"Will you stay off me bleedin' heels?" said the slim, green-haired woman, rounding drunkenly on the blonde woman in the crumpled suit behind her.
A big, dark-haired man wearing a white linen sports jacket over an immaculate t-shirt and jeans cut between the two of them and put an arm around the tall woman, who was recognizable anywhere as Fionna Kenmare, the acid folk rock star. The blonde woman, shorter by several inches, had a good, strong chin and steady, gray eyes. She looked as if she could put up a good fight but was choosing not to.
Beauray Boudreau watched them make their way from the file of limousines that had pulled into the underground garage of the Royal Sonesta Hotel on Bourbon Street. Fionna Kenmare staggered over the threshold into the hotel, and the large man steadied her. Behind her, the woman in the suit maintained a calm expression, but her eyes sparked to show that she was fuming mad. Boudreau followed them inside, past the uniformed doorman, who stared with open admiration at Fionna Kenmare all the way up the stairs to the lobby. The star tottered toward the deep 49armchairs upholstered in cherry pink. She flung herself into one and stretched out a languid hand to the dark-haired man in the expensive suit.
"Nigel, be a dear, sweet man, and check me in, will you?"
"Of course, Fee, darling," Nigel said, with nannylike solicitness. He asked the woman on the other side of the desk. "Sweetheart, can someone get my friend there a drink? And one for me, too. It's so bloody hot here we're evaporating."
"I'll have a waiter come by right away, sir," the young, black woman said, smiling.
It took Elizabeth a moment to sift the hotel clerk's words into a sentence she could understand. The honey-sweet, slurred accent was no easier to understand than broad Irish. The clerk behind the dark-stained wooden desk picked up a phone and tucked it into the angle of her neck and shoulder while she flicked through the sheaf of reservation slips Nigel Peters handed to her.
Yawning into her hand, Elizabeth stood back a little ways to keep an eye on Fionna while the group checked in. She'd get a room, take a quick shower to sluice off the grime of travel and wake herself up, then call in to HQ. It'd be nearly four A.M. at home. No one would be there, but the switchboard operator could take her message. She cringed at the notion of stepping back out into the saunalike atmosphere, but she needed to connect with solid earth. Now that she was back on the ground she needed to recharge her magical batteries. It would take special intervention to keep from falling asleep while she set up security for Fionna/Phoebe's room. A handsome porter in green livery and a white stock at his neck came over to smile and gesture toward her small suitcase.
"I'll keep it, thanks," she said. He nodded and dipped his head in a little bow as he moved on to the next person in the party, the slim, balding man, who gestured toward a heap of document cases.
A tall, good-looking blond man emerged with alacrity from the offices behind the desk and bore down upon Fionna, who had absorbed her first drink and was waiting for another.
"Miss Kenmare!" he said. "I'm Boaz Johnson, the evening manager of the Royal Sonesta. How do you do?"
"I'm well, thank you so much, dear man," Fionna said graciously, offering him a languid hand.
Johnson beamed. "We're so happy you're here. We'll make sure your stay is just as comfortable as we can."
"I'm sure you will, you dear man," Fionna said. "Nigel! Mr. Johnson, this is Mr. Peters, my manager. The two of you work out the knotty details, won't you?"
"Why, of course," the manager said, shaking hands with Peters. "I'd be honored to take care of your arrangements personally."
The pretty desk clerk smiled with a quirk of her head that might have been a shrug. Every Englishman loves a lord, Elizabeth thought wryly, and every American loves a celebrity.
Elizabeth could not believe how hot it was in New Orleans. Intent on her mission she'd been almost oblivious to the first blast of steaming air as she set foot outside the airport terminal. Compared to the interior of the air conditioned limousine, the street and the hotel lobby were sweltering. She picked at the sodden collar of her suit while she looked at the people around her. She'd never been to America before. All she knew about New Orleans was what she'd seen in movies like The Big Easy and Interview with the Vampire, both insufficient research, no matter how you looked at it, for the actual place.
