Chapter 43
Chapter forty-three
Delilah
“Man, I love the smell of sin and debauchery in the morning.”
Vine stepped past me, leaving the shadow gate in a hurry and drawing a deep breath of the cool, damp New Orleans air.
We exited the gate and found ourselves standing on a narrow street, the early morning sun having barely crested the tops of the buildings around us.
Looking up, I took in the classic architecture of the French Quarter, the eclectic mix of French, Spanish, and Creole styles creating an explosion of bright colors and wrought iron flourishes that brought a smile to my face.
It was beautiful, even if the gutters were cluttered with empty glasses and other assorted trash from the previous evening’s frivolities.
I’d spent a little time in Louisiana before—Heidi and I had visited nearly every corner of the continent at one time or another over the years—but I’d never actually made it to New Orleans.
The legendary city was known for its supernatural history, and as such, typically boasted a higher population of various magical creatures and beings on a day to day basis.
After we’d been ousted by a few covens and communities, Heidi had thought it best if we just stayed away from the magical community all together, so the city was one of the places she’d studiously avoided.
It seemed no one wanted to be around a witch who couldn’t access her magic. It made people act weird, as though my ineptitude would rub off on them or something.
Which was ridiculous, because it turned out the problem hadn’t been me at all. If Archer’s theory was correct, and I’d been bound from accessing my powers, then what they really should have been worried about was the powerful witches, not the powerless ones.
“Don’t wander off,” Archer instructed, causing Vine to halt in his tracks.
“But boss,” Vine whined, his shoulders slumping. “I can smell the beignets from here.”
Now that he mentioned it, so could I. Glancing up, I looked at the glowing signs all around us, seeing more than one indicating that coffee and delicious pastries were available.
At my chest, Pandora stuck her nose out of her hastily assembled replacement pouch, searching for her own breakfast. We’d left the chalet in such a hurry, none of us had taken the time to eat, as my own rumbling stomach could attest to.
“And you’ll get them,” Archer assured Vine, casting a glance at my hungry, hungry hedgehog at the same time. “But you know the rules. No exploring the city until we’ve met with our contact.”
“Contact?” I asked.
“We’re not on home turf any more,” Vine offered, leaning against a brick wall painted with a faded mural of a Mardi Gras mask in purple, green, and gold. “This is Murmur territory now.”
“Oh. Of course.” I nodded, pretending that I knew what he was talking about. “Murmur. Right.”
Corson chuckled, shaking his head.
“Murmur is the name of the demon who rules this territory for the Umbra Fratrum,” he offered kindly.
“Each area has a ruling faction of the Brotherhood, like ours, who are in charge of patrolling and protecting the citizens in their district. It’s generally expected that when you cross into another factions zone you announce your presence and intentions, so that there’s no confusion as to why four powerful demons suddenly showed up where they don’t belong. ”
“I didn’t know that,” I said honestly. “Demon politics are so complicated.”
“You have no idea,” Archer muttered, his eyes scanning the empty streets around us. “Mal. A little help, if you please?”
Reaching into his shirt, Mal once again produced the compass, holding it out to Archer with a bored look on his face.
Archer took it, held it up, turned in a circle, and frowned.
Shaking the compass, he spun it again, a low growl crawling out of his throat before he gave up and handed it back to Mal.
“It’s broken,” he stated, annoyed. “The needle just kept pointing back at me.”
“It’s not broken,” Mal affirmed quietly, looking at the face of the compass where the needle was spinning in a lazy circle.
“And it wasn’t pointing at you.” He tucked the compass back under his shirt, pressing his palm against it for a second before turning to look at me where I stood close to Archer, his head tilted in that inquisitive way he had.
“It still works, Archer. It just won’t work for you any more. ”
“And why not?” Archer spat, a familiar scowl on his face.
I tried not to swoon; he was so handsome when he was cranky.
“Because you’ve already found what you were looking for.”
Mal’s words hung in the air, their significance wiping the scowl off Archer’s face and replacing it with a look of shock I could feel rippling through our bond.
“Indeed, I have.” The low words curled around me, stoking a fire deep in my belly.
