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“For you it would be,” I replied.
“Maybe. But if it meant I could help Hank, I wouldn’t think twice.”
“And therein lies the problem. You need to think twice. You need to think about it three or four or a hundred times before you go running after these people by yourself.”
“So come with me.”
“What’s more is, you’re associated with the pack, and because we’re out in the public now anything you do—” I stopped talking mid-sentence and blinked at him. “What did you say?”
“I said come with me. I know Callum said we shouldn’t act, but you know I’m not going to listen. And a nice, rule-abiding princess like you will keep me in line. Make sure I don’t cause more harm than good.”
Going with him had been my plan all along, but I wanted to hear his sales pitch. I feigned uncertainty. “We’ll already be doing more harm than good just by disobeying Callum. I’m sure he’ll love the idea of you taking a pack princess right into the heart of danger, when he brought me home explicitly to protect me from those crazy assholes.”
I was actively formulating a plan, in spite of my protestations. If I was going to run into the fray with Wilder, I wanted to sure we all came out of it alive.
“I’d protect you.” Wilder’s voice was low, distracting me from my thoughts. His lips were so close to my ear I shivered. “But something tells me you don’t need anyone else to keep you safe, Princess.”
Chapter Thirteen
What is it some people say when they’re about to do something completely idiotic? It’s better to beg forgiveness than to ask permission? I’d always thought it was a silly copout for getting busted instead of being smart enough to avoid trouble in the first place.
Now, with my arms wrapped around Wilder’s waist and the night air blowing by us as we sped down the highway, I saw the logic at last. There was no way in hell Ben or Callum would have consented to this. My brother would rather lock me in my room like a storybook princess in a tower if it meant keeping me from doing what I was doing right now.
And Callum? He wanted to keep me safe. On his terms. He’d be furious with me for leaving. But then again, given some distance and time to consider it, I think he’d realize I was making a bold choice. I was doing something a leader would do. He’d learn to respect me for it, even if he didn’t like it.
I had left a note under Lina’s door, knowing if she was the one to break the news to the men, they wouldn’t be able to lash out at her. Her sweet, forgiving face might help dampen their immediate rage. She’d also soften the blow when she gave them the news, breaking it to Callum gently as soon as he was awake. Knowing her, she’d follow that up with an enormous breakfast, and it’s really hard to be mad about anything with a belly full of bacon.
Still, I expected the angry phone calls to start around six in the morning, which meant Wilder and I needed to know where we were going and what we were up against before Callum considered calling in the National Guard to drag me home.
Since we didn’t know where the Church of Morning was holding Hank captive, we would be chasing our veritable tails unless we found a reliable lead.
Which meant I was going to be an asset Wilder hadn’t realized he would need. I might come across like a goody two-shoes, but I was also the great-granddaughter of La Sorcière. In Louisiana—especially in New Orleans—that had a lot of capital. I’d made my share of friends in low places since starting school, and those friends were going to come in handy now.
A couple hours later we left Wilder’s bike in a hotel parking garage and made our way in tense silence down Canal Street towards Bourbon. The closer we got, the more bustle we encountered with lines of people snaking out from every bar and restaurant we passed. It was Wednesday night, but days of the week were meaningl
ess to the tourist crowd on Bourbon Street. The streets were barricaded against car traffic, allowing drunk coeds to stagger along the cobblestone with booze in hand and not risk getting flattened.
I tried to avoid this part of the Quarter whenever I could. There was a narrow corridor of the city that outsiders seemed to believe constituted real New Orleans flavor. Tacky beads were draped over wrought-iron balconies no matter what time of year it was, and if you weren’t careful, an overzealous party girl might smash you in the head with them. Bourbon Street was a hedonistic shooting gallery. You had to watch your back and your wallet at all times.
Piles of horse manure from the mounted police mingled with fresh vodka-based vomit on the streets. Broken beads littered the sidewalk, and bright neon lit our path like an airplane landing strip. Every other person we passed was drinking sugary abominations that warned right in their names they weren’t meant to be consumed. Fish bowls. Hand grenades. Hurricanes.
Someone shoved me hard, and I bumped against Wilder. He put a hand around my waist and pulled me to his side. It was a protective move, meant to keep me close so he wouldn’t lose me, but the warmth of his hand sent a thrill through me.
Being near him made me wonder how many people I’d be begging forgiveness from when this whole thing was over.
I shook off the thought and focused on the plan ahead. We needed to get our information and get the hell out of town as soon as possible. I could practically feel the invisible eyes on us as we made our way through the crowd. Maybe it was paranoia, but I still believed Callum always had some idea of what I was up to at any given time. His control over the Southern packs was far reaching, and though the number of pack wolves in New Orleans wasn’t huge, they would all stop what they were doing at the drop of a hat if it meant pleasing him.
Our destination wasn’t a werewolf establishment, meaning Wilder and I would be safe there, but I didn’t feel anything close to secure exposed on the street.
A cluster of people with cameras cut across Bourbon, heading in the direction of the St Louis Cemetery #1. The tour guide leading them was talking about Marie Laveau and how many visitors would leave her small tokens and mark the tombs with three Xs to make wishes. I smiled to myself, recalling the times I went to the cemetery after all the tourists were gone, leaving lip gloss or nail polish for Marie and her daughter. I rarely asked them for anything. Sometimes I just liked to visit them to let them know people still thought fondly of them.
That was before the city started keeping the cemeteries open all night and charging admission. The revelation of vampires and werewolves being real meant New Orleans tourism was up tenfold, as if it were the only place in the world such creatures would be attracted to.
Thanks, Anne Rice.
Never mind that the apocalypse had almost happened in New York, or the surprising number of vampires living in Alaska during the winter thanks to the long hours of night. Nope. People were flocking to New Orleans, and as a result the city was tripping over itself to milk the cash cow.
These days people were crawling through the cemeteries at all hours, and anyone who had used the spaces for magic or meditation no longer had the haven.