It was curious. Even in London, home of the punk movement, Fionna Kenmare's weird makeup stood out a mile. Here in New Orleans, she was just another passerby. On the drive through the French Quarter from the highway exit to the hotel, Elizabeth had already seen men with multiple-color-dyed hair, women wearing gaudy body painting and not much else, and at the last intersection, the limousines were halted to allow passage to an entire jazz band dressed in rose-colored suits, led by a man carrying a frilly parasol. The lobby was full of local color, too. Elegant businessmen and businesswomen rubbed shoulders with odd characters dressed in tie-dyed scarves and picturesque rags.
Fionna received her second drink and her square plastic key, and rising to her feet with balletic grace hammered into her by lessons from Miss Felsham at Congreve School, swept toward the lifts, followed by the hulking form of Preston. Elizabeth started after her, her mind full of cantrips and hotel security codes. Peters caught up with her within a few steps.
"Give the girl some privacy for a while, can't you?" he asked in a whisper, tucking his head down next to hers. "It's been a long flight."
"I can't," Elizabeth said, just as quietly. "Not until this mission is over and she's safely back home."
Peters sighed. "I figured not. Good enough. Look here, I'm putting your room next to hers. Second floor. Separated only by a wall, all right?" He held out a key to her. "On us. What do you say? Otherwise this lass can't guarantee you're even nearby. We've blocked the whole wing."
"Very good of you," Elizabeth conceded, accepting it. She could almost certainly have bullied her way onto the same floor with the help of her American connection, wherever he was, but Elizabeth was grateful that Fionna's manager, at least, was cooperating willingly with Intelligence. It would make things far easier in the long run. She could save what was left of her energy for making security arrangements. Mr. Ringwall would probably be pleased at the cost savings. The room tariff was remarkably expensive, even by London standards.
Preston, the security man, was still shooting daggers her way. Her very presence was an affront to him. Well, if he could scare away bogeys, she wouldn't be here!
Her legs felt heavy and tired as she followed Fionna toward the lift alcove. She watched the singer saunter with ease, as if she had not been up all night, had not spent nine hours cramped in a plane. Of course, one of the two of them had been in a First Class couch, with attendants to rub her feet, while the other had been stuffed into a lightly-padded sardine can with two other people. Her old school chum, Elizabeth thought with amusement. Who'd have thought it?
She was not the only person watching Fionna make her grand way through the lobby. Suddenly, one of the odd characters appeared at Elizabeth's elbow. He gave her an engaging grin.
"One weird lookin' mama, ma'am," he said. Elizabeth gave him a weakly polite smile, and continued walking. Fionna vanished around one of the faux marble pillars flanking the far end of the lobby. Elizabeth hurried to catch up.
"How long you think she takes on painting up every morning, huh?" the character persisted, striding alongside her. "Every little line like that takes time."
"Look," Elizabeth said, spinning on her heel. She gave him the full headmistress's voice, starting low and threatening to rise to the painted plaster ceiling. "If you do not leave me alone I'll summon hotel security, and have you thrown out of here." She glanced toward the desk, where the young woman was already helping someone else to check in.
"Oh, you don't want to do that, Liz," he said, shaking his head, stepping up so he was level with her. "Make things rougher for you and me."
Liz? Elizabeth stared. "How do you know my name?"
The man put out his hand. "Beauray Boudreau, ma'am. Call me Boo-Boo. I'm supposed to be working with you. Didn't they tell you?"
"You?" she asked. The man had very intense blue eyes that beamed with sincerity and savvy. His sharp cheekbones and nose outlined a mouth that was thin-lipped but quick to smile. His wrists and neck were whipcord thin, and they disappeared into a disreputable, ragged hunting jacket that might once have been khaki. His jeans were untidy and threadbare, and he wore sneakers without any socks. His blond hair
was very short, but the severe cut didn't lend him an iota of respectability. "You're with the FBI?"
"Yes'm," he said.
"Oh! Well, yes," Elizabeth said to this apparition, trying to collect her thoughts. "They did tell me there'd be someone working with me, but they didn't say what—I mean, who."
Boudreau laughed heartily. "Don't blame you none for being skittish. You're new around here. I know a lot of visitors think all of us Americans must be gangsters or hillbillies, but we're more than we seem. We're kinda used to it. Oh, by the way," he reached into one of the dozens of pockets that made up—nearly held together—the body of the hunting jacket. He presented her with a manila envelope that had been folded twice to fit in a pocket. "Here's your dossier. They said you'd be wantin' that first off."
