A Touch Too Much Read online

I slid out of bed and dressed quietly, strapping on my new belly band holster for “every day” concealed wear. The light switch made a soft snap, and Marty, cocooned in blankets, mumbled, “Take a weapon.”

  “Already packing.” I patted the Glock banded to me under my loose tank top as I left.

  Adrenaline and nerves conspired to make the silent hallway, ominous instead of the mundane, abandoned space it should be this early. Something felt familiar, like déjà vu, but I couldn’t remember what should happen next. The harder I tried to remember, the more the thought evaded me. All I had to do was walk down the hallway and take the elevator to the lobby to find other people, but I couldn’t move. Instead, I scanned both directions, my back pressed against my door, alert for whatever might try to kill me next.

  Crystal chandeliers glittered. Ugly paisley carpet patterns wove a drunken path between rows of closed doors.

  I waited.

  Nothing happened.

  My hand slid under my tank to release the strap securing my Glock.

  Silence.

  “This is stupid,” I whispered, fear sweat cutting a path down my spine. Of course it felt familiar. It should. I’d been living here for days. The last time the hallway felt like this, I’d caught up to the Black Dog and chased it. Then, there’d been a reason why my heart raced, why the atmosphere felt heavy and dangerous. But not now.

  I willed my feet to move. They reluctantly obeyed.

  Every instinct urged me in the opposite direction my feet took. Instead of heading to the elevator, instead of seeking the comfort of other people, I followed the path I’d used to stalk the Black Dog. Scorched paw prints marked the carpet, if you knew where to look.

  Before I peeked around the corner, my Glock pointed at the floor in my two-handed grip.

  Empty.

  I stepped into the branching hallway, relaxing my shoulders, but not re-holstering the gun. Whether a bullet would work against the creature I’d been tasked to find was unknown, but I preferred useless to empty-handed.

  The hallway couldn’t be more normal. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The same ugly carpet, the same too fancy chandeliers, and silent doors. At the end stood the table with the flowers and mirror I’d seen before.

  That I’d hallucinated in before.

  But had it been a hallucination?

  When I’d stalked the Black Dog, I’d had that horror movie experience of walking down the “hallway that doesn’t end.” In that mirror, I’d glimpsed the hellhound I couldn’t see with my own eyes. But, in that vision, I’d been wearing a sleek, sparkling evening gown instead of my black denim, tank and—

  The dress.

  My reflection had worn a dress. The same dress from my nightmare.

  My stomach cramped. I turned slowly, aiming my Glock low down the empty hallway.

  What the hell was I going to shoot? A mirror? The wall?

  Though none of my possible targets made sense rationally or tactically, I couldn’t force myself to holster the Glock.

  Investigation made sense.

  I approached the mirror cautiously.

  My reflection in the splotchy, silvered glass remained true. Faded, ripped jeans, a loose black tank top, and black Doc Martens. Blue-streaked black hair uncombed and bed head wild. Nothing behind me. Only me, armed and foolishly stalking a mirror, perilously close to endangering the first civilian to leave their room. They’d regret the urge to go for an early run, that’s for sure.

  The reflection didn’t change and nothing new appeared. I watched to be sure, nerves and bewilderment eventually giving way to pride. At least I could hold proper stance half asleep.

  “Don’t mind me.” I reluctantly holstered my Glock, eyes not leaving the mirror. “Just losing my mind.”

  This time, the hallways didn’t lengthen as I approached the antique mirror. I leaned as close as I could without disturbing the flower arrangement in front of it. Interrupted, erratic sleep shadowed my pale face, but everything else appeared normal.

  “Hallucinations,” I confirmed, readjusting my tank top to cover the lump in the belly band holster.

  My reflection mimicked, but for a moment, it felt mocking. I chided myself for paranoia and shook my head. Nothing supernatural. Only me, half asleep in a deserted hotel hallway obsessing over nightmares.

  I turned away, determined to burn off nervous energy and go back to sleep.

  Before I turned the corner, I glanced back and caught my reflection wearing a long, black sparkling evening gown, hand raised in a teasing wave.

  “I don’t see anything, Cee,” Marty grumbled.

  “I don’t either,” I said, “but that doesn’t mean something screwy isn’t happening with this mirror.”

  Sister Betty stepped back and contemplated it from a distance, arms crossed over her faded t-shirt. “There’s lore about haunted mirrors, especially silver-backed antiques. Given the hotel’s history and location, a few haunted items would be fairly normal. I’ll speak with Father Callahan about it.”

  “Are you sure it was your reflection?” Marty gestured to the hallway branching back to our room, his oversized black, gray, white, and purple striped tank top swaying around him like a dress. “That’s a long way to see a clear image in a damaged mirror.”

  “I know what I saw,” I insisted. “My reflection waved at me, and it was wearing a dress. The same dress I first saw with the Black Dog and again in my nightmare.” Marty and I locked eyes. “My reflection waved, Marty. I didn’t.”

  “It’s not unprecedented,” Sister Betty stifled a yawn, “but certainly unusual.”

  “That’s kind of our forte, isn’t it?” I said.

  “Indeed, my dear.” She smiled.

  Marty didn’t speak as he side-stepped the table and flowers we’d moved to get closer to the mirror. His breath fogged the glass as he leaned close. With one finger, he pushed the mirror, but it didn’t move. He stepped back, joining Sister Betty.

  Neither of them took their sleepy gaze off the mirror.

  “Any idea what we do now?” I asked. I’d already had one nightmare come true. When Marty and I hunted the Black Dog, we’d been attacked by a man or, rather, a supernatural creature disguised as a man. The dream showed the attack almost play by play. In another, the creature exacted revenge. I shoved away the mental image of his bloody knife. That one hadn’t happened. Yet. I hoped it wouldn’t.

