In the last few days I’d done enough magical travel that the vertigo I’d originally experienced had dulled into mild nausea. Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for Giguhl.
His hairless-feline incarnation hunched on a pile of old newspapers. The sounds coming out of him were a cross between dry heaves and hairball expulsion. In demon form he was fine, but something about mixing his cat form and interspatial travel turned him into a bile factory.
“Did you have to aim at my shoes?” Adam asked dryly.
I knelt down beside the cat and patted his disconcertingly smooth head. “You okay?”
“Gark!” His cat ears swiveled as he turned to look at me. “No, I’m not okay. Why can’t we just take a plane or car like normal people?”
I squinted at my hairless cat/Mischief demon. “Normal, Giguhl? Really?”
“Whatever, trampire.” He shook himself and stood, his paws sticking to the humanity stew covering the asphalt.
Dismissing the grumpy demon, I turned to Adam. “How far is this place?”
“Couple blocks maybe.” He pointed to the mouth of the alley. Actually, it wasn’t so much an alley as walking space between two buildings. At the end, a green wooden gate separated us from the street. “That should be Bourbon Street.”
Two filthy paws landed on my jeans legs and Giguhl looked up with wide, pleading kitty eyes. “Bael’s balls, can we get out of here already? This alley smells like Satan’s ass**le.”
And with that, we set off to find Rhea’s friend.
But first we had to dodge drunk coeds, puddles of vomit, and strings of beads that flew like shrapnel through the air. For a random Tuesday— or early Wednesday morning, rather— in late October, the place was hopping. Normally I would have spent more time taking in the crazy, but I’d already been in three time zones that night and had bigger issues on my plate than figuring out who was headlining at Larry Flynt’s Hustler Club.
Giguhl, on the other hand, spent most of the walk with his little cat mouth hanging open and his eyes wider than saucers. “It’s like heaven,” he breathed when we passed a generously endowed blonde as she traded her dignity for a handful of cheap plastic beads.
A couple of blocks down, Adam stopped outside a three-story building. A neon sign over the door advertised “Madam Zenobia’s Voodoo Apothecary.”
I stopped next to Adam and frowned up at the sign. “Rhea didn’t mention her friend’s magic shop specialized in voodoo.”
Adam shrugged. “Well, it is New Orleans….. .”
I reached past him and pulled at the door. Considering the hour, I was surprised to find it open. A bell sounded and the scent of incense and musty, arcane things drifted over us.
“After you,” I said.
He walked in, his shoulders tense. I shifted Giguhl to my other arm and performed a scan of the street for suspicious characters. But in the bacchanalia that was Bourbon Street, suspicious was a relative term. But I didn’t see any red-headed offspring of Lilith and Cain— aka vampires— so I let myself relax.
I turned and walked through the door. Only to stop short as my retinas burned with confusion. Apparently, in addition to voodoo, Zenobia’s other hobby was hoarding. Masks, large glass jars full of mysterious herbs and spices, dolls, chicken bones, bits of ribbon, and figurines with impossibly large phalluses cluttered every inch of available space. Even the speakers, which piped in drum music, were bedazzled with beads and stickers.
Near the back of the store, a set of narrow stairs led to a second floor. A curtain made from wooden, bone, and crystal beads separated the sales floor from the employees-only areas. Adam beelined to a desk near the curtain and rang the silver bell. I took the long way around to the back, scanning the store for possible exits and potential weapons. If we were staying here, I’d feel better knowing what resources I had at my disposal if Lavinia showed up.
A few moments after Adam rang the bell, the curtain parted to reveal a bald male with big brown eyes and even bigger glasses with black plastic frames. He was maybe five-foot-five, and his thin frame bordered on fragility. He wore threadbare jeans and a vintage T-shirt that accentuated the birdlike bones of his chest. The strong scent of lavender that swirled around him indicated he was some type of fae.
When he spotted Adam, he stopped in his tracks. “Where you at, cher ?” he purred in a surprisingly deep baritone .
Adam shifted on his feet uneasily. “Hi, is Madam Zenobia around?”
“Might I tell her who’s inquiring?”
“I’m Adam Lazarus.” He gestured toward me. “This is Sabina.”
I hefted the cat. “And this is Mr. Giggles.” That earned me a hiss in the ear.
“That’s the ugliest hairless pu**y I ever did see.” As the fae slapped the counter and laughed at his own joke, Giguhl dug his claws into my shoulder.
“From the looks of you, you haven’t seen many pussies, period,” the demon cat growled.
The male stopped laughing with a gasp. “Not that he’s wrong, but ….. did your cat just talk smack to me?”
“He’s actually a demon,” I explained lamely. “And he’s kind of sensitive about the hairless thing.”
The fae’s eyes widened. “Ooh! A demon?”
I nodded. “Do you mind if I let him change into his true form?”
The male put his chin in his hands. “This I have got to see.”
I grimaced. Considering Giguhl always ended up naked when he changed forms, the fae was about to see more than an eyeful. I set the cat on the floor. “Giguhl, change forms.”
When the brimstone-scented cloud dispersed, a sevenfoot-tall, green-scaled, black-horned, butt-naked demon stood beside me. I kept my eyes averted, but the fae’s gaze zeroed in on Giguhl’s, um, little demon. “Well, hello,” he drawled. “The demon’s got himself a little pitchfork.”
I grabbed a pair of sweatpants from my backpack and tossed them to Giguhl. Maybe it was me, but he seemed to take his sweet time pulling them on. Almost like he was enjoying the attention. I shook my head. I’ll never understand demons.
“Err, anyway, Rhea sent us,” Adam said, clearly bemused.
The fae male dragged his eyes from Giguhl and perked up. “Rhea’s friends? Why didn’t you say so? Madam Z is expecting you.” He came out from behind the desk and slipped a hand around Giguhl’s massive biceps. “I’m Brooks, by the way.”