"Thank you," Elizabeth said, examining it surreptitiously to make certain there were no insects clinging to it. She glanced quickly back toward the reception desk to see if there was any reaction to her and her odd escort. No one was paying any attention. New Orleans must see people like Boudreau slope in and out every day. She started to open the envelope flap, keeping the edge close to herself so Boudreau couldn't see in.
"Some mighty interestin' readin' in there," he continued, conversationally. "I'll just look forward to chewin' it over with you, when you've had a chance to clean up."
Elizabeth noticed the adhesive strip had already been broken. She stared at him, outraged. Putting a finger in her pie without permission! "How dare you read my briefing before I do! I'll tell you what I think is appropriate for you to know."
"Ah." Boudreau tipped his head back and half-lidded his eyes so they glinted with blue fire. He no longer looked like an innocent street lunatic. He looked like a fully aware and possibly dangerous street lunatic. "I'm so sorry, ma'am. I thought we was supposed to be sharin' information. I'll just be sure to remember that for gettin' you around the city and all, tellin' you only what you need to know."
Elizabeth was instantly contrite, and wary. She didn't need to have his meaning spelled out for her. Cooperation. Hands across the water. Special relationship between Great Britain and the United States of America. She was in a strange city, and she needed this strange man to help her complete her mission. He knew it, and she knew it. She took a long breath. Time to start over.
"I am so sorry," she said. "I am not thinking. I'm exhausted, and it's been a trying ten hours. HQ threw me in at the deep end. I was assigned to this only just before the flight left."
"And it's wrong of me to be so inhospitable," Boudreau said, bowing low so that the frayed end of his sleeve brushed her shoes. "We'll get your bag up to your room. You have a chance to wash up, and then we'll tell each other things."
"This is Mr. Boudreau. Mr. Boudreau, Mr. Nigel Peters," Elizabeth said, effecting introductions in the hotel bar an hour later. They had taken a very private table in the Mystic Den, and she had searched it carefully, using the bug detector from Q Division, her training from OOPSI, and native talent inherited from her grandmother.
"Call me Boo-Boo," the American agent said, shaking hands with both of them. He had a grip like a bench vise, Elizabeth thought, carefully counting her fingers when she got her hand back. "I'm what you might call a free-lancer for the Bureau, Department BBB."
Elizabeth felt her brows go up. "A free-lance agent?"
Boo-Boo leaned back in the elegant brocade-covered chair, looking like a bedraggled cat toy at a cotillion ball. "Works out good for all of us, ma'am. I got some trainin' from the best people down here; an interest of mine, even a natural talent, you might say." A meaningful glint from those very blue eyes, and Elizabeth thought she understood. "The Department can use that, and they don't have to keep a permanent office. That's good for their budget. They keep me on retainer, and that does me some good. I keep an eye on things for them down here, and they call me when they need me. I'm a sworn agent."
"Yes, well," Peters said, clearing his throat. He lit another cigarette off the end of the first and stubbed out the butt. Elizabeth could tell he didn't have much confidence in the American's professionalism. Neither did she, for that matter, but necessity ruled in this case.
"I think we oughta go over security arrangements," Boo-Boo said. He pointed at the envelope at Elizabeth's left hand. "We don't need to discuss what's in there. All of us already know."
The British agent nodded. She had read the dossier while changing clothes in her charmingly elegant room, and then got immediately to work. Everything that she had guessed was confirmed by the confidential briefing. Lord Kendale was concerned for his daughter's safety, based on Fionna/Phoebe's complaints of magical attacks. He would not, could not dismiss them, and neither should the agency. The report had been updated while she was on the plane.
The one thing about the case that Mr. Ringwall had not mentioned that really worried Elizabeth was that there had been an MI-5 agent assigned to the Kenmare group before her. Twenty-four hours before, he had been found wandering half-naked up Dublin's Grafton Street, babbling about little people—odd, but not inexplicable. The agent's . . . indisposition was the reason Elizabeth had been sent on in such haste. There still was no explanation as to what had struck him mad in the middle of the Dublin shopping district. Tests so far had turned up no traces of drugs or physical trauma. Elizabeth gulped. The mission was already sounding more dangerous than she had feared. Was she up to a mission like this? Peters and Boudreau were both studying her, waiting for her input. She must continue to present a professional mien, no matter what.
