“Whoever heard of a ghost tour with no ghosts?” The two college-aged women wove between tables, one settling the strap of her expensive designer purse between her breasts as she snorted. “Of course, I demanded a refund.”
“Hey. Will you focus, please?” Marty tapped the table and gestured to his tablet as the two walked away. “I’m brilliant on my own, but this requires expertise I don’t have.”
I shook myself, rubbed my eyes and muttered an apology. First the airport, now being retained by Helen and chasing a supernat dog instead of taking my vacation. Not only that, the assignment came directly from the Pope by way of Sister Betty’s order. On so little sleep, it made my head ache. With so much out of the ordinary, I didn’t know where to start untangling it.
“Are you daydreaming about Sister Hot Pants? Do we need to feed your carnal appetites? What’s the sex equivalent of a Snickers?”
Though a thousand rejoinders crossed my mind, none of them came out of my mouth. “No, nothing like that.”
“Then what?”
How had Helen procured that letter? And why had Sister Betty not warned me? Surely, she’d known. Nothing happened in that order without her knowledge. Or so I’d thought. And if the directive came from the Pope, who hated me as much as any man could, what the hell did it mean for my future?
Nothing good.
Maybe last night’s nightmare of being attacked by a homeless man had been a premonition of the shitstorm to come. If premonitions were a thing. Or maybe it had been my brain’s revenge for the delicious gastronomic travesty of the chili cheese fries I devoured before bed. Thank you, room service. Or maybe the nightmare was just stress.
I could have said any of this, but the pity in Marty’s eyes made my jaw clench. An encore of misplaced sympathy for the girl with invisible wounds. Exactly the last thing I needed.
I shook my head, avoiding his gaze. “I love you, Mar, but you wouldn’t understand.”
His smile deflated. “No, I wouldn’t. But I’m trying.” With a shrug, he added, “In my own unique and charming way, of course.”
Shaking my head with a snort, I stared into my cup of melting beige slush dusted with coffee grounds. Charming or not, he was right. My thoughts needed to be here and strategizing, not thousands of miles away or obsessing over questions I couldn’t answer.
“Is it the Rome thing?”
The gentleness in his voice brought the sting of tears. I swallowed hard, chastising myself. It shouldn’t still bother me. The past is past, and I needed to get over it. I’d been working on getting stronger, getting faster. It wouldn’t happen again. After a long sip of the creamy frozen drink, I cleared my throat. “Yes and no.”
“Regret pissing off the Pope?”
No matter how shitty things got, the image of the spluttering old man trying not to curse as he stomped around the Vatican guest house still amused me. He might hate me. He might fuck up my life forevermore, but he’d never take that memory. I smiled in spite of myself. “Never.”
Marty propped his chin up with both hands and grinned. “I still wish I could’ve recorded it. You should get an award for making his head explode.”
“Nah, it’s not hard to do.”
“I don’t know. That dude seems more chill than most of his predecessors. Well, seemed. Until you.”
“He didn’t excommunicate me, so that’s something.” I picked at the corner of my notebook. “Though he probably should have.”
“Stop.”
“You know I’m right.”
“I know you’re beating yourself stupid with this Catholic guilt shit.”
The waiter cleared his throat. Neither of us had noticed him. “Anything else I can get you?”
“No, thanks,” I said. “Just the check.”
He produced a small, black vinyl folder from the pocket of his bistro apron and stood it, open, on the table. “Have a great afternoon.”
Marty watched him walk away. “Is it me, or did that sound like ‘fuck you’?”
“Yeah, I thought the same thing.” I tucked the church credit card in the pocket at the top.
“Visa. Accepted everywhere Jesus needs to be,” Marty said.
“Can I get an amen?” I winked at him. “So we’ll start—”
“We weren’t done with our conversation.”
“Maybe you weren’t, but I am.” I gestured to the waiter.
“You can’t blame yourself, Cee,” Marty said after the waiter collected the folder and left. “You’re never going to save everyone, especially people who don’t want to be saved.”
