AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I gaped at her.
“Bonding time?” she tried. “That is what it’s called today, is it not?” She smoothed her hands over her warrior garb. “Iamdressed for spilling blood, Daughter of Mine. We can call it a hen party! Technically, it ought to have been before your wedding, but . . .”
Eli cleared his throat. “I’ll leave you to your ‘hen’ party and meet you at the tavern. Midnight?”
I nodded.
“I will be sure Tres will be there, and I will invite the others for after Tres’ departure with the Lady Beatrice,” Eli said.
I frowned. “Why?”
“To tell them of your matrimony, Geneviève.” Eli gave me the same patient look he always did, and I was reminded that while I wasn’t a perfect wife by many standards, he still accepted me for me. There was no sanction, no disappointment in his voice or expression. Eli loved me as I was.
I launched myself at him in the sort of kiss that I’d have never offered before, but he was mine.
“Well, I’ll see you after work, bonbon,” I teased when I pulled back.
“I’ll have dinner ready,” he said in a similar tone. “Tequila? Or whisky?”
“Surprise me.”
I swear Beatrice rolled her eyes, but if so, it was fast enough that I couldn’t guarantee it. Did ancient dead grandmothers dressed for battle roll their eyes? I added it to the list of things I didn’t know about fifty percent of my heritage.
Together we sauntered into the evening. Halberd in my hand. Sword at her hip. My clothes were shapeless tunic and leggings, tucked into a weathered pair of combat boots, and hers were medieval war garb.
“Just two ladies on the town,” I said cheerily.
She snorted. I hear it this time, for sure! I shot her a look.
“St. Charles?” she prompted.
“It ought to be well-guarded. Parade starts soon.” I looked at the evening sky, gold and purple streaks in a blue expanse. I’d thought that the sky often looked half-dressed for the coming Mardi Gras, but as we wound through crowds of locals and tourists, I admitted that sometimes it was hard to stand out in our city.
Twelfth Night was a fixed date—one we had passed a couple weeks ago now—but the culmination of Carnival season, Mardi Gras, fluctuated. We were about a third of the way there. Six weeks this year, with two down, meant that things were heating up. Once upon a time the best parades were at the end of the season, and there were fewer parades in the middle. Now, people’s desire to celebrate in relative safety meant that by the third week we had three nights per week with impressive parades, and the streets were already a veritable mob.
“Do you feel different?” Beatrice asked as we walked.
“Because I’m married?”
“Because you are melded with a faery.” She grinned at a midwestern couple snapping her picture.
I winced when the man said, “Can my wife get a picture with you?”
“Both of you.” I suggested, taking their camera and deleting the picture.
Beatrice flashed fangs, licked her lips, and hissed. The couple scurried away, leaving their camera behind in haste.
“Was that necessary?”
She shrugged. “I didn’t bite them. Tourists come here, end up dead, and yet the next year . . .” Beatrice gestured to the crowds in the street.
Locals had portable grills, lawn chairs, coolers. They sat and chatted, safety in numbers, staking their spots on the parade route as they had before thedraugrwere public. This was their city. Their entertainment. They celebrated as their ancestors had: as if it were a giant block party. The tourists, though, came here for something else. Drunk, lost, and easy to mug or bite.
“Show us your titties!”
“Yeah!”
Several men, raucous and stumbling, hollered at us. I ignored them. Beer-bellied middle-aged men were low on my priority list. I was strong enough that five men weren’t as much of a threat as they would be to most women, but if I fought every drunk man—or sober one—who thought catcalling or posturing was manly, I’d run out of time in my days.
