Cold Reign (Jane Yellowrock #11)(86)
Alex had placed towels and bathroom rugs all over the foyer, along with a metal rack that was usually in the laundry, used by Eli to hang his clothes when he ironed. In a basket were towels, blankets, socks, and robes. Smart boy. I’d have to give him pizza. I pulled off everything I could while maintaining some form of decency and wrapped up in my robe. The two witches stood and watched me. As I dressed I asked, “What can the Enforcer of the Master of the City do for the witches of New Orleans?”
“We’ve never seen such a storm,” Lachish said.
“Cold,” Bliss added.
“Uh-huh. I smell tea. Want some?”
“No,” Lachish said. “I tried your cell phone. I e-mailed. Your cell’s out of order or no longer in use and you haven’t answered e-mail.”
I chuckled, chucked my shoes and wet socks, and pulled on dry, warm, wool socks. “Little busy. And I’ve lost two cells this week already.”
“New record?” Lachish asked.
I laughed harder and stood upright. Lachish looked like normal, gray-haired and a little stout, a woman who dressed to look more matronly than she had to. She had a dry sense of humor and depths I hadn’t taken the time to explore or learn.
Bliss looked good, if good meant beautiful—Sleeping Beauty, with white skin, black hair, and witch energy that softened her even more. She looked like a victim and maybe she had been one once, but she was nowhere near prey, now that she had begun to learn how to use her magic. The little witch seemed to glow.
I knew that the local witches were in danger because of the EuroVamps. Would the fangheads try to turn them? Kill them outright? Kidnap them? I realized that I had been staring too long and asked, “You okay? The local witches okay?”
“You mean since the European vampires started coming ashore in small groups and casting storm magic?” Lachish asked, annoyed. “You didn’t think to call us? Ask us for help?”
“Ummm.” Not really. And that was stupid.
“For a very bright woman you do tend to overlook your assets,” Lachish said. “Too much the loner for too long.”
I couldn’t argue with that. “Come in to the kitchen? Have some tea?” I repeated.
“Thank you, no. We’re here with witch gossip.”
I had learned that gossip in the Deep South was a thing. A very important thing. A newspaper society-column-innuendo thing. So witches here with gossip-mill info shouldn’t be surprising, but that they’d offer it without the social niceties was. Normally, gossip was shared over tea and coffee, maybe some coffeecake or beignets. The fact that they were bypassing propriety meant the info was important and they were in a hurry.
I guessed. “You’re here to tell me that a vamp-witch on board a ship in Lake Borgne is bringing in the storm.”
She looked mildly impressed and then spoiled it with her next word. “No. The storm and the riots are being generated and controlled by an unknown witch on land, not on ship. We’ve managed to locate her general vicinity, near the Lafitte Greenway Trail.”
That was where the car used to transport Grégoire had been left. I had assumed that the kidnappers had taken him far away when they changed vehicles, but what if they had just driven around the block a few times? What if they were keeping him hidden right under our noses? “Do you have any idea who it is?”
“Not one.”
“What if it’s a male witch?”
Lachish took a towel from the basket and handed one to Bliss, perhaps deciding that if she was going to stand inside she might as well not drip. “Your question and your expression suggest that you know more than we supposed,” she said with asperity. As if blaming me for her inconvenience in coming here, in the rain, and getting wet.
“I don’t know much, except a witch-vamp named Adan Bouvier was once strong enough to cast storms. He left for France a long time ago. He might be back.”
“Another male witch,” Lachish murmured. “And he’s a vampire?”
I almost asked who the other males were, but now was not the time. “Yes. He’s old. Like centuries. Like from before the vamps killed off all the European witches, back when the EuroVamps were turning them instead.”
Eli was standing wrapped in a robe and looked like candy on a stick, if the look in Bliss’ eyes was any indication. He asked, “Is there any way to tell if the witch is storm-making by choice?” When Lachish looked at him blankly he said, “He could be a prisoner.”
Lachish shrugged and rubbed her head with the towel. When she came out from under it, her hair was a wiry cloud, but she looked more cheery. She said, “I’m not sure. I’ll ask my coven. Either way, the storm’s not abating and it’s creating a storm surge. The pump system was improved and updated after Katrina, but it’s not up to a prolonged surge. We think the witch is somewhere near here.” She pulled a sealed plastic bag from her pocket and handed it to me. Inside was a scrap of a map of New Orleans with a red circle around one area. Alex took it out of my hand before I could get a good look and started tapping on a tablet, doing his electronic wizard thingy. I hadn’t even noticed him standing in the doorway.
I’d had a glimpse of the location, however, in the second or so I’d held the map. Enough to guess that it must also be where our missing vamps and Onorios were. Lachish had tracked the magics to St. Louis Street, just off the greenway near where we found the car that took Grégoire. The greenway was three miles long, but this was the third tiny clue that pointed us to this section of the city. We’d been so close. Alex turned his tablet to us, showing a satellite map of the circled area. It was mostly houses except for one larger building that was a warehouse with a false front, a new metal roof, and a lightning rod mounted on the highest point. A lightning rod. In a magical storm with lots of lightning. If lightning struck it, what would the power be used for? To ground a witch-working? To power a working?