Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-two
John opened the passenger door, but before I could climb in Adam spoke. “I don’t want him sitting behind me.”
John did as Adam indicated without comment, opening the back door for me, then climbing in next to his several times great-grandson. I still couldn’t get my mind around that.
Adam used one hand to drive, leaving the other free to hold a gun on John. I didn’t have to ask if the thing was loaded with silver bullets. Adam didn’t mess around.
Casting a sidelong glance at John, Adam made a U-turn and headed for the road that would take us over Lake Pontchartrain toward the swamp.
“What happened to your accent?” Adam asked.
“I couldn’t keep talking like you and expect people not to connect the dots. Especially with Sullivan snooping around.”
“True enough. Still, it can’t be easy to put aside over a century of habit.”
“I had plenty of time behind silver bars to practice.”
There were a lot of dots I was connecting myself as I listened to them talk. John had been incarcerated somewhere in Montana. There were hunters out there, of which Adam seemed to be one. And someone named Edward, whom I would meet very soon, was in charge of it all.
“You had a Cajun accent?” I guessed.
” Oui,” John said.
I recalled the few instances he’d slipped into French, an occasion or two when he’d called me cher. The one time he’d used “de” for “the” I’d merely thought him overtired.
For the most part he’d been very convincing, speaking with no discernible accent and interspersing his dialogue with Spanish now and again. Calling me chica had helped. He wouldn’t have to bother anymore.
“You said your whole family was dead.”
“I said a lot of things.”
“Did you tell her how they died?” Adam asked.
“You didn’t kill them, did you?”
“Not directly, no.”
“Men in our family often choose to eat a shotgun barrel rather than become like him.”
“How many?” I asked.
“Too many,” John said in a voice that was both haunted and detached.
“Sullivan checked out John Rodolfo,” I continued. “‘He exists.”
Adam glanced over, then back at the road. “How’d you swing that? Eat de guy, then assume his identity?”
“Not this time.”
“How did you do it?” Adam pressed. “You aren’t exactly a computer-hacking genius.”
I bet not. The thought of all that had happened in the world since John had been alive made my head spin. I started to wonder how much of a gift immortality might be.
“I had help with that too,” John explained.
“Edward’s lost his fucking mind,” Adam muttered.
We were silent for the rest of the drive to the Honey Island Swamp—at least half an hour, maybe more, I lost track. Out here, away from the Quarter, the damage from Katrina was still visible. Sure, they were working on putting some places back together again, but others appeared as if they’d never been touched
—except by a hurricane.
Miles upon miles of abandoned apartments and houses, collapsed walls, broken windows. Hundreds of cars beneath the overpasses, filled with silt, white with dust and corrosion. Empty strip malls, Wal-Marts, McDonald’s. Ghostly parking lots, deserted streets without a single moving vehicle. As we rolled past, all I could do was stare and try not to cry. I’d seen it on the news, but nothing could have prepared me for this.
At last, Adam turned off the main road and we sped down a two-lane highway, before turning into a long dirt path shrouded by huge cypress trees, which should have been dripping Spanish moss but weren’t.
Instead, new growths had sprouted where the old had been torn away, spiky tendrils that resembled melted steel wool.
The sun burst over the horizon, causing the dew to sparkle like fireflies on every blade of grass.
I’d read the swamp had been devastated by Katrina, with hundred-year-old trees being ripped from the ground and tossed about like matchsticks, houseboats driven into the mud up to their decks; a lot of the wildlife had died. For quite a while the only living things in abundance were the vultures. But I could see the swamp was coming back much more quickly than the strip malls ever would.
Around a tight bend a house appeared. More than a house, really, a mansion, as they’d said.
“How on earth is that still standing?” The structure appeared to have been built before the Civil War.
“Cypress wood.” Adam stopped next to several other cars. “Doesn’t rot.”
“What about the hurricane?”
“We were very lucky,” was all he said.
I saw evidence of recent improvements, or perhaps repairs. The porch was new, the windows and roof as well. A coat of paint was in order, but first things first, I suppose.
A light mist shrouded everything, making the place appear spooky, even in the sunlight. There might have been a yard once, maybe even some crops somewhere, but the swamp had spread nearly to the front door, the only solid area a small circle around the house and the slightly higher hard-packed dirt driveway.
The gentle, peaceful lapping of water filled the air, broken occasionally by a splash as fish jumped.
Larger, heavier splashes made me wonder how close to a house an alligator might roam.
“The gris-gris,” I murmured.
Adam turned with a lift of his brow. “What gris-gris?”
“There was one under my pillow—actually two. Someone familiar with voodoo said it was meant to repel werewolves.”
“Who would have done that?” Adam kept the gun trained on John.
“I did.” John continued to stare at the house.
“Why?” I asked.
“From the minute I heard your voice, I was—” He broke off. “Never mind.”
King had said my voice called to him. I’d relished the idea that he couldn’t see my plain face, my average body, that all he knew was the essence of me. But John had been able to see me all along. I wasn’t sure what to make of that.
“You tried to keep yourself away from me,” I guessed. “But why?”
“Why do you think?” John said tightly. “I’m a werewolf, Anne. I don’t know if that will ever change. And even if it does…” He rubbed his forehead with one beautiful hand. “I’ll always be haunted by what I’ve done. I’ll never deserve a life after all the lives I’ve taken. I can’t give you anything you should have. I can’t be a husband, or a father. I wasn’t much of a human being even before I became an animal.”
