past all of the people I cared about, but I knew too much about loss and loneliness. Jean suddenly seemed a lot more human.
“Where do you live in the Beyond?” I knew he spent time in Old Orleans, that preternatural free zone between the modern city and the Beyond proper. It was like a New Orleans theme park with all the city’s historical time periods represented in one finite area, on warp-drive. I’d been there once and didn’t want to go back.
“I live in Old Barataria,” he said, his voice soft. “It looks much as it did when I commanded my men there. I have a fine house on the beach. There are no—” He waved his hand in the air. “Bah. I do not know the word for the towers men use to find oil.”
“Derricks,” I said. The Louisiana waters were rife with them. Huey Long sold our coastline to Big Oil long before I was born.
I watched him lean over the rail, so natural and at ease on the deck of even a small boat such as this. Where I had to concentrate to steady my balance as the Dieu de la Mer cut through the waterways, his stance was effortless and natural as we passed the outpost of Pilottown and approached the choppy east pass connecting the Mississippi to the Gulf.
“What happened to your house in Barataria, when you left?” I asked.
His jaw tightened. “The Americans burned it, even after I helped them win their little war.” That would be the little War of 1812.
Jean was different than most of the historical undead, who were uncomfortable in the modern world. Even when summoned by a wizard or a magically adept human, they’d go back to their corner of the the Beyond without a fight. Not Jean. He liked keeping a foot in both worlds.
“Would you really want to live in modern New Orleans, where so many things have changed and you have to hide who you are?”
He glanced at me over his shoulder, then stood and slid an arm around my waist, tugging me against him. “Is that an invitation, Drusilla? I believe there would be many advantages to living in your modern world.”
Fine. We’d had a nice conversation. I’d started to genuinely like him, even to glimpse what a burden he might carry. Now we were back to smarmy innuendo.
“No, it is not an invitation,” I snapped, slapping his arm. “And everybody calls me DJ. Only you and my grandmother call me Drusilla.” Which should tell both of us something.
“Bah.” He looked as if he’d smelled a rotten fish. “That is not a proper name for a beautiful woman.”
“I think it suits her just fine.” Strong hands slipped over my shoulders as Alex joined us, standing so close I could feel his body heat radiating into my back. Had nothing to do with the weather; shapeshifters ran hot. Had nothing to do with affection, either. He squeezed my shoulders a little too hard for it to be a show of solidarity. I’d probably have bruises. He was marking his territory.
We rounded a curve, crossing the easternmost branch of the river’s mouth, and wound our way to Pass a Loutre, a wildlife management area that wasn’t so much a place as a series of waterways providing entrance into the vast Birdfoot Delta. Other boats would pass occasionally, it being hunting season for various swamp critters, including, apparently, wild boar.
Finally, Rene navigated the Dieu de la Mer across a secluded bayou and through a twisting, turning set of channels. I understood the old stories now, about fishermen unfamiliar with the area who’d sailed into these marshlands and never found their way out.
The water was dark and murky, and the vegetation ranged from thick stands of trees overhanging the banks to, more often, wide swaths of marsh grass with vistas so broad I swore I could see the Earth’s curvature. Birds squawked and cawed overhead, and the air smelled of saltwater and algae.
Alex had been silent after succeeding in his mission to drive Jean to the other side of the deck. We leaned on the rail, side by side. He spoke softly. “Are you really going
“Where do you live in the Beyond?” I knew he spent time in Old Orleans, that preternatural free zone between the modern city and the Beyond proper. It was like a New Orleans theme park with all the city’s historical time periods represented in one finite area, on warp-drive. I’d been there once and didn’t want to go back.
“I live in Old Barataria,” he said, his voice soft. “It looks much as it did when I commanded my men there. I have a fine house on the beach. There are no—” He waved his hand in the air. “Bah. I do not know the word for the towers men use to find oil.”
“Derricks,” I said. The Louisiana waters were rife with them. Huey Long sold our coastline to Big Oil long before I was born.
I watched him lean over the rail, so natural and at ease on the deck of even a small boat such as this. Where I had to concentrate to steady my balance as the Dieu de la Mer cut through the waterways, his stance was effortless and natural as we passed the outpost of Pilottown and approached the choppy east pass connecting the Mississippi to the Gulf.
“What happened to your house in Barataria, when you left?” I asked.
His jaw tightened. “The Americans burned it, even after I helped them win their little war.” That would be the little War of 1812.
Jean was different than most of the historical undead, who were uncomfortable in the modern world. Even when summoned by a wizard or a magically adept human, they’d go back to their corner of the the Beyond without a fight. Not Jean. He liked keeping a foot in both worlds.
“Would you really want to live in modern New Orleans, where so many things have changed and you have to hide who you are?”
He glanced at me over his shoulder, then stood and slid an arm around my waist, tugging me against him. “Is that an invitation, Drusilla? I believe there would be many advantages to living in your modern world.”
Fine. We’d had a nice conversation. I’d started to genuinely like him, even to glimpse what a burden he might carry. Now we were back to smarmy innuendo.
“No, it is not an invitation,” I snapped, slapping his arm. “And everybody calls me DJ. Only you and my grandmother call me Drusilla.” Which should tell both of us something.
“Bah.” He looked as if he’d smelled a rotten fish. “That is not a proper name for a beautiful woman.”
“I think it suits her just fine.” Strong hands slipped over my shoulders as Alex joined us, standing so close I could feel his body heat radiating into my back. Had nothing to do with the weather; shapeshifters ran hot. Had nothing to do with affection, either. He squeezed my shoulders a little too hard for it to be a show of solidarity. I’d probably have bruises. He was marking his territory.
We rounded a curve, crossing the easternmost branch of the river’s mouth, and wound our way to Pass a Loutre, a wildlife management area that wasn’t so much a place as a series of waterways providing entrance into the vast Birdfoot Delta. Other boats would pass occasionally, it being hunting season for various swamp critters, including, apparently, wild boar.
Finally, Rene navigated the Dieu de la Mer across a secluded bayou and through a twisting, turning set of channels. I understood the old stories now, about fishermen unfamiliar with the area who’d sailed into these marshlands and never found their way out.
The water was dark and murky, and the vegetation ranged from thick stands of trees overhanging the banks to, more often, wide swaths of marsh grass with vistas so broad I swore I could see the Earth’s curvature. Birds squawked and cawed overhead, and the air smelled of saltwater and algae.
Alex had been silent after succeeding in his mission to drive Jean to the other side of the deck. We leaned on the rail, side by side. He spoke softly. “Are you really going
Similar Books