"MI-5 has no conclusive information as to the source of the attacks on Ms. Kenmare," Elizabeth said, "but we are prepared to protect her to the extent of our powers."
"Us, too," Boo-Boo said. "Even if it turns out to be a wild goose chase. Better that than real trouble, although my superiors won't like it much."
"Look," the manager said tentatively, eyeing them, "I don't know what I'm getting into now. I don't want two governments angry at Fionna, but I don't want her hurt, either. Do you think the things that are happening are real, or not?"
The two agents exchanged glances.
"Won't know until they strike again," Boo-Boo said. "We've got to keep an open mind about that until we see for ourselves."
"Whether the attacks are of paranormal origin or not," Elizabeth said, "if we are to believe her, and I am inclined to do so, someone or something has targeted Fionna Kenmare."
"Right," said Peters grimly. "Then, security's the main concern."
"Right," Elizabeth echoed. She accepted a gin and tonic from the waiter, and paused until he was out of earshot. She turned to Boo-Boo. "You already know how many people are with the party. Three band members, twelve permanent roadies, Mr. Peters here, her personal bodyguard, publicist, special effects woman, technical director, the costumer, and the makeup artist. None of them appear to have any connections with the United States other than professional contacts in the business, particularly Michael Scott, who is known as the Guitarchangel. He had quite an independent career going earlier in the decade, two platinum albums, and all," Elizabeth finished hastily, lowering her face so the others couldn't see it. She had hardly had to refer to her notes for Michael. She'd been a big fan for years. Working in proximity to him was going to be distracting.
"The keyboard player, Eddie Vincent, was well known in the American group Skywatch, a Christian rock band. He began to play with Fee—Fionna around five years ago." Better be careful about her old friend's secret identity. There was no telling whether she had enraged someone by her masquerade as a starving Irish waif and what they might do if they found out she was no such thing. "Voe Lockney's only been with her for two years. He replaced her last drummer . . ."
"Former boyfriend," Nigel said, dismissively. "They broke up, and he couldn't handle being around her. Too bad. He was stellar."
"How many other newcomers?" Boo-Boo asked.
"Because of the labor laws, we've had to hire most of our backup staff here in the States," Nigel said, taking a healthy gulp of his drink. "It's all I've spent the last three weeks doing. Six musicians, three backup singers, a couple dozen grips and technicians. They're really out of the picture. Most of them haven't even met Fee yet. They've been working with our stage manager, who's been here on site for a week with most of our techs. Only the key personnel flew in with us this evening."
Elizabeth dismissed the newcomers from her calculations. If they'd had no contact with Fionna Kenmare in Dublin, they could not have been responsible for the previous attacks, or the mysterious indisposition of the other agent.
"The costumer," Elizabeth read from her jottings, "Thomas Fitzgibbon, came to her from the West End theater scene. Did a lot of work for Andrew Lloyd Webber's Really Useful Company. Kenneth Lewis, lighting engineer. A New Yorker, he last worked in some off-Broadway theaters. Laura Manning, the makeup artist, is also from the West End. The special effects designer is a woman, too, Roberta Unterburger."
"Call her Robbie. She hates Roberta," the publicist advised.
"Yes," Elizabeth said, writing it down. "She's from Marin County, California, three years ago. They've all been with her for at least two years, predating the first attack by at least fifteen months."
"We didn't hear anything from our end, either," Boo-Boo said. "Any problems your end, Nigel?"
"None," the manager said. He leaned forward, placing his open hands palms up on the table in appeal. "They're all good people. They like being part of the Fionna phenom. She's got something special. People gravitate towards her. She's been sort of protected by her fans."
"It sounds as if someone loony has broken through that cordon," Elizabeth said, matter-of-factly. "Possibly someone with special abilities. That's yet to be determined. I'm here to see that nothing more happens."
"What can you do?" Peters asked, his fists closing reflexively. Elizabeth shook her head.
"If someone tries to get to her again, we can detect him, or her, or it. I've examined her room. There are four doors to the suite itself, the one from the hallway on each floor, and one from the suite to a balcony and the pool on the third floor. One of those doors leads into my room, and I'm prepared to repel attacks. I've seen to it the other doors are securely locked, and warded."
