Kris didn't like this. She really didn't like this.
Frank and Joe walked ahead of her and Joshua, far enough to not be with them, near enough to stay in sight. Grinning, the brothers flirted with giggly drunk LSU chicks, watched floats, and listened to street musicians. To Kris, Frank and Joe stuck out, bright neon against a grey backdrop; she told her gut to shut up, that it was just that she knew them. But it didn't listen; Joe was a flashing 'Good Eats Free' sign to the otherworld. Kris watched the crowds hard, trying to pick out any possible watcher, any possible threat, any possible, period.
Gods, she was scared. She hadn't told Joe all of it; she didn't think he or Frank would believe her — some things were just words unless one had seen the scars and the broken minds. She was keyed up to the point that anyone out of place was liable to get hurt, and that wasn't good. She tried to calm down; she wasn't any good if she was too panicky to think clearly.
She was behind them by a few yards; Joshua was several more behind her, acting on the theory that the killer had been watching the scene and Joshua last night. The killer might know Joshua had a partner, but not necessarily who.
Small, female, easily ignored. Kris prayed it'd be enough.
Joe stopped at the edge of an alley, arguing with Frank and gesturing. Kris brushed past them, caught a glimpse of a neon bar-sign, along with too many tiki torches and festival lights for good taste.
Joe snagged her arm. "Hey, beautiful, why the frown? Come on, join the party."
"She's too little," Frank said. "Toss her back."
With a disgusted glare, Kris yanked away and moved on, stopping behind a cluster of revelers to watch the floats. Clear signal: this was the place.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Frank make a dismissive gesture in her direction, and the brothers headed down the alley. Joshua stopped next to a group of LSU guys at the alley-head — Kris sighed, watching Joshua flirt with the drunkest. Figured. Instead of his usual eye-watering dashiki, Joshua was in a black souvenir t-shirt with the Mardi Gras harlequin emblazoned on it, though his jeans were stone-dyed bright teal. The beads in his short-dreads were another matter. He'd chosen them with extreme care: no fimo or glitter this time, but real silver, polished obsidian, and amethyst, engraved with certain symbols from several different traditions, Voodoo, Pagan, and Christian alike.
Both Joshua and Kris carried their guns, and that had been another ferocious argument, with Alma settling the matter by her hand thumping the table with short, sharp words. If either of the sharks spotted the guns past the cloaking magic, it was game over — but the dangers of not having them outweighed the risk.
Though Kris had to admit, it had been worth it, seeing Frank's and Joe's expressions when their tagalong 'kid sister' holstered a .45 ACP semi-auto M1911…and then Frank's expression again when he realized he couldn't spot the thing after Joshua invoked the no-see…
She let her gaze wander the street. The plan called for Joshua to go in the bar next, then herself, last. Their usual method: let the flashy stuff get all the attention, so the mouse could slip in un-noticed.
More color caught her eye, and she froze. Vão stood in the open, right across the street: bright red t-shirt, blue jeans, new red Adidas — bright and noticeable. He was staring at her and nodded when he saw her looking at him.
Kris grit her teeth against the immediate fifteen curses she wanted to spit. As far as she could tell, none of the bodyguards were with him; he was alone. Casually Kris turned towards where Joshua was still chatting up the drunks, caught his eye and jerked her head towards Vão.
Joshua's eyes narrowed, then he laughed and disentangled himself from the group, strolled over. He didn't look at her, his attention on a nearby trio of jazz musicians who were swinging through "Basin Street Blues". "Get over there," Joshua said in an undertone through his grin; it sounded as if his jaw was clenched. "Get him out of here." Then laughing and shaking his head, Joshua turned and made his way to the alley.
Trying to act casual and unconcerned, Kris joined another knot of partiers crossing the street. Then still casual, still calm, just a tourist enjoying the parade, she deliberately stumbled into Vão, knocking him back and glaring into his shocked face — and moved on.
The expected hand on her arm pulled her around. "Kris…"
"I told you," she snapped, and people turned, stared, "I'm not your damned groupie. Go find someone else to screw, Mister Rock and Roll, because I'm not playing." She pulled out of his grasp and stalked away from the direct sight of the alley and bar, around the street corner.
Vão ran after her, grabbed her arm again. "Kris, what are you talking about? I never —"
"You, Rafe, and half the road crew," Kris snarled, with a string of loud, descriptive Army obscenities (learned from Joshua when he didn't think she was listening). Playing the angry girlfriend to the hilt, she let all the anger and tension of the morning ramp up, real, hot, and un-faked — and shoved it into Vão's face.
