Cold Reign (Jane Yellowrock #11)(40)
His face went grave. “It is.”
“And about my magic changing?”
“Possibly that too.”
CHAPTER 8
A Felon with Employment Offers from the DOD
The limo trailed through the streets to the docks at Bayou Bienvenue Marina off Highway 47—Paris Road to the locals. The marina led to several bodies of water, including the Mississippi River Gulf Outlet Canal, Lake Pontchartrain, and Lake Borgne.
Bruiser and I raced onto a very nice boat and into the snug cabin with its teakettle. I wasn’t up on my nautical terms. But the boat was wide and the hull didn’t go down into the water much, which seemed smart in the half-swamp, half-navigable waters around New Orleans. It did move around beneath me, though, and Beast turned tail and disappeared. I guessed she didn’t like the blustering wind that buffeted the boat or the unsure footing. My stomach didn’t like them either.
There were thumps and jars above us as the sailor types—a captain and a first mate?—got us ready to shove off. Bruiser poured me ginger tea and watched me sip it, sitting cautiously on a bench attached to the wall and floor, my poncho dripping and my borrowed rain boots puddling storm water. I put a smile on my already-green face, downed the tea, and got ready to pretend enjoyment.
The mate shoved us off into the storm. The water, even in the protected areas, was worse than choppy. It was heaving and cresting and the wind was gusting. I stood and braced my feet, gripping a railing at my shoulder level. I swallowed down my gorge and said, “So where are we going on this little three-hour tour?”
Bruiser laughed. “Gilligan’s Island. How could a youngster like you know about Gilligan’s Island?”
“Reruns.”
“I could stand being shipwrecked on a tropical isle with you.” Which made my toes curl in my boots, or would have if they weren’t clawing through my boot soles to get a grip on the shifting floor. “But for now,” Bruiser continued, “we’re taking the outlet that leads to Lake Borgne, out just beyond the Lake Borgne Surge Barrier.” He patted the upholstered mattress-seat-huge-cushion beside him. I thought I might toss my cookies and spoil the moment, so I attempted a smile, rebraced my feet, gripped the shelving rail, and held on. Fortunately it wasn’t a terribly long trip and the lightning had eased. Again. Which was really odd.
When the boat slowed and I could let go with one hand, I sent a text to Alex asking him to track the spates of storm activity. It seemed too regular to be natural. Almost like clockwork. Not that it went away entirely, or enough for me to let go and stand on my own two feet. “What I want you to see can be seen only in the storm,” he said, extending his hand.
I gave him a look. A mean look. But the compassionate one I got in return suggested that I’d sent him a seasick look instead. I took his hand and let him help me onto the deck.
He stood behind me and wrapped one arm around me, holding me close. With his other hand, he pointed out in the rain and wind, and across a mucky sandbar. At first I didn’t see it, but then I realized that my eyes were slipping past something, almost as if it were pushing my attention away. “Obfuscation spell,” I said.
I felt his jaw move beside my temple, close enough for me to hear softly spoken words. Bruiser was taller than me, so the sensation was both familiar and unusual. “The spell was never intended to work with rain. Unlike light, which can be reflected or refracted, the rain hits the boat and trails down it, giving us an outline.”
“You discovered this how?”
“Coast Guard investigated a fisherman’s report of a ghost ship and asked the local Mithrans to check it out.”
There was something in his tone that suggested he knew my next thoughts even before I voiced them. I pressed my head against his and said, “A water witch with strong air witch tendencies must be aboard. The storm systems colliding feels wrong. Not natural.” He waited until I said the more likely possibility. “But since the witch conclave ended and the witches and Leo are in each other’s pockets, this is either an unknown witch group attacking New Orleans, or a powerful water-witch-turned-vamp.” I wrapped my arms around his, holding us together. My nausea slipped away, replaced by an adrenaline spike that I knew he could smell. “There are no witch-vamps among Leo’s own who could do this. Therefore, there is most likely some unknown European vamp-witch sitting in a spelled boat, just off our shores.”
He nodded. “I hope you don’t mind, but I asked Alex Younger to research the histories and see if he can discover who might be causing the storm. He’s binging on energy drinks already.”
“Yeah,” I said softly, watching the rain conflict with the obfuscation spell. “Can you tell how big the boat is?”
“We can’t risk getting close enough to get a firm reading, but smaller than Her Royal Majesty’s Queen Mary Two, larger than a tramp steamer. If the winds abate, we’ll send a drone over it. But it’s big enough.”
Big enough to ruin our safety and our lives. Got it.
Bruiser said something to the captain and guided me back inside, where he poured another cup of ginger tea. He left me sipping while he returned to the deck and chatted sea-type stuff with the captain. Manly stuff about Mississippi River men.
Mississippi River men were legendary. They knew the river, every turn, every sandbar, every wreck buried in mud. Nothing moved up or down the powerful waterway with its shifting bottom without them. The entire nation’s trade depended on them. I could feel the pull of Onorio magics, new to me, potent and surging as the tides, as Bruiser encouraged the maritime types to like him, to trust him, to talk to him like a friend. When he had won their trust, he asked how the Mithrans who protected the city—that’s what he said, protected the city—might discover who among the elite group of river men had been contacted to bring the ship’s passengers ashore, or the ship to a berth. They started bandying names back and forth. All palsey-walsey.