Page 74 of Feral King

“Nine windows,” he says.

I glance down the hallway toward the bedroom. “Should we get some sleep? We’ve been up all night.”

“Couldn’t sleep if I wanted to,” he says. “Too keyed up.”

“Yeah, same. In that case… coffee?”

“Sounds perfect.”

He follows me into the kitchen, where I make coffee in Mama’s ancient percolator. We drink in silence, and I get the sense that Julian is giving me space to let me process everything. When we finish our coffee, we take separate showers. I dig through my duffel and change into some comfy clothes.

I find one of Dad’s old, over-sized Saint’s tee shirts for Julian. He throws it on with his slacks, and I giggle at the sight—an old tee with tailored expensive pants.

“Come on,” I say. “I want to show you something.”

Early morning in the Bywater is glorious. The light hits different there as it filters through the humidity and the live oaks with hanging Spanish moss. We walk down St. Claude, past the corner shops and the murals painted on brick walls.

He seems less tense. He’s letting his guard down, and I like it.

The Frenchman Street market is almost in full swing. It’s a festival that spills across the intersection with food carts, brass bands, and a crowd that moves to its own rhythm. I pull Julian through it, stopping at a cart that sells boudin balls. “We have to get some of these,” I tell him.

Next, we stop in front of Café Beignet’s pop-up cart, where I order half a dozen. Before he knows what’s happening, I have one in front of his face.

“Try this.”

He regards me with skepticism before taking a bite. Powdered sugar explodes across the front of Dad’s tee. He looks down at himself, then at me. To my surprise, Julian Volkov laughs,trulylaughs. It’s a genuine belly laugh, and it makes my heart light.

“Very good,” he says, taking another bite. “And very powdery.”

We eat our way down the street. I make him try crawfish etouffee, shrimp and grits, po’ boys, and anything else that attracts my eye—and stomach.

In those moments, it’s just us. He’s just Julian and I’m just Lyra. He’s not a Bratva boss or a CEO, and I’m not a woman trying to process that I’m caught up in all of it along with him.

We justare.

CHAPTER 27

LYRA

Lafayette Cemetery No.1 is quiet, just like it always is.

The graveyard is located in the Garden District. It’s bordered by a wrought-iron fence, through which you can see whitewashed tombs and moss-draped oaks.

“I was twelve the first time my grandmother brought me here,” I tell Julian, letting my gaze drift over the various gorgeous stones and mausoleums. “She used to say that never really letting people go was a tradition in New Orleans. You keep them close to your heart by bringing flowers and talking to them like they’re an old friend, and you’re just stopping by for a visit.”

“Your grandmother sounds like she would’ve gotten along well with my mother. She had similar thoughts about the dead. They were never really gone in her mind. When I was younger, I used to think it was a bit silly to think that way.”

The thought of Julian’s mother and my grandmotherknowing each other—impossible though it might be—brings a small smile to my lips.

“And what do you think now?”

“Now?” He gives the question a few beats of serious thought. “Now that I’ve lost people I care about, I understand it a little better.”

We stop at a weathered but well-maintained white marble tomb in the third row, the name ROSE THIBODEAUX etched above the dates. I set down the small bouquet I’d bought on the way over—yellow roses—her favorite.

I point to a stone bench up ahead.

“We’d sit on that bench together, and she’d tell me stories about the people buried here. She was a notorious gossip; it was like she knew everyone in this town, dead or alive. She even told me some of them walked the Quarter on rainy nights. She’s the reason I love Anne Rice—she gave me the bookInterview with the Vampirewhen I was thirteen. I thought Mama was going to kill her.”