Cold Reign (Jane Yellowrock #11)(61)

He laughed aloud. The sound was so rare, and so unexpected, that I didn’t kill him.

? ? ?

We took a long detour on the way home, past the Acton House, which was currently empty and for sale. I remembered the death of the most recent proprietor, a tiny woman with pink hair, someone I hadn’t thought to protect and who had died thanks to my lack of foresight. Guilt, my old friend, raised her ugly head and sank claws into me. Moments later, we pulled up in front of a larger house with a small, discreet FOR SALE sign out front.

“St. Emilion House,” Shemmy said.

“It would be a good investment,” Eli said, his tone too even to be casual.

“Uh-huh,” I said. “Why? We have a house. And you said we could rearrange the space to make it work.”

“We can. This one would make a great investment for the Europeans’ visit.”

I swiveled in my seat and stared at him. “This house, in this part of town, would go for about—”

“Fourteen thousand a month.”

Up front Shemmy started coughing, probably to cover up laughter.

“Are you out of your mind? We don’t have that kind of money.”

“Just keep it in mind.”

“You win the lottery and you can buy the house. I like it where we are. I won the house fair and square.”

“Go ring the bell. Say hi.”

My partner had a plan. Maybe nothing more than poking an anthill to see what climbed out, but it felt more like throwing rocks at a hornets’ nest. I handed him the blood bottle, opened the door, and got out, leaving the car door open to the rain. “All the men are nuts,” I said to the storm. “And naked. And Katie is nuts. And I must be nuts too, to be out here in the rain.” I walked up to the gate, which was wrought iron, the top railing a good ten feet high, with spear points rising above that. I stared at the camera and rang the buzzer. The camera mounted on the left of the gate made a soft whirring sound and turned to me. I gave it my most forbidding face, though how forbidding I was, in the rain-drenched everything, I didn’t know. I said. “I’m Jane Yellowrock. I don’t know who owns this house but be aware. I know about it.” I spun and got back in the limo, closing the door. “Happy?”

Eli laughed, that odd and wonderful sound. I wondered how often Sylvia heard it but decided it was better not to ask. “More so than you know. Alex thinks Louis Seven owns it from back in the seventeen hundreds.”

Exhaustion wrapped her arms around me. I slumped in the seat. “You coulda told me. Home, James,” I said.

“Not my name,” Shemmy said easily, spinning the tires and taking us back toward the house.

Moments later, I opened my eyes. “On second thought, take me to Bruiser’s apartment.”

“Getting that room?” Eli asked.

“Shut up.”

? ? ?

I crawled into bed with Bruiser. The smell of him filled my nostrils, the heat of him bathed my flesh, and he gathered me into his arms and pulled me close. In the cold of the storm, and with the dearth of insulation in his old apartment, his warmth was like a furnace and I melted against him with a small groan of pleasure. He slid one hand up along my hip, feathered it across my stomach, and cupped my breast. His mouth descended to mine and my moan softened. “Yes,” I whispered. “This.” Things proceeded to become a great deal hotter.

? ? ?

After a shower, a nap, another bout of fun and games, and another nap, Bruiser woke me at sunset with an early dinner of eggs with green and red chilies and ricotta cheese and shrimp and grits. Comfort food, high in protein, served in front of the burnt-persimmon living room couch, both of us wearing a pair of Bruiser’s flannel PJs against the cold, and a cushy comforter tucked over us. New Orleans houses and heaters weren’t built with cold in mind, and drafts were everywhere. Bruiser had a one-day beard, a scruffy look that made him look sharper, harder, and maybe a little mean. I liked it, and kept scrubbing my knuckles over the scratchy pelt. Beard. Whatever. His skin was hot beneath my knuckles. It felt good in the icy weather.

Our plates were nearly clean when the knock came at the door and Bruiser let Eli in.

The guys fist-bumped, which looked all wrong on Bruiser, but when he saw me watching over the back of the couch, he just smiled. “Breakfast?” he asked my business partner.

“I’m good. We got problems. Exactly one minute after dusk, a riot broke out near Tulane, one at the St. Vincent de Paul Society cemeteries on Piety Street, and a third one at Rosemary Place. College kids get riled and cut the fool from time to time, but there’s nothing at Rosemary to incite a mob. It’s a residential street.” He dropped a heavy gear bag on my lap. It landed with a thump and a rattle. It mighta bruised me some too.

Bruiser said, “However, Carrollton Cemetery is near Tulane. Metairie Cemetery and Cypress Grove Cemeteries are near Rosemary. And the St. Vincent is a cemetery.”

“Yeah,” Eli said. “Cute jammies.”

“Thanks,” I said as Bruiser pulled up a map of the city on his tablet.

Eli sat on the edge of a white leather bar chair and said, “It forms a triangle, which might be witch magic.”

“What it does is send us all over,” I said. “Spread resources. Create discord.”

Bruiser said, “Let’s get to HQ first. We need to check some things.” My partner had brought dry leathers. Admittedly they were my dress black set, and they squeaked when I moved sometimes, but at least they weren’t drippy and slimy. I changed and tossed my wet leathers at Eli. “These need your special touch.”