Before I could speak—as if I had any idea what to say—Vine cut in, his impatience to get to food once again coming before everything else.
“So where do we find this Murmur, anyway? It’s been a hot minute since we’ve been to the Bayou, so I don’t exactly know my way around anymore.”
“Two hundred years is a bit more than a hot minute, Vine,” Corson drolled, rolling his eyes in mock annoyance.
“I’ve been busy!” Vine insisted indignantly.
In the distance, the sound of a trumpet cut through the quiet of the morning, the sharp, bright notes sending the roosting pigeons flocking into the sky.
The first trumpet was quickly joined by a second, the two instruments harmonizing in a way that was almost haunting.
As the mournful music drew closer, I could see that it was a pair of demons, their gray skin looking wan in the watery morning sun.
Dressed in full Mardi Gras regalia, they wore suits and sashes in purple and gold, the bright, traditional colors of New Orleans.
They kept coming, two lone figures walking down the empty street, and I stared in shock as they passed right by us, full demon forms on display for all to see.
They paused only for a moment, their eyes narrowed and their tails flicking impatiently before they turned and continued down the street, their solemn song hanging in the air and leaving us standing in their wake, mouths agape.
“I guess that’s our escort,” Corson said, clapping a hand on Vine’s back as he started after the demon duo. “Last one there has to buy the beignets.”
“Fuck that,” Vine exclaimed, taking off at a jog to catch up to the trumpet players, whose song had changed to a much jauntier tune now that we were following them.
“Come, witch,” Archer said, gesturing me to take my place in our little group, behind Mal but ahead of Archer, where he could keep an eye on me and also watch our backs.
It was something I’d noticed in the time we’d spent together; Archer took his role as the leader seriously, and part of that meant not necessarily leading at all.
He constantly took up the rear position, as though he needed to have all of his charges in sight, protecting them from anyone or anything that might sneak up on them.
And, apparently, that now included me.
We walked in silence, the trumpet players continuing their music as we moved through the French Quarter, passing famous shops and tourist destinations on all sides.
Even though neither of us spoke, I could feel Archer’s emotions through the bond, giving me a sense of where his head was at.
Sifting through the flow of feelings to try and determine which were his and which were mine was still tricky, but if I focused, I could sense a cautious determination that I was almost certain was all him.
That, and a ravenous hunger, most of which, I was sure, wasn’t for food at all, but for me.
Rolling my lips together, I tried to hide both my smile, and the rush of lust that shot through me when I realized Archer was thinking about our night together, and planning for another just like it in the future.
His low, throaty growl told me I was less than successful.
The demon trumpet players stopped before a gorgeous old building, three stories high and wrapped on all sides by intricate wrought iron balconies.
The sign out front said Hullabaloo Jazz Club, and boasted a cartoon devil lit up in bright red neon lights.
The little demon was playing a trumpet for all he was worth, tail curling behind him as he grinned down at me from above the door.
It was freaking adorable.
Making our way inside, I blinked against the sudden darkness, noticed that the club’s windows were all painted black from the inside, blocking out not just the light, but any prying eyes, as well.
Moving into the building, I held my hands out, cautiously feeling ahead before I took a step.
“You guys might not need any light,” I muttered in annoyance. Planting my hands on my hips, I huffed. “But I can’t see a thing.”
Immediately, the place was flooded with light as every bulb and candle in the place flared to life at the same time, bathing us in a golden glow. Looking around, I could see that we were standing in the middle of a gorgeous, turn of the century bar.
Shit. Had that been me? Looking down at my hands, I felt the surge of power flowing through me, both shocking and exhilarating. I’d needed to be able to see, sure, but I hadn’t consciously thought about turning on the lights.
Archer placed a hand on my shoulder, and I looked back to see him staring down at me, the bond now leaking concern and caution into my chest.
The new power I was contending was more than a little disconcerting, and I knew I’d have to be very careful until I got a handle on it.
“Damn, bestie,” Vine said, giving a low whistle. “You’re really letting it fly now, aren’t you.”
“I—”
“Well, well, well,” came a feminine voice like dark velvet. “You want to tell me who thought it was a good idea to drag a wanted witch across my dance floor?”