“Why did you hire her if she was so irresistible?” Adam asked.
“I didn’t.”
“King did,” I said slowly. “He said I’d be useful. I thought because of Mardi Gras.”
John glanced away. “He had the crazy idea that if I fell for you it might help.”
“How?”
“We need to go inside,” Adam murmured.
I followed his gaze. A tall, voluptuous redhead wearing j eans and a tank top stood on the porch. She was flanked by an ancient, skeletal old man dressed from head to toe in camouflage. He had a bandolier of bullets across his scrawny chest, a pistol at his hip and a shotgun in one gnarled hand.
On the other side a gorgeous willowy blonde in black j eans and a red tank top stared intently at John. I didn’t like that look at all.
“Who the hell is that?” I demanded.
“My wife, Diana,” Adam said.
“The redhead or the ice queen?”
His lips twitched. “Redhead. The other one is Dr. Elise Hanover. She’s here to cure Sullivan.”
Blond, gorgeous, and a doctor. Didn’t that just figure?
John opened the door and got out. So did Adam and I.
“Where’s de boy?” Adam called.
“I sent him with Devon,” Diana answered. “He doesn’t need to see—” Her gaze flicked to John; wariness filtered over her face.
John dipped his head politely. Diana merely narrowed her eyes.
“Henri.” Elise came down two of the steps, then paused as if she didn’t want to get too close. “Have you found what you were searching for?”
“Not yet. And I’m John now. Thanks to Edward.”
He glanced at the old man, who kept his shotgun pointed at the ground, but angled in John’s direction.
Edward stared at me. “Anne Lockheart?”
“Yes.”
“Edward Mandenauer.” He bowed and clicked his heels, his heavy German accent complementing his Old World mannerisms.
“According to Cassandra, you are aware of the world that exists parallel to your own?”
“The werewolves? Yes.”
“You are searching for someone you have lost?”
“My sister.” What did one have to do with the other?
“Let’s get on with this,” John interrupted. “Poor Sullivan doesn’t need to be psychotic any longer than he has to be.”
“Poor Sullivan?” I echoed. “You didn’t like him much before.”
“I don’t like him now, but I don’t want anyone to be tormented when they can be cured.”
“Except it isn’t a torment,” Elise murmured, “and you know that as well as I do.”
The two of them stared at each other and something passed between them, something I liked even less than the smell of rotting vegetation in the swamp.
“Why did you give him a new identity?” Adam demanded. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d let him loose?”
“So you could stick your nose in things and mess them up?” Elise turned her attention from John to Adam. “The only way to cure him is to find a way out of his curse. He couldn’t do that in Montana.”
“He was a sadistic werewolf for over a century, then he went crazy—or crazier. You just let him come back to de scene of most of his crimes and start killing people?”
“I wasn’t killing p eop le,” John said tightly.
“So you say. But you’ve lied before.”
Adam had a point.
“The Jäger-Sucher society is supposed to be some all-powerful Special Forces agency with tentacles everywhere,” Adam said.
Diana glanced at me and shrugged as if to say, he’s on a roll, there’s no stopping him now.
I could translate Jäger-Sucher to “Hunter-searcher” as well as the next mid-level German student, but the word didn’t tell me any more than I already knew. However, Adam didn’t give me a chance to ask any questions.
“Yet Grandpère can just walk out of an impenetrable compound and trot into New Orleans, then set up shop with none of us de wiser?”
” ‘Impenetrable’ means no one can get in.” Edward leaned his shotgun against the porch rail.
“Lately,” Elise muttered.
Edward ignored her. “It does not mean someone cannot leave if they are allowed to.”
“You took him there to fix him,” Adam said.
“I couldn’t.” Elise spread her hands. One palm sported a tattoo in the shape of a pentagram. She didn’t seem the tattoo type.
“He might have been doing anything down here.”
“He wasn’t,” she said.
“How do you know?”
“You think I would let one such as he wander about?” Edward shook his head and made a tsking noise.
“I am not stupid. There was an agent close to him at all times. One with orders to contact me should anything go awry.”
“Who?” Adam asked.
“King.”
“But I found him,” John said.
“That is true.” Edward spread his hands. “However, I found him first. It occurred to me that you might try and contact the last remaining ancestor of the woman who cursed you. King has been on my payroll for months.”
“You’ll find out soon enough,” Elise murmured, “that Edward has his bony fingers in everything.”
“Then King hasn’t truly forgiven me.” John sounded lost. “He was just following orders.”
“His orders were to blow out your brains with silver if you did anything you shouldn’t.”
“Killing Grandpère makes me a loup-garou,” Adam said. “We’re trying to avoid that.”
“My duty is to protect humankind from the beasts. If that involves killing one, but making another to be killed at a later date…” Edward lifted one shoulder. “So be it.”
Adam scowled, and turned toward John. “You actually thought de man whose grandmother you owned could be your friend?”
“You need to back off.” I stepped forward. “He’s trying to make things right, and you aren’t helping.”
Adam’s eyes narrowed. “You have no idea what he’s done, chica.” The emphasis on the last word was insulting.
“Never mind,” John said in a voice that was infinitely weary. “Let’s get on with this.”
“Yes,” Edward agreed. “Let’s.”
***