The muscle in my jaw twitched, and I rested it on my hand to hide the spasm. “She didn’t know what she was doing.”
“Maybe not in the moment, but she did what she did of her own free will.”
Echoes of her screams and the interminable wet crunching still haunted me. Awake and asleep. “No one deserves what she got. I should have—”
“No.” Confidence and calm made him sound like a different person. “There’s no way to win that game. You did everything you could. Even Sister Betty said so, and she’d be the first to correct you.”
Instead, Sister Betty had flown to Rome to hold me through the tears. It wasn’t the first time someone had died during a battle, but it was the first I could have—should have—prevented. I took another long drag off the straw. “Let’s drop it, okay?”
“When you do.” He sat back in the chair, his arms crossed.
“You’re not a shrink, so—”
“Maybe you need one.”
Whatever I intended to say fled. I stared at him, open-mouthed.
Like a nasty accusation rising from the past to haunt me, he’d said it.
Knowing my history, he’d said it.
The dagger of his words hung in the air.
His shoulders softened, and his arms dropped. “I only mean—”
I almost collided with the waiter as I stood. “Don’t.” I snatched the folder from his hand. The pen tore the slip as I scribbled a signature and grabbed my card. “It’s pretty clear what you meant,” I said, dropping the folder on the table.
“Cee—”
Weaving around tables, wait staff, and diners, I cut across the dining room and through the lobby. Steamy New Orleans humidity oozed over me as I hurried down the shadowed sidewalk.
“Caitlin!”
I dodged tourists, jaw clenched. This was supposed to be a vacation. Marty was supposed to be the no-pressure guy, the friend I could relax with without expectation or judgment. Now, again, I faced the same accusations my parents brandished like sacred relics of denial. Of rage. Of grief. The parade of psychiatrists, the landslide of pills. Every month, some new doctor, some new “treatment.” They believed in my mental illness more than they believed a monster killed Shannon.
Father Callahan assured me their denial protected them from harm.
But I paid the price. In every cautious look, in every glance they shared. In the nervous way they talked to me. I felt it all. I lived in a world they refused to believe and protected them with my silence.
I fought to keep them safe. As payment, they insisted I needed a shrink.
And now, Marty.
“Caitlin!”
The streetlight changed, and I crossed without regard to the oncoming traffic. They could hit me or not, it made no difference. I wasn’t running so when the hand grabbed my shoulder, I expected it to be Marty. Acid words rose to my tongue as I spun to break his grip and confront him. Instead, I stumbled and blinked.
A man in dirty clothes grinned at me. Bits of brown leaves stuck in the tendrils of his scraggly beard. His white tongue poked through his yellowed teeth to roll over parched lips. “Yer a pretty girl,” he rasped, his right hand rising to my shoulder again, “a pretty little thing for the collection.”
Without a thought, my left hand swung up to block his grip and knock it away. I stepped back as he howled, gripping his arm. He rolled across his back on the wet sidewalk, clutching his arm, his knees drawn to his chest as he rocked. “Why you hit a’ old man? What I do to you?” The soles of his shoes flopped away from his feet with each movement, the thin gray material only attached at the heel.
Marty skidded to a stop on the wet pavement, almost falling over the man. “What the hell happened?”
“He grabbed me, I turned, and when he went to grab me again, I blocked him. Then,” I gestured towards his theatrics, “this.”
Few of the passing people stopped, but they stared as long as they could. A few pedestrians stopped to watch, some holding phones. The man didn’t seem to notice, his antics unchanged. I shook my hands to ward off adrenaline shakes. And to prepare. Though thankful for the knife at my back, the general lack of weapons pissed me off. I scanned the area for anything useful and adjusted my stance. Nothing about this man should make me so nervous, and yet…
Marty leaned over him, sidestepping a collision when he rolled. “Mister? Mister, are you okay?”
The old man raised his voice and rolled, cradling his arm against his chest. “No reason for none of this. Assaulting a’ old man!”
