been damaged by the recent storms and were undergoing repairs. Others had been abandoned, left to grow the dangerous black mold the Gulf states were known for.
The fourth Roman Catholic church was on Algiers Point, quiet, hidden behind scaffolding and a security fence to keep out troublemakers. There was rusted scaffolding up the sides, a ten-foot-tall Virgin Mary standing out front, and a statue of Jesus hanging on a cross in a small garden with concrete benches. There were signs of high water everywhere. Debris was piled here and there, and the foliage was saltwater-burned, brown and dead. A fog was rolling off the Mississippi and the air temps were dropping with a coming storm front, turning the landscape into a trope horror movie morning. All we needed was zombies.
We got out, standing protected by the SUV, while Brute sniffed wet, chilly air.
Spanish and English words rang in the air, and when the breeze pushed the fog off, two carpenters on the scaffolding crossed themselves at the sight of the three-hundred-pound werewolf. The grindy waved at them with its paw, which looked so cute, unless one knew about the steel claws hidden there, and the carpenters must have because the wave caused more shouting and general panic. Then they spotted me, and one guy almost fell off the high perch, shouting,“Reina! Reina!”
Brute sniffed, a disdainful sound, and trotted away. Quint thought it was all amusing. I didn’t ask. I got back into the SUV and out of sight. After that I just stayed in the vehicle.
Two churches later, neither one of which were damaged, Brute came back to the SUV and stood on his hind legs to look in the window at me. His tongue was lollingcomically, and when I opened the door, he stepped up and onto my thighs, which hurt more than I expected and probably left paw-shaped bruises on me, as he crossed to the empty seat. I asked, “No angels?”
Brute shook his head and lay down, panting. The grindy had braided his longer ruff hair into dozens of tiny braids. The small creature looked and me chittered, pointing at its handiwork.
“Pretty,” I said. My cell signaled an incoming text. It was Molly telling me to “Get your royal butt back and take care of my babies.”
“Okay,” I said to my car mates. “We’ve wasted enough time. I’m hungry. Let’s get back to HQ.” Not every investigative lead panned out.
***
Angie was waiting at the back doors when I got out of my SUV. She was wearing jeans, sneakers, and a cable-knit sweater, her strawberry-blond hair in braids. “Ant Jane?” she called. “Why didn’t you take me?”
I waggled my fingers at my lovebug. Bruiser blew me a kiss, which warmed me all over.
Angie looked far too interested and was far too precocious and observant for me to do anything else. I remembered that she had a crush on Edmund, my primo and the Emperor of Europe, who would be coming to NOLA for his coronation.
I took Angie’s hand, leading her inside and toward the kitchens, explaining. “I didn’t take you because bad people are after me and I can’t keep you safe enough to satisfy your parents or anyone else.”
“I can take care of myself. And now I can help hunt for my angel.”
She probably could do all that, but I was not bringing that idea to Molly’s attention nor was I encouraging Angie, not when her parents were busy at the null prison, and not now that I had discovered that Angie could put the security system on auto replay, knock out vamps with sleep spells, and generally take over the world. One of the texts I had received in the car informed me that the Everharts had plans at the null prison to look over the brokenwards today and keeping Angie and EJ safe was to be my job until they returned. So much for being invited to watch and help. Like Angie’s, my talents were sorely underappreciated. Or maybe just dangerous.
“Yeah, I know.” Even I heard my placating tone.
Angie speared me with a look that said she didn’t appreciate being pacified.
Blue Voodoo fell in behind us and I said, “Tell Deon to make a snack for the kids and me, and then send someone—notQuint—to pick up little Evan and meet us in the kitchen dining area.” Quint was scary. “Cookies and sliced apples and milk for the kids. A barbeque sandwich or three for me.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and repeated my orders into his mic. The big man, who looked like a linebacker, but meaner and tougher, handed me an earbud and a mini-mic, which I hooked around my ear, leaving the mic dangling at my jaw. “And just so you know,” he said, “Cassy’s with a half dozen human blood-servants old enough to be grandparents, cooing all over her and changing diapers so the security teams don’t have to mess with dirty diapers.”
“Security was changing diapers?” I asked, trying not to showtoomuch shock.
Laughter in his tone, Voodoo said, “Your security teams are trained to do most everything.”
“True dat.”
“I canhelp,” Angie insisted. She was yanking on my hand to keep my attention as we took the stairs to the kitchens, “With myfinder.”
“What kind of finder?” I asked, adjusting the speaker on the earbud to softer. We entered Deon’s domain and the newly created restaurant-like public-eating space. Nothing like it had existed back in Leo’s time, when the kitchen help had transported food to the break room, to individual suites, and to dormitory areas, and had generally run themselves ragged. This new space was much more efficient. I bypassed the tables that sat four, six, and twelve, picked Angie up, and placed her at the serving bar on a tall stool.
