Elysian Fields (32 page)

I sighed. “What do you mean? You know more about what?”

“About soldiers and fighting men, Drusilla.” He pulled out the elastic band he’d used to tie his dark hair into a short tail—a band he’d stolen from me—and ran his hands through his dark, wavy hair. My body ached and my heart was with Alex, but I wasn’t blind.

“Jacob is a fine man, but he is confused by the things which have happened to him,” Jean continued. “He also is a soldier, and soldiers who do not know their way need someone to lead them. Sometimes, following orders can help them rediscover their path.”

“What about the bruises? He’s been hurt.”

Jean leaned against a side table and looked at me, arms crossed over his chest. “Jacob has anger which needs to be used in a way that endangers no one. He fights, the men place wagers, and he is no longer so angry.”

“But—”

“He is loup-garou,
Jolie,
and enjoys the fight. I promised you I would not allow him to be truly harmed, but you must let me deal with him in my way.”

I ran my hands through my own hair, fighting the overwhelming exhaustion that had been building since we arrived. I had to admit Jean’s logic made sense. Jake had been a Marine. He was hard-wired to follow orders and respect authority, and he’d mostly been floating alone since the loup-garou attack. And he did have a lot of anger to work off.

“You’re right.” Man, I hated to admit that. Jake would take orders from Jean before he would do anything Alex suggested. The Warin cousins loved each other, and hated each other, and had way too much baggage. “What I don’t understand is, what’s in this for you?”

“Allies are always of value.” He walked to me and put his hands on my shoulders, then leaned down and kissed me on each cheek. “Welcome to my home, Drusilla. We will talk more. For now, I have someone who will help tend to your
toilette,
or certainly I would be pleased to be of service myself.”

Ah, there was the Jean I knew, and I had to smile—until I felt the dried blood on my face crack and a dark reddish-brown flake fell on the shredded remains of my red dress. I felt a blush spread across my face at the picture I must make.

I’d kill for a shower, but somehow I didn’t think plumbing had been invented in this version of Barataria. “You aren’t even going to ask about the elf?”

Jean’s jaw tightened. “As I said, we will talk afterward.”

Oh, goody.

A soft knock sounded from the open doorway, and I turned to see a young woman standing shyly outside.

“
Bonjour,
Josefin.” He motioned her closer, and she stepped in with a quick, wide-eyed glance at me before looking down. I tried to imagine what I must look like to a pretty, young mulatto girl of the early 1800s, standing here in my bare feet, half of a short red dress, a coating of dried blood, and hair that probably looked like a rat’s family palace. I’d be afraid to look at me too.

Jean rattled off some instructions in French, then turned back to me. “Josefin will bring you water and clothing. I will have food brought for you once you are ready.”

“Thank you.” I began to relax, and breathed normally for the first time in hours, which was sad considering I was hiding out in a pirate lair in some time-warped version of reality. “Before I go, can you get word to Alex that I am here and safe? Please?”

That grin again—more of a smirk, actually. “
Certainement
. I will inform
le petit chien
that you are a guest in my home, and that it was I to whom you came for assistance.”

Oh good Lord. Well, it was the best I was going to get, and at least Alex, “the little dog,” wouldn’t be planning my funeral. He’d just see it as one more ridiculous situation I’d landed myself in to reinforce his feelings that my life was too chaotic for him to handle. What else was new? Only that it made me profoundly sad.

With a lot of pointing, pantomime, and my pidgin French, Josefin and I managed to get through bath time without a disaster. She brought several buckets of heated water and poured them into a large tub in a small, windowless room located off a bedroom—an early nineteenth- century version of
en suite
. She sat in a chair near the door, just out of sight, and hummed to herself while I took stock of my injuries with the help of a mirror she’d brought me. It was ornate silver, heavy, and polished to a bright shine. I wondered from what Spanish ship Jean had plundered it.

Shampoo hadn’t been invented yet, so I had to wash my hair with rich, oily soap that smelled slightly of coconut. Josefin had sprinkled some type of lavender-scented liquid in the water, so I ended up smelling like either a Carib bean courtesan or a tropical drink that would be served with little paper umbrellas.

