Ryder laughed. “You and what army?”
Bishop leapt for him. It didn’t take long, and as usual it was a draw. The two of them lay side by side on the floor, broken furniture around them, and Bishop passed Ryder the bottle he’d managed to salvage before their brawl. He took a long pull, then passed it back. “You have to get over her,” Ryder said.
“I can hit you again,” Bishop growled.
“It’s not me you want to hit. Just keep your mind on business and it’ll be over. The sooner it’s done with, the sooner she’s gone, and you can go back to living a normal life.”
Bishop closed his eyes. He didn’t feel like moving—there was a broken chair leg under his back and he was bleeding from a cut on his forehead, but he was just as comfortable where he was. “Sure I can,” he said morosely. He glanced over at Merlin, still lying by the door, paying absolutely no attention to their short, furious battle. “Laissez les bon temps rouler.”
With great dedication Evangeline threw herself into ignoring the passage of time. She had plenty of things to keep her busy—the sheer mass of data she’d acquired during the summer required organization and editing, plus there was a goodly amount she hadn’t transposed onto the computer yet. She played gin with her bodyguards, watched old movies, managed to keep a false veneer of Zen-like calm around her. Bishop wouldn’t have believed it, but Bishop wasn’t anywhere around her. He’d disappeared—as far as she knew he wasn’t even in the country, much less in New Orleans. She didn’t miss him, not for one moment, she told herself every morning when she woke up in the huge, king-sized bed, and every evening when she climbed back into it, alone. She just missed Merlin.
She wasn’t any too fond of the man called Ryder. He showed up occasionally, when she least expected him, and she never could figure out why. She missed freedom; she missed fresh air, even if it was the sultry heat of the Crescent City. She missed her camper, she missed her house in Wisconsin . . .
Fuck that, she didn’t miss any of those things. She just missed Merlin, and his asshat of an owner. No, she was his owner now, she reminded herself. Meaning she had no connection left to the man she’d unwittingly married. He’d probably disappeared to end that particular travesty, and once it was done with, she’d be released to the wild once more, like some captive animal.
She hadn’t spent much time in New Orleans in the past, and what little she could see out of the shuttered windows didn’t give her much of a clue as to which area of town they’d stashed her. It was close to the heart of the city, she could tell that much from the noise that filtered through, the buildings that were crowded together, the general sense of grunge. Occasio
nally she considered trying to escape—she had no illusions that the guards were simply there to protect her. They were there to keep her from leaving as well, and she was getting very sick of it all. She had no access to the Internet, no phone, and despite Ryder’s empty promises, the only television available to her was only for streaming movies. In the past three years of living alone, she’d watched a lot of movies, and the only ones she’d loved enough to want to see again were fucking romances, the last thing she was in the mood for.
So she sat, and she worked, and she waited. When it was all over, when she was finally safe, would James be the one to bring Merlin back to her? Or was he really gone forever this time?
It was Thursday, and she’d been cooped up in the small apartment for a week. Her research was turning into a frustrating pain in the butt—there was too much for even a lengthy paper but not enough for a book, and she was heartily sick of it. She was half tempted to just send the whole fucking thing to Pete so he could keep plagiarizing. At least there’d be some consistency in the writing.
She was just as sick of the rich food, no matter how much she’d loved it the first few days, sick of coffee with chicory in it, sick of playing gin, sick of everything, even beignets, which she would have considered an impossibility. Finally, in an act of great rebellion, she’d sent Jenkins out to the nearest fast-food restaurant for the greasiest cheeseburger and fries she could get, complete with a milkshake and a gallon of Diet Coke, as she prepared to enjoy a total debauch of junk food. Maybe the taste of ordinary Americana would help remind her there was another life waiting for her, back in the heartland.
“What’s taking him so long?” she asked Odila, one of the six guards in rotation to watch her. Odila was a young father and a lousy gin player, two things that recommended him, but he was almost impossible to lure into conversation. His expression was entirely neutral, but she’d become very observant, particularly with nothing to watch but the limited confines of the apartment and her cadre of guards. He looked worried.
“Probably long lines at the burger place. You said you wanted the best cheeseburger in the Big Easy,” he said.
“Probably,” she agreed. “Or maybe a vampire got him,” she added with a weak attempt at humor.
“Vampires aren’t real,” Odila said repressively.
“Yes, but you have to admit that if they were, they’d live in New Orleans.”
Odila wasn’t admitting anything. “I’d be more likely to believe in Voodoo,” he said. “There’s a stronger history. Everything else just comes from a crazy lady in the Garden District.”
“Blasphemy!” Evangeline summoned up some humor. “I love Anne Rice.”
Odila’s response was monosyllabic and profane. They sat in an uncomfortable silence for minutes longer. It was getting late, though anything before two in the morning was early for New Orleans, and a brief rain had ended, already swept out to sea, leaving the streets wet and shining in the lamplight. “Maybe I’ll take a look outside and see what’s keeping him,” he said finally.
“Can’t you call him?” For some reason she felt uneasy. Here was her perfect chance to escape her mink-lined prison, and instead she didn’t want to be left alone.
Odila shook his head. “No phones. Too easy to track them.”
“Not if you use burner phones.”
Odila gave her a pitying look. “If we can track burner phones, then they can too.”
“Then how do you let Ryder and James know if something’s wrong?” She put James’s name in there as a test, to see if Odila would admit whether he was still around or not.
“We’re good enough at what we do.” He shoved himself to his feet, giving nothing away. “I’m going to check on Jenkins. Don’t let anyone in, including me, unless I give you the password.”
“Which is?”
He hesitated for a moment. “Vampires,” he said finally, giving in.
She laughed. “Sounds good. I’m really looking forward to that hamburger.”