I met Marty’s gaze and shook my head, answering his unspoken question. “Standard block. Nothing special.” I repeated the movement with the same speed and power I’d used.
Squatting back on his heels at a safe distance, Marty pulled out his phone. “I’ll call it in.”
“Be careful.”
As he rolled and howled his pain, the old man watched Marty.
Something about him wouldn’t let me relax. Something on the edge of memory. Something…familiar.
I inched closer to see his face, careful to stay out of range.
In the wrinkled wreckage of sun-damaged skin, grizzled eyebrows, and layers of caked-on dirt, his eyes sparkled. The clarity of his rich mahogany eyes contradicted everything about him, even the broken way he spoke. A separate consciousness stared back at me while he carried on. When the sunlight glinted in his eyes, they flared gold.
And then, I knew.
Everything happened in a second.
The longest second of my life.
I lunged, knocking Marty to the ground and out of striking range of the knife that flashed out of the man’s sleeve. A woman screamed. We tumbled across the uneven sidewalk, followed by the scuttle of the man scrambling after us. Searing heat tore through my calf. I kicked the hunched, feral old man, knocking a bloody knife from his hand and gaining a little space from his elongated teeth as he retreated.
Swearing under my breath, I grabbed a broom leaning against the wall and swung it. The old man dodged with freakish agility, just as the man from my nightmare. His blade glinted, and I swung, narrowly missing his stomach. Behind me, Marty yelled, his words unintelligible and—
Pain exploded in a black burst as something crashed into my back and knocked the wind out of me. My broom clattered to the sidewalk seconds before I fell to all fours, hands and knees scraping against uneven pavement. Unable to draw air, I still turned, trying to find the bastard.
“Caitlin!” Marty collided with me, grabbing my shoulders and pulling me up to face him. “Breathe.”
I struggled to pull in a thin breath.
“Breathe, babe, come on.”
I coughed and doubled over, Marty grabbing me, preventing me from crumpling to the ground. A shallow gasp and I tried to break free, to find the old man.
“He’s gone. He ran.” Marty shook me, and I coughed again. “Relax for a second and breathe.”
Never had I wanted to breathe so bad, if only to tell him to shut up.
Another cough and I finally drew a full breath. Black and white sparks danced on the edge of my vision. I knelt, bracing my bloody, scraped palms on my destroyed jeans.
“Are you okay?”
I nodded and looked around. “Where’d he go?”
Bystanders murmured to each other, putting cell phones back in pockets or purses.
Great.
Covert ops usually meant I was in and out before people knew any danger existed. Bystanders never intervened, but someone always had a phone or camera ready to capture the disaster for posterity. And Facebook. Or, God help us, Facebook Live. Sister Betty’d probably insist on calling in DEMON, the Department of Extra-Dimensional, Magical, and Occult Nuisances, the governmental “No Such Agency” that handled all varieties of supernats and other scary stuff. When the magic didn’t interfere with recording technology, DEMON’s expertise in cleaning up evidence of the things most people didn’t believe in kept public panic out of the equation.
Marty gestured to a gap between two buildings farther down the street. “In there.”
I tried to stand, and he caught me.
“Nope. You’re not going anywhere. The police—”
“Will be out of their league without a local hunter,” I said, my breath wheezy as I twisted away from him. “Dude’s supernat. I’m guessing a were-something.” With a wiggle of fingers in front of my face, I added, “Gold eyes, big teeth.”
“Can’t we—?”
I only managed two steps before the crescendo of sirens filled the street, and cut him off. The blue flare of lights reflected off a restaurant’s plate glass window across the street. I stopped, leaning against the wall. “He’s our problem.”
A short, thick woman with a strong Midwest accent marched up to us. “I caught that crazy man on video, and I’ll be glad to show it to the police. I saw him attack.” The pride in her voice made me want to laugh.
Marty thanked her. I checked my bleeding flesh through the newly ripped knees of my favorite jeans. He’d teased me this morning about my anti-tourist “uniform” when I got ready, but I’d worn them anyway. Another premonition?
