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 meaningless 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