It didn't take much for Vão to finally have had enough-of-this-shit and start shouting back, starting with "bitch" and sliding downhill from there. All the while, Kris moved as if trying to cut the argument off, leading him away from the bar. Around them, people stared and whispered, but she wanted them to hear it all — as many as possible to see the Big Rock Star getting reamed out by a chick: loud, attention-grabbing, embarrassing, and public.
Hopefully, any watching sharks would move to less obvious prey.
"Lady," a beefy white guy in a muscle tee cut off Vão's tirade with a painful-looking grip on Vão's shoulder, "dis guy botherin' ya? Ya need help?"
"Only with the fact that his cock-size doesn't match his ego," Kris said, glaring at Vão.
"Ya calm down," the man said to Vão, in a thick Yat accent — white New Orleans uptowner, and he looked well able to beat Vão into a pulp if Vão didn't take the hint. "We don't take kindly to guys who insult pretty ladies at Mardi Gras, hear?"
Vão glared back, but said nothing, and the guy let go, moved on. Vão's anger and confusion were vibrating against Kris's shields; she locked down her anger to cut off the feedback, fighting not to break into hysterical laughter at the sheer nonsense of the fight.
"Your shields are horrible," Kris said in an undertone, before he could get anything else out, "and you're way too easy to manipulate. Now —" She yanked a bit of magic around them, just enough to divert attention away from their actual words: same old argument, it's boring, move on. "— what is so important that you had to come down here and put yourself right in the line of fire?"
Glaring, outraged, Vão opened his mouth, but she laid a hand on his chest, gave him a light push — despite the cool day, he was sweating, flushed. He glanced down, then up at her, then around at the people ignoring them.
"Estevão," she said, and he shut his mouth, "we're running down the lead that you pointed us to. You're interfering with business. And get your shields up."
He stared at her. Finally, "You don't know jack about my cock size."
She wasn't about to be baited, either. "Answer the question."
Vão sagged against the bricks, hands on his thighs, bent over and gulping air. His hands clenched. "Nate's missing."
Kris went still.
"He had a fight with Candi and cut out. I don't know what it was about. I only heard it going down and ignored it. But he hasn't come back. It hasn't been that long, maybe an hour." Vão looked down. "Never mind. I'm being stupid. Mar was right…"
Oh dear gods. "The last thing you are is stupid. Just easily manipulated." Kris sighed at his expression. "Take a look at how far we are now from that bar, mister, and how easy I got you going, before you answer that."
He bowed his head. "Right."
"And," Kris shook his shoulder until he looked at her, "I'll trust your instincts, and your brain, and your Empathy over any of those so-called Blades right now. Where's Rafe?"
"Decoy. Cy was rounding us up for some radio promo. He was screaming about Nate, and Rafe…ahh…kinda egged it on. I made it out before Cy noticed."
"Okay." Biting her lip, Kris stared back towards the alley. Her cover was blown now. One of the band missing, and possible killers in that bar. Multiple things warred: she had to tell Joshua, she had to go back her partners up, they had to go after the trail now, before…but…
Priorities. There was an innocent with her in the line of fire. By now, Nathaniel was either already dead or just wandering Mardi Gras. Joshua could handle himself until she got this target back under cover, and as for Frank and Joe… Kris grit her teeth. "Come on." She took Vão's arm. "You're going back to the hotel. And you and Rafe are going to barricade yourselves in a room and not move until we say so."
"Cy'll love that," Vão muttered. Kris started to drag him back down the street when Vão halted and glanced towards the alley. "Business, huh? Need in?"
She didn't answer. She didn't see Joshua or her big brothers. They were likely in the bar, wondering where she was. But now, going in the bar when she'd just raised a scene outside with one of the targets would blow the stake-out sky-high…especially since Joshua had been spotted last night, and Frank and Joe were targeted…
Vão leaned in and kissed her.
Surprise froze her, and Vão pushed her against a nearby gallery post, the kiss moving from tentative to serious as he pressed against her. Just as suddenly, Vão broke off, pulled back just enough to grin down at her. "Payback," he breathed, then looped an arm around her shoulders, dragged her with him across the street. His strut and attitude were all cocky rock-star, his voice loud and obnoxiously Southern Cal. "C'mon, babe, you have got to see this guy. His show is amazing."
Her brain was still trying to catch up. Then she realized what he was pulling and nearly blew it by stopping in shock and disbelief. He couldn't — he wouldn't dare —
Vão turned at her hesitation, still grinning and too sure of himself. "You really don't know how to play, do you?" he said, under his breath.
"You really are asking for a broken arm, aren't you?" Kris said, in the same way, but trying to grin and play along. It felt forced, un-natural.
Vão's grin grew wider. He kissed her again, this time pushing her against the wall and grinding against her.