The intensity of the sirens grew until they finally parked the cruiser in the middle of the road behind us. Two officers slid out and eyed us only to be intercepted by a tall, muscular man too rigid to look comfortable in his shorts, polo, and boat shoes. He postured like a cop, I realized. As I caught the gist of what he said, I suppressed a grin.
“Off duty?”
“Yup. Tourist, but feeling awful important as a witness.”
The older uniform gestured to the younger, obviously giving him direction to take the off-duty’s statement before wandering our way. Twenty years ago, he’d probably been a peak specimen like his partner. He hitched his belt, his swagger calling back to the strut of a division-leading former athlete. “Morning, folks.” He smiled with that uniquely Southern mélange of welcome, irritation, and condescension reserved for trouble-making outsiders. “Mind telling me what happened here?”
I sighed, covering it with a posture that, I hoped, looked like I was still recovering. “Yes, sir. My name is Caitlin Kelley. Are you familiar with—”
He bristled, and I instantly regretted the question. “Ma’am, I was born in this parish, and I’ve worked this city for thirty-eight years. There isn’t much around here I’m not familiar with.”
“Yes, of course, I’m sorry, Officer…” I looked for his name tag, “La Fontaine. I apologize if I sounded disrespectful.”
Though I wouldn’t have imagined it possible, his chest puffed out more, and his Cajun accent intensified, the bayou echoing in his voice. “S’all right, ma’am.” He gestured to my bleeding knees. “Looks like you’ve had quite the morning.”
“You could say that.” I tried to smile though I already disliked him. “I’ve got ID in my back pocket, and I’d like to take it out.”
Officer La Fontaine straightened, his mouth a sour little knot. “I assume by the way you’re telling me that you’ve got more than just ID.”
“Yes, sir.” I explained the knife. “It might have fallen out in the fight, but I haven’t checked.”
Marty shifted. La Fontaine’s head snapped in his direction, his right hand hovering over the butt of his weapon. “Stay put, son.”
Awesome. All the cops in New Orleans and we get Officer Twitchy. I berated myself for bungling the approach and getting him so riled. I knew better. Sister Betty had taught me better. “Pat down or partnership,” she’d said, “your choice.”
The criminal-style pat-down would be unavoidable now.
When I debriefed with Sister Betty, I’d get another lecture about relationships with local law enforcement. Not that I didn’t deserve it.
Of course, the pat down was as annoying as expected. La Fontaine made sure of that.
When he finally finished, I handed him both driver’s license and federal ID declaring me an authorized agent of DEMON. He spent far too long scrutinizing them. Had to be part of the power trip. Everything was current, since I’d renewed both a few months ago. Or maybe that triggered his suspicion. Either way, he eyed me, then called his partner. “Boudreaux.”
The younger man hastily thanked the off-duty tourist to join his partner. “Yessir?”
La Fontaine flicked his first and middle fingers toward his partner, my IDs pinched between them. “Y’ever hear of this?”
How La Fontaine hadn’t was more surprising, but I didn’t mention it. Sister Betty would be proud.
Boudreaux took them and squinted at the federal ID, then shaded the plastic. His pale brow furrowed and his gaze darted between me and the card. “Yessir.”
“That’s what I—what?”
“Yessir.” Boudreaux’s voice dropped to a whisper. He stepped closer. “The captain mentioned a few weeks ago. They’re the monster hunters affiliated with the Church.”
La Fontaine pulled off his sunglasses, his lip curled in a sneer. “Are you out of your ever-lovin’ mind?”
“No, sir.” The younger man didn’t move, even when the bigger man stepped closer. “We’re supposed to cooperate, provide resources and—”
“Enough.” The older cop snatched the cards back and settled his sunglasses over his scowl. He seemed to consider how to handle the situation. “What am I going to get if I call to verify who you are?”
I shrugged. “What are you looking for?”
The knot of his lips tightened. I wondered how the hell he’d untangle them.
