families might need to be involved, though.”
There were a number of strong psi families in the city. They didn’t live in each other’s pockets, but they came together when they were needed. Mostly they were polite, but kept their distance from each other since there was a history of some explosive confrontations.
“The police need to be involved, too,” Nat said. “We already are. Or those of us who can’t make ourselves dismiss the idea are.”
“Are you still homicide?” Ben said. His only exposure to Nat Archer had been at Fortunes during an investigation.
“Sure he is,” Marley said quickly. “Homicide at NOPD. He was our lifeline while… We’ve been through interesting times, Ben. For a while it looked as if some of us weren’t going to make it. There was this…thing…that could morph from a human into a monster and it got me—just about. Nat doesn’t have a lot of support from his department—”
“None, except from my partner, Bucky Fist, and a few bright cops who can’t forget what they’ve seen,” Nat put in. “Gray and I knew we weren’t finished with these interlopers. We didn’t kid ourselves they’d give up because we stopped ’em once. Marley almost got killed, and a number of other women did die,” he finished, staring at Ben. “Now I need a few words with Willow.”
“Why?” Marley’s voice rose. “Should I track down Gray?”
Nat shook his head, no. “Not now. I’ve got to make this short and get back.”
“Back to where?” Willow asked. She felt cold.
“
“Could be.” Nat looked at her hard and she took a deep breath. “We shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves. But—” He made a visible decision not to say any more on the subject.
Marley nodded, but her face was rigid.
“How long have you been here in the shop—this afternoon?” Nat asked Willow.
She shrugged. “Half an hour at the most.”
“Thirty-seven minutes,” Pascal said helpfully.
Nat thought about that. “How long did it take you to get here—from wherever you’ve been?”
Ben heard Willow swallow. “I don’t know. Not long.”
“Let’s quit the twenty questions,” Ben said, putting himself between Willow and Nat Archer. “Just spit out what you want.”
“I’m here because the Millets are good friends of mine,” Nat said. “I didn’t want to send an officer in an obvious car. If I don’t ask Willow these questions, someone else will. At this point I’m asking off-the-record and hoping I can head off any involvement for her in the future.”
Willow’s heart missed a beat. She stepped from behind Ben. “I went to discuss some orders with one of my bakers. He does the best spun sugar fancies in town. Billy Baker. That’s his real name. Baker Baker—that’s his shop. It’s on—”
“Chartres,” Nat finished for her. “You came straight here?”
She ran her tongue over the roof of her mouth. “Yes. And I hurried so it could only have taken minutes. What is it, Nat?”
“Bucky Fist’s over there now. Billy died—apparently about the same time you were there.”
Willow heard Marley gasp and Winnie rushed past to lean on her mistress’s leg.
“That can’t be,” Willow whispered. “He was fine when I left.”
“Was anyone else there with you?”
She paused before saying, “No. How did Billy die?” she said, horrified that the vital man she’d been with so recently had supposedly died—the moment she left his shop. “He was alive when I left him. Really, he was. He was laughing about having to make two hundred sugar pigs.”
“I believe you,” Nat said, not referencing the pigs. He gave another engaging smile all around. “The woman who found Billy saw you leave the shop, Willow. You’re pretty hard to miss. And everyone around here knows who you are.”
Ben wanted to punch the guy out—even if he was smiling. Willow hated being identified as “one of those strange Millets” everywhere she went.
“Looks like he had a heart attack,” Nat said.
“That’s not acceptable,” Pascal said in his customary formal manner. “Why are you here if he had a heart attack?”
“It was more than just a heart attack. Billy had a bunch of tiny puncture wounds on his face, neck and head. I wouldn’t have been called in and I wouldn’t be here if it was a natural death.” He glanced at Marley. “Doesn’t have to be connected, but some of us know it isn’t the first time we’ve had a corpse with wounds that don’t make sense—at first.”
Willow’s hand went to her neck.
Nat’s cell beeped and he answered, “Archer.” He listened for a long time then said, “Yes, sir,” and hung up.
“What?” Willow said, seeing the fury on Nat’s face.
“Carry on, folks,” Nat said. “Message from above. I’ve got to back off this case.”
Chapter 3
This was too much.
Another Embran was in town. He didn’t know where exactly the new specimen had set himself up, or what forms he could change into, but another one of them was in New Orleans and thanks to the last efforts of the creatures from deep in the earth, this one would be better prepared to carry out his plan.
If he succeeded, would his kind pour from below, like battalions of fantastic monsters, to overrun the city? Jude Millet knew the answer, but asking himself the question again gave at least a tiny suggestion that it might be impossible.
They would never succeed. He pushed back the tails of his black coat and planted his fists on his hips. A humming grew within his brain and he gave a grim frown. His force, the power of his gifts, trembled at the prospect of confrontation to the death.
Fuming, Jude paced the attic in the building that housed J. Clive Millet. All he had been granted were a few months of peace since the last giant upheaval, and he didn’t appreciate this fresh intrusion. He wanted, no, needed much more time to consider how to deal with several disparate issues: First, doing what he could to help his family cut off the Embran attempts to destroy them. Second, guiding the Millets and other psi families involved toward finding what he knew as the Harmony, an object purported to contain a treasure they must protect. Also, he longed to help settle the Millet division over who was or was not suitable to be head of the family.
And he must also be sure that New Orleans, and the powerful psychic families who lived there, most in anonymity, continued to thrive. The less talented families, or perhaps the younger ones—in centuries—faced a smaller risk than the prime ones, the Millets, or the Fortunes, or even the Montrachets, but if any of them went down, all would suffer.
He had had his suspicions that the present generation of Millets had not done what was needed to be certain their work with the Embran was finished.
But he had not expected a fresh onslaught so quickly.
This time would be more difficult.
This time there was no willing go-between with that world down there. Or none that he knew of.
With a breathy sigh that filled the attic, he drew himself up to his full height and pointed at the gauzelike web separating him from the “real world.” Even the term made him smile. What did these newcomers know of reality?
The curtain fell away and he walked, albeit unwillingly, to look down from the single gabled window on Royal Street floors below. The last of the sun had mercifully bled away, leaving only wisps of purple amid the murky gray of the encroaching evening.