She got her arms up between them, broke the hold, and shoved him back. Now she was really angry, but throttled it down.
Vão looked at her, but shrugged, once more the cocky rock star. "Come on, girl. You need more tequila." He draped his arm around her shoulder, started to pull her down the alley.
Her brain caught up. "No." Kris grabbed his arm, not caring who was watching, and yanked him back to the street, her voice low, ferocious. "You are not going in there. You are going back to the hotel. Period."
"Wow. You got the jealous pissed-off part down cold. Now if you'd just work on the other half —"
That brought her up short. Vão was grinning again.
She was not going to hit him. She glanced back; they were out of casual earshot of the alley. "Josh is in there. You go strolling in with me in tow, and our target who might think me and Josh are involved will know we are and that we're connected to you. And since Nathaniel's missing, Idon't want to give the killers any incentive to speed up their timetable on him."
Vão went still.
She was going to pound it into his head until he stopped the games; things were bad enough. "The killers dumped a body right outside our crash spot last night. Young woman. Drained. They were burning her out."
He would know what that meant. After what had happened on their first tour, Vão would never forget. His eyes went wide; he looked stricken.
Kris resumed her stride down the street towards the hotel; he shoved away from the wall to catch up. "All right, you still want to go in that bar and blow our shot at finding the killers?"
"Sorry," he breathed. "Sorry."
They weren't that far from the band's hotel, the fancy Ramada. She pushed him ahead of her, letting him lead so she could keep an eye on him and the street around him. They hit the corner of Toulouse and Bourbon, crossed the street — the crowds here were somewhat thinner, the street in front of the hotel almost empty.
All her internal alarms shrilled.
She shoved Vão towards the hotel before he'd realized she'd stopped. Kris dodged something and lashed out, pulling her gun —
Someone was there before she could level, a blurry figure she couldn't focus on — then a hard blow seared across her right shoulder, caught her just right, knocked her sideways, and swept her legs out from under her. Kris hit the pavement hard and wrong, managed to roll and get back to her feet; she'd lost the grip, the gun was gone. Her right arm tingled, numb — then hurting.
"Get in the hotel, now!" she roared at Vão. She couldn't split her attention, she couldn't watch him, she could only pray —
She heard him yelling, didn't dare turn, dodged again, came up under the figure's guard with the heel of her left hand punching into where the face should be. It dodged, twisted, and Kris followed the turn, lashed out in a solid kick to break its knee —
It wasn't there.
Panting, Kris backed up, made it to the hotel wall, invoked the magic-tag that called the .45 back to her hand and made her head swim and throb — she couldn't see her attacker, anywhere, and her vision was graying out with pain.
"Lady, you okay?" People stood over her; a man in a bright Hawaiian print knelt beside her. "You took a bad fall on the curb."
"Her arm looks broken, Ted!"
Gritting her teeth against the pain, Kris shook her head to clear it, accepted the help up. "I'm fine — I'm fine." Fighting not to pass out, she pushed away and staggered into the hotel lobby —
— the quiet, calm hotel lobby. Vão was nowhere in sight.
Her gut clenched. She'd heard him yelling. If anything, Vão knew how to raise a scene. "Hey!"
The desk clerk startled.
Her right shoulder was on fire, her arm numb. She held it close to her body with her other arm. "The man that ran in here — where'd he go?"
The desk clerk looked at the people gathered at the front desk. "No one ran in, ma'am." He looked closer at her; confusion escalated to shock and concern. "Oh my god — do you need help?"
She ignored him, pushed towards the elevators, praying Vão had an attack of sense and went for Mar. Kris all but fell out on the third floor, right into a loud argument: Mar, Cy, Nick Peters — the road manager — and Dylan.
The argument cut off cold. "Kris!" Mar's face was over hers. "Your shoulder!"
"Where's Vão?" Kris said, and when Mar only looked confused, "Where the hell's Vão?"
Dylan helped her up; his sudden fear battered at her. "He cut out. He was going after you and Josh because of Nate. Rafe went after him — that bar."
"Oh god." Rafe and Vão… Kris fought the pain, fought to focus. "Vão found us, I was bringing him back. We got attacked. We came straight up Bourbon, we didn't see Rafe —"
"Call the cops," Cy snapped at Nick.
"That'll look really good," Mar said. "Three rock stars walk out to enjoy Mardi Gras. They haven't even been gone that long."
"Dammit, Mar!" Kris shoved away from Dylan, rammed her mother back against the wall to yell in her face. "The killers are after the band. We got attacked. It's —" Weakness and pain waved through Kris; Dylan caught her. "Call Alma — she — "
Blackness.