“It’s the Feds. They’ll confirm my operative status, clearance, credentials.” Hiding my amusement made me rather proud. “If, of course, federal agencies are credible enough for you.”
A drop of sweat rolled down the rolls frustration carved into his lumpy forehead. “And what exactly does the federal government have to do with this?”
Ignoring him, I continued. “DEMON is the Department of Extra—”
He stiffened and returned my ID. “How’d they give you the authority to tear up my town, Miss Kelley?”
“Woah, wait a minute.” My amusement dissipated. “I’m the one who got jumped. And by something you’ll be thanking me to hunt and destroy.”
“So you say.”
I thrust the cards back at him. “Call them. And while they’re on the phone, tell them to expedite the process for getting a new local hunter. You’ve got a supernat that attacked me in broad daylight and a monster that landed at Louis Armstrong airport last night. I’m already on assignment. You’ll want them dealt with before the bodies pile up.”
The man bristled, his lips twitching. Boudreaux’s lips pressed tight, though to contain laughter or out of trepidation was impossible to tell.
“Officer La Fontaine,” Marty said, his hands in full view, “there’s been a misunderstanding.”
“You’re right, son,” he said, his thick head swiveling toward Marty, sweat sparkling in the sun. “First that any federal agency can step in to my city without the courtesy of hello.”
“Your city?” I couldn’t have stopped if I’d tried. “Your city? Who the hell are you—”
“Caitlin!”
Something in my brain snapped at the sharpness of Marty’s tone. I looked at him, then back at La Fontaine. The officer’s red face and short huffs of breath told me all I needed to know. I rubbed my forehead, partly to wipe away sweat and partly to push against the headache growing behind my eyes.
Time for damage control.
I took a deep breath.
“Miss Kelley, the next thing out of your mouth might land you in jail,” the man growled, his accent sharpening each brittle word.
“Officer La Fontaine,” I said, all cool control, “I apologize for being a complete idiot.”
His mouth opened, thumb unsnapping his holster.
He blinked.
His mouth closed.
“Miss Kelley, Beau,” Boudreaux inserted himself between us. “I’ll interview Miss Kelley and Mr. …”
“Lavoie. Martin Lavoie.” Marty’s shoulders bunched too high, ready to intervene. Ever my back up, ever my partner.
Even when I was a dumbass.
“Mr. Lavoie can continue the discussion with you, Beau.”
The heavy-set cop’s shoulders dropped, his hands relaxing at his sides. “You got Creole blood, son?”
Marty smiled, drawing on his endless reserves of charm. “Not that I know of, sir.”
“Bah, that don’t mean nothin’.” He smiled for the first time since I’d screwed up and dropped the F-word. I should have considered local sensitivity to the feds after the whole Hurricane Katrina debacle. “How ‘bout we step in the shade and you tell me what happened.”
Marty nodded, and as the cop turned away, he winked. Not for the first time, I wondered if my friend didn’t have a little Elvin blood to help him out.
“Miss Kelley,” Boudreaux gestured towards the cruiser.
I nodded and thanked him. “I apologize, I shouldn’t have—”
“He shouldn’t have, either.” Boudreaux smiled. “Ma memere raised me right, but he’s older and my superior officer, so whether I agree or not, I defer and disarm.”
“You’re wiser and more self-controlled than I.” Not even Sister Betty’s best efforts had beat those traits into me. The last time she’d had me in the gym under the church, she’d promised to kick the sarcasm out of me one roundhouse at a time. We’d both ended up on the floor, bruised, sore, and sweating on the ancient blue mats.
Spoiler alert: it didn’t work.
But, what an afternoon.
Boudreaux’s smile glowed like sunset, warmed like bourbon, and made my heart flutter. I tried not to squirm. He’d be dangerous to spend time with. “You learn a thing or two at the academy. Shut up or get out is lesson number one. How’d you survive federal agent training?”
I sighed. The explanation rarely satisfied the curious. “It’s not like that.”
“But you’ve got agent status?”
“In a capacity.”
“What’s that mean?”
“How much time you got?”