I’d kill for some aloe, hawthorn, and ground hibiscus to make a healing potion. I had cuts and concrete scrapes on both arms and one side of my face, and my ribs were killing me. Sadly, I had enough experience with such injuries to know they were bruised and not broken since I could move without screaming. My feet were cut and sore.

On the bright side, at least I hadn’t been chopped at with an ax. Maybe I could make a shopping list for someone to pick items up for me in Old Orleans. I wanted to be healed and ready for a fight before I went home. In the back of my mind, I already was hatching a plan that included the aid of a certain piratical member of the historical undead. Jean Lafitte could help us catch the Axeman, if I could talk him into it.

I also wanted Rand healed and back to his fully powered, glowing self before he had to meet Mace Banyan again. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do about my elven non-husband, but I had a feeling his continued existence might be closely tied to my own.

If the necromancer controlling the Axeman had simply wanted me dead, he could keep sending the killer back again and again until my luck ran out. But I suspected the necromancer also wanted to play with me, drag this out, make me wonder where his killer would turn up next. Anyone who liked playing games that much would love the idea of killing me not at the hands of the impersonal Axeman but using Jean Lafitte.

The irony of it would be irresistible. I just had to work out the details, including convincing Jean to go along with it and figuring out a way to keep him from actually being controlled by the necromancer and killing me. If we pulled this off, God only knows what I’d owe him.

I wrapped myself in one of the towels Josefin left for me, and stood looking uncertainly at the gross bathwater, tinged pink and brown with blood and dirt. I wouldn’t let that poor girl haul it out for me. I took the bucket, filled it, and walked to the door of the bathing room.

Josefin tittered when she saw me.
“Non!”
She took the bucket and poured the water back into the tub, then reached in and pulled out a plug I hadn’t seen. I leaned over and saw some rough piping leading from the bottom of the tub through the floor. Fancy.

Josefin rattled on enthusiastically, and I smiled. The only words I understood were “Monsieur” and “Lafitte.” And really, in Barataria, what more needed saying? The man could afford the best rudimentary plumbing available.

She motioned for me to follow her, so I hitched the towel around me more tightly, trailed her into the bedroom—and stopped. I hadn’t really looked around it before, assuming it was a guest room. Judging by the pirate lounging on the bed, looking right at home,, my assumption had been misguided.

M
y mouth went dry, and I couldn’t think of anything to say. If the garments piled next to him were any indication, Jean had managed to rustle up some clothing. “Uh, can you excuse me while I dress?”

We would not be discussing anything with me in his bedroom wearing a towel.

His blue- eyed gaze traveled leisurely—and blatantly—from my face to my feet and back. I knew some good French words for that. “
Cochon
. Go away. Vamoose.
Au revoir
.”

I doubted it was the first time he’d been called a pig, and he seemed to take no offense. “You cannot blame a man for being a man,
Jolie
.” He chuckled and rolled to his feet. “I will grant your privacy, however. Josefin will help you dress.”

I wished Josefin would leave as well but after assessing the clothing on the bed, I realized I needed an instruction manual. I looked at the girl helplessly and she giggled, pulling out a cream-colored garment that consisted of two tubes connected at the top by a band. When I shrugged, she held it up to herself.

Holy crap. It was a cross between crotchless pan ties and silk long johns. That was so not going to happen. I shook my head and dug my nice little red bikinis from the pile of clothing in the bathing room and put them back on. God would forgive me for a little judicious recycling.

Josefin collapsed into a chair, laughing, and I imagined the stories she’d take home with her about the filthy idiot woman who didn’t know how to bathe or dress.

She held out what I decided was a corset. Crafted of ivory linen and silk, it looked more like a vest than anything too Victoria’s Secret, so I shrugged into it, looking at the laces and pulling at strings. It was really lovely, with delicate embroidery in floral patterns hand-stitched into it.

Too bad Josefin’s English was nonexistent. I’d love to know how many different sizes of lingerie Jean Lafitte had hanging around his bachelor pad, just waiting for the proper woman to need it.

I starting lacing myself in, and the girl shrieked, now laughing so hard tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Non, non.”
She turned around, miming a lacing motion behind her back.