"What'd you use to ward?" Boo-Boo asked.
Elizabeth eyed him, wondering just how far she could trust him. "Who brought you in?" she asked, suddenly.
Peters looked from one to the other, puzzled. "The FBI brought him in, you know that."
"No, that's not what she means." Boo-Boo gave her that easy smile, his eyes glinting. He understood. "She wants to know how I qualify to ask her questions." He leaned over so that his mouth was close to Elizabeth's ear. "A welcoming woman who smiles," he told her. She closed her eyes, relieved, and continued the litany.
"Where was it?" she whispered.
"In the heart of the world," Boo-Boo said, formally.
"Where was the moon?"
"Shining over our heads. And her name was Elmira."
"All right," Elizabeth said, relaxing. She recognized the name. Boo-Boo was not only qualified to help the department, he knew something about her grandmother's ancient tradition of magic as well. It would be easier to confide in him, because she wouldn't be breaking solemn oaths to tell him. She sat up. "I'm so sorry," she told the manager. "Department business. I used an . . . Earth-Fire ward, tapping into the hotel's electrical system."
Peters looked bewildered, but Boo-Boo nodded. If he was up on New Forest magic, he'd have recognized the reference to a Ward of Vulcan, from the Trilistene Grimoire of 1585, with modern variations that obviated the need to burn charcoal or use a focusing lens to provide the fire power.
"That'd give anything trying to pass it a mighty hotfoot," he said approvingly. "I mighta put down an Earth-Water combo, but that could get messy. What about the windows?"
"No problem. I left them so they can still open—it's so bloody hot in this city—but air's the only thing they'll let in."
Boo-Boo grinned. "You should see it come summer, ma'am. This is just warming up."
Nigel Peters reflexively unbuttoned the collar of his shirt. "Warm! If it were any hotter you'd have to mop me off the pavement."
Elizabeth referred to her notes again. "There wasn't time to bring much from the department, so what I have with me is rather a hodgepodge of government equipment and personal tools. What OOPSI does run to is a decent line of general issue psychic monitors. I've left some concealed amongst Fionna's personal effects to warn us if anyone is staging an attack using her own possessions. I've also been down to the kitchen to arrange for food analysis before any room service order is taken up to the suite. The only employees who will have contact with any of the band or the stage crew will be ones I have vetted personally. You can't concentrate on the arcane and overlook the mundane. Have I missed anything?"
Boo-Boo's slow smile spread across his face. "No, ma'am. You're plenty efficient."
With a smile for the compliment, Elizabeth read off the last of her shorthand notes. "And, finally, escorts to and from the New Orleans Superdome. I'll need the limousines here at least twenty minutes ahead of time to examine them for traps or tricks."
"As you wish," Peters said. "But that's not until tomorrow. Fee's itinerary doesn't have her doing anything until the morning, and that's just publicity. I'll have the cars here for you to inspect ahead of time. No trouble there. Until then, there's nothing more for us to do. She'll be perfectly safe here in the hotel overnight."
"Oh, I don't know about that," Boo-Boo interrupted them, rocking his chair back and forth on its rear legs. "While I was waiting for you all to come down, I saw her and that big fellah turn out the door and light out down Bourbon Street."
"What?" Elizabeth and Nigel exclaimed in unison, leaping to their feet. Boo-Boo didn't move.
"Why didn't you stop them?" Elizabeth demanded, staring down at him. If this was an example of American agents, then they were sloppy, haphazard, and careless. No wonder they were always having troubles over here.
"Nothing strange by me," Boo-Boo said, looking up at them with a hurt expression. "Most folks who come to town want to see the Quarter, and all. Plenty of interesting night life. Finest music in the world. Any bar you go into probably has at least one live musician. Usually a band."
Elizabeth felt herself swaying slightly with exhaustion. "But it's past twelve," she said. "The bars will be closing."
Boo-Boo shook his head. "Ma'am, bars around here don't close until at least dawn. Some of 'em don't open until midnight."
"We've got to catch up with them!" Elizabeth had a vision of Ringwall's ruddy face turning more purple than usual. "Right now!"
Boo-Boo rose slowly to his feet, shaking his head at the haste with which out-of-towners seemed to move.
"Well, all right, ma'am. Whatever you want."