to keep up with which streets would be closed for what parade or for how long. It was easier and faster to simply take public transportation. She took the St. Charles trolley as far as Jackson Square and then had to walk a block and a half to catch the streetcar to Midcity. Ordinarily, this was no problem; the streets were well traveled and well lighted, and Amy enjoyed the brief walk. It gave her the chance to unwind from a busy day or, as tonight, to organize an even busier evening. But for some reason, she had forgotten about the parade.
Mardi Gras in New Orleans. Music, laughter, crowds and lights, extravagant costumes, gala parades. To the several hundred thousand visitors who packed the city streets every year, Mardi Gras was magic, pure and simple. To New Orleans residents like Amy, however, Mardi Gras was traffic jams, missed appointments and dancing in the streets until 4:00 a.m. when she had to get up at six. To her, there was nothing romantic about the shoulder-to-shoulder bodies that screeched and waved and cheered and blocked the sidewalk as she tried to elbow her way past, nothing thrilling about the towering floats and harlequins on stilts and fire-eating jugglers that inched down the street, blocking off both foot and vehicular traffic for six blocks in each direction.
The noise was deafening. A Dixieland band blared its trumpets in her ears as it passed less than five feet in front of her; the stereo speakers on a float a dozen yards behind roared out a marching tune. Grinning masks bobbed and leered, street lamps glinted eerily off of glass eyes. The air was alive with writhing strips of pink and purple confetti, dragons and mermaids danced in the street. Behind her, the door to a pub opened and a new mass of screeching, jostling, beer-cup-waving bodies spilled out. Amy felt as though she had stumbled into a madman’s nightmare and she thought, I don’t need this!
Gauging a break in the procession between a float featuring a giant Poseidon and a gaggle of acrobats in silver suits, Amy prepared to dash across the street. Her foot had barely left the curb when something grabbed her hard from behind.
“Hey!” she cried. Amy tried to spin around, but someone held her firm. She tried to jerk away, but an iron arm clamped around her ribs, dragging her back and jerking her off her feet.
She cried out, struggling. No one in the jostling, excited crowd seemed to notice. She wrenched around, flinging out a hand to strike, but stopped, gasping and disoriented, as she found herself staring into the grinning face of a wolf.
CHAPTER TWO
Ky Londen knew something was wrong when he was halfway up the stairs. He might have blamed it on the reaction of Voodoo, the half mutt, half black Lab at his side, but it was more than that. The minute they reached the landing and the door to Ky’s apartment came into view, man and dog froze in place. The dog dropped into a half crouch, pressing himself against Ky’s knee, his hackles rising. Though there was absolutely no visible reason for it, Ky felt his hackles rise, too.
Ky’s apartment was on the second floor of what once had been a fruit market on the corner of Rampart and Canal streets. The first floor was home to nothing but rats now, completely boarded up and always locked. The entire building might have been condemned long ago had not the Historical Preservation Society taken a particular, and in Ky’s opinion, inexplicable, interest in the place. Ky had stayed because the rent was cheap and because the historical society could occasionally be persuaded to foot the bill for improvements that kept the building, for the most part, on the right side of health-code standards. Security doors did not, unfortunately, fall into that category and on more than one occasion Ky himself, having forgotten his key, had opened the door with a well-placed shove of his shoulder.
The apartment was reached via an ironwork staircase that might once have been used as a fire escape. The scarred wooden door that faced the alley was closed, just as he had left it. There was no sign of forcible entry. Nonetheless, someone was indisputably inside. Voodoo knew it, and so did Ky.
He had never worried about intruders before. He didn’t have anything anyone would want to steal, and personal safety was the least of his concerns. But this was different. Now he was worried.
He reached down and placed a restraining hand on Voodoo’s neck, signaling the dog to stay put as he moved forward carefully. The big black dog looked fierce, but he was no hero, and was more likely to melt into a puddle of admiration at the intruder’s feet than launch an attack. Some people kept dogs for protection; Ky spent far more time protecting the dog than the other way around.
He took the remaining steps silently, and the closer he got to the door the harder his heart beat, the drier his throat grew. He paused once to glance back at the dog, but he needn’t have worried. Whatever was waiting for him behind that door had terrified the poor animal into paralysis. It was a state with which Ky could sympathize.
With every instinct in his body, Ky knew that what he was about to encounter was unlike anything he had ever dealt with before. Not a burglar, not an escaped convict he had once put away, not a homicidal ex-client. This was…different.
Ky was licensed to carry a handgun. He worked some of the roughest streets in the city, and the people he encountered were not always feeling friendly toward him. However, since leaving the New Orleans police department three years ago, he had not carried a gun. Until now, he had never felt the need for one.
Although he didn’t really believe that a gun would have protected him from what was inside his apartment, he would have felt better having one in his hand.
He did not waste time looking around for something that could be used as a weapon. There was no point in plotting a strategy. Ky had lived a rough life in an unfriendly world and had survived for almost forty years on his wits, his instincts and his lightning-fast reflexes. Even if he had wanted to, there was no time to change his modus operandi now.
He gripped the handle of the door and turned it slowly. It was unlocked. He flung open the door and flattened himself quickly against the wall, making as small a target of his body as possible.
“I assure you, I am unarmed,” a male voice said from inside the room. “Like you, I have no need for crude mechanical weapons.”
The voice was deep and powerful, now faintly amused or perhaps bored. The accent was cultured and precise but otherwise indefinable. And something about that voice—or perhaps it was the man himself, still unknown to Ky—was compelling. Perfectly aware that his life might be the price he paid for curiosity, Ky stepped cautiously across the threshold of his own apartment.
It was full dark outside, and no lamps were on inside. The only illumination came from the streetlights and car headlights below the windows that faced the street. Nonetheless, Ky’s night vision was excellent. He had no difficulty at all making out the figure who stood before the uncurtained window.
Fight-or-flight adrenaline rushed through Ky’s veins. His heart pounded in his throat, his breath was quick and strong. Every sense was more acute than it had ever been. He recognized the man immediately for what he was. And he had never seen him before in his life.
He was a big man, powerfully built, with a thick mane of silver hair that fell below his shoulders. He wore a patchwork fur vest, which was distinctly out of place for New Orleans, and carried an elaborately carved wooden walking stick. His face was stern and imperious, his eyes crystal blue.
Ky knew he was in the presence of greatness. His knees were abruptly rubbery and he wanted to sit down, but he dared not show any weakness. He thought, This can’t be.
And yet it was.
He squared his shoulders, closing his fists. He demanded, “How did you get in here?”
The other man smiled, and gestured toward