Ack. I was wearing it backward. Sighing, I slid into it the other way and turned for her to lace me up. “Not so tight. Need to breathe. Bruised ribs.” I flapped my arms in a bellowing motion.

The corset created way more cleavage than I was accustomed to showing, but who was going to see it? Certainly not Monsieur Lafitte. And it kind of held my ribs in place and helped with the pain.

I picked up a simple chemise and tossed it aside, along with a pair of what looked like silk stockings. No wonder women in the olden days kept their virtue intact so long—it was too much trouble to get dressed and undressed. Although the open-air bloomers would have made certain bodily functions and sexual acts convenient.

The only remaining garment was the dress, and I held it up. A beauty, probably stolen from a ship bound for the fashionable ladies of New Orleans. It had a velvet bodice of deep indigo blue that gathered under the bust in an empire waistline, with a champagne-colored skirt flowing beneath. Very 1815 haute couture.

With Josefin’s help, I slipped it over my head and discovered all that cleavage was still exposed. Otherwise, it fit perfectly. It was even the right length, surprising since modern clothing always had to be hemmed for me.

Along with the mirror, I’d been given an ornate silver brush, and I ran it through my damp hair, which had started curling from the sea air. Josefin took the brush from me and directed me to a seat, where she tugged out curls and pulled hairpins from her skirt pocket, working until I barely recognized myself in the little mirror. I looked like a wealthy nineteenth- century lady. We’d see how long that lasted.

I was as presentable as I was going to get, and I could eat an undead horse. I also wanted to make sure Jean hadn’t killed Rand. Eventually, I might hire him to dispose of the elf, but for now I felt at least partially responsible for him, like a nanny with an entitled, ill-tempered, six-foot-tall toddler.

“Monsieur Lafitte?” I motioned for Josefin to go ahead, and she led me from the room onto the verandah and down two doors, back into the main parlor. There seemed to be no hallways in the interior of the house, but I noticed both the front and back were open, allowing air to circulate.

Jean sat in an armchair, long legs splayed, smoking one of his little cigars. He rose to his feet when I came in. The door snicked behind me, and I turned to see Josefin had left us alone.

“You look lovely,
Jolie
. The gown shows off your . . .”

I held up a hand, my face growing warm. “Don’t finish that sentence. I know what it shows off.” The dress weaved provocatively around my legs as I walked through the room, making me wish I’d worn the chemise as well as a shawl to cover the cleavage. “Where is Rand?”

“Bah, do not concern yourself with the elf.” Jean pointed to a side table that had been laid out with bread, cheese, and some type of dried meat. “You must eat.”

I didn’t even ask what the meat was, but took some of everything. I knew ladies should be proper and eat like birds—at least that’s what Mammy told Scarlett in
Gone with the Wind
— but I thought the rule should be suspended when in the company of the undead. Or so I told myself. Plus, I hadn’t eaten since lunch at Liuzza’s yesterday, or today, or . . .

“What time is it? What
day
is it?”

Jean handed me a snifter of brandy, and I took a sip. “Time is irrelevant here,
Jolie
. But in your world, it is Sunday morning.”

We’d been gone more than twelve hours. “Did someone reach Alex? Where is Jake?”

Jean shook his head. “You have too many men with whom to concern yourself, Drusilla. Had you availed yourself of my offer to live here, your life would have been much simpler,
oui?
”

Couldn’t deny that, although I suspected life with Jean Lafitte, even an immortal Jean Lafitte, wouldn’t be without its challenges.

He’d returned to his armchair, and I sat on the nearest end of the sofa with a small plate in my fabric-covered lap. I asked the question that had been needling me since I’d seen him stretched across his bed. “Do you keep gowns and underwear for women in all sizes and colors for whenever the need arrives?”

He smiled. “I had hoped you might come to my home one day and wear these garments chosen especially for you.”

Uh-huh. He was so full of crap. “And about Alex?”

I stuffed another bite of bread in my mouth and washed it down with brandy. It was good brandy; my head was already buzzing. There was probably a rule of etiquette about ladies guzzling brandy on a Sunday morning too, but we were in the Beyond and it was dark outside.