Then there was a small burst of fire.
And she was ash.
Mark began to spin, a steady spray of water coming from his gun.
Somewhere, there was jazz music.
Somewhere, someone laughed.
A car horn blared.
The hissing continued, punctuated by screams of fury.
“Shoot!” Mark thundered. “Turn and shoot.”
She spun around. A man who looked like a long lost cavalier was almost on top of her. He looked so much like pictures of Charles II that shock almost caused her to hesitate.
Her finger twitched.
She pulled the trigger.
The man was just inches from her. He snarled and let out a cry of fury as he dissipated right in front of her, the picture of his open mouth, fangs gleaming, imprinted on her mind.
She thought that she saw fire, gleaming through a skull, as he burst into flame….
She felt something at her back. A man was there, reaching for her throat.
He touched the silver cross and screamed as his finger burned. He stared at her, his face knitting into a hideous mask of fury.
Then she saw fire for an instant, and the mask of fury become a distorted skull. He exploded, and through the soot, she could see Mark, see that he had shot the man..
And then she heard what sounded like the flapping of wings, saw a rising of shadows.
In seconds the street was quiet again. The sounds from Bourbon Street seemed to grow louder. Become real. And near.
She was still standing on the sidewalk.
She was still staring at a man.
But now the man was Mark.
She was shaking, still holding her own water pistol. He bought the good kind, she thought dryly. They held a lot of water. Kids would have a great time playing with them at a pool.
But she wasn’t a kid, and she wasn’t at a pool.
And already she was finding it almost impossible to believe what had just taken place.
“Are you all right?” Mark asked.
“Am I all right?” she repeated. “Hell, no!”
He took a breath and offered a rueful smile. “I’m sorry. I meant, are you hurt? Did anything…did he touch you before I got here?”
She swallowed. She was suddenly shaking uncontrollably.
“No.”
He took a careful step toward her.
“I didn’t see what I just saw,” she whispered.
“You did,” he told her.
It was impossible. It had all been so fast.
She looked at the ground. It looked as if a careless gardener had lost dirt from a wheelbarrow as he had made his way down the street.
He reached out, taking the water pistol from her hand as carefully as if it had been a real gun.
“We should get to Montresse House,” he said gently.
“The house,” she echoed, frowning.
“At least you’re not passing out,” he murmured.
Those words suddenly gave her strength. And the little voice at the back of her mind that had whispered that there must be some veracity in the stories he had been telling her suddenly spoke up loudly.
They existed.
“Of course I’m not going to pass out!” she snapped. Right. She was shaking so hard that she could barely stand.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“To Montresse House?” she asked.