  “Now? At,” Marty pulled out his phone, “four-thirty? We go back to bed.”

  “We don’t know what this is, so until we figure it out—”

  “It’s part of my nightmare,” I said, interrupting Sister Betty. “Part of what started when I hunted the Black Dog. And if Hardin’s right—”

  “Do you think he is?” Marty asked

  Both of them stared at me.

  “Dunno,” I said, the sudden, thready rasp in my own voice disturbing. Whether I remembered the details or not, the prospect of my nightmares coming true terrified me. Especially the recent ones. I hoped Agent Hardin’s information was wrong.

  “Are we willing to risk it?” Sister Betty turned back to the mirror.

  “No.” I rubbed the goosebumps on my arms before running my fingers through my hair. “No, we’re not.”

  The rectory office smelled like stale coffee and old incense. Father Callahan sat behind Father Robicheau’s old desk, stacks of books flanking his laptop. Marty sat across from him, typing on a laptop as Father Callahan spoke. Sister Betty paced, a book open in her hand. I sat on the floor sipping coffee, back against the wall, a book propped on my thighs. Discarded remnants from our early breakfast and mid-morning snacks haunted the desk and even the floor beside me. The clutter softened the otherwise stark room, or maybe the absence of a homicidal priest determined to rid the world of monster hunters just made the ambiance a whole lot less icky.

  “So,” Father Callahan leaned back and folded his hands behind his head, “the only conclusion we can draw is that it’s unlikely the mirror is haunted.”


  I put the mug on the carpeted floor beside me.

  “Unlikely, but not impossible.” Sister Betty folded her book around her thumb.

  “Yes, unlikely, but the best we can do without a complete history,” Father Callahan said.

  “Even in a haunted hotel?” Marty’s fingers slowed on the keyboard.

  “Yes,” Father Callahan said. “Age or relative spiritual activity of a location doesn’t correlate with mirror activity.”

  “The huge mirror at Tujague’s is well over a hundred years old, and none of the known activity has anything to do with it,” I said, briefly lifting the book from my lap. “If any mirror’s going to be haunted, I’d wager on that one.”

  “Exactly the example that came to mind.” Father Callahan nodded and sat up straight again. “Since its founding, the diocese has monitored reports of spiritual activity, especially businesses that profit from it, explicitly or implicitly. And though your hotel has a reputation for activity, none is mirror-related nor similar to the hallway distortion Caitlin experienced.”

  Marty nodded, though I wondered how much he already knew. The way he’d raided the Catholic Church’s servers over the past week, he might have discovered the Holy Grail’s location.

  “As much as there is here, I haven’t found any connection between mirrors and dreams in this.” I tapped the book in my lap.

  “Same.” Sister Betty closed the volume in her hand. “I’m hoping the Order will have something.”

  Sister Betty’s Order, the Holy Order of the Sisters of Mercy of Saint Brendan, had an extensive library covering the entire human spiritual experience from terrestrial culture to supernatural lore at their base in Ireland. Though I’d yet to discover how, Father Callahan’s impressive knowledge of lore and access to restricted Vatican information related to his connections with her Order. Neither of them discussed it, and when I asked, they deflected the conversation so skillfully, it took several minutes to realize what happened. I made a mental note to ask Marty what he could find out.

  “What do we do until they call?” Marty asked.

  “Well,” I groaned as I got to my feet, “there’s plenty of magic in this city, and where there’s magic, there’s practitioners. I think I’ll go see who I can find. Anyone want to come?”

  4

  Some days, you hunt. Some days, you’re hunted.

  The last time I hunted in New Orleans, my quarry found me. I shouldn’t have been surprised when it happened again, but with the jovial afternoon chaos of Chartres Street and Jackson Square, I didn’t notice I’d been targeted.

  Scarves and flowy textiles draping the fortune teller tables and chairs fluttered in the reluctant breeze. Signs swayed and one with a series of hand-painted tarot cards fell flat on the stone paving. One tasseled umbrella lifted enough to rattle the rigging securing it to a young woman’s folding chair, the sound all but lost in the corner jazz band’s music and the conversations between artists and tourists. From the long rows of art to the tiny tables and the river of tourists flowing between it all, I took it all in, too tired to focus on anything except whether the woman dancing in front of the band was Stevie Nicks, or just dressed like her.

  “Hunter,” said a wizened voice laced with impatience and emphasis indicating this wasn’t the first time.

  I turned, curious.

  A woman waved me over to her table. The sign propped against it featured a purple and green hand on a black background, gold lines etching the palms. She raised her voice again, a croak of noise over the music, talk, and laughter. “Hunter, come here.”

  How had she known? I pointed to myself with a questioning look and tightened my stomach muscles, hoping the Glock banded to me didn’t show or that the wind hadn’t exposed it.

  “Yes, yes,” she said, her impatience growing, “you are the only active hunter in the city today.”

  “What’s going on?” Marty asked from behind me.

  “Dunno, but I think we’re about to find out.” I walked toward the woman shaded by her sun-bleached rainbow-colored golf umbrella.

  “For a hunter, you pay little attention to the dangers around you,” she chided, gesturing at the stool across from her.

  “I’m sorry.” I studied her to figure out why she looked so familiar. “I didn’t hear you.”

  “Then there may be much you don’t hear, and that, cherie,” she pointed a crooked finger at me, “could be detrimental.”

  That one word triggered the memory. “I’ve seen you before. At Jazz Musicians Park.” That might not have been the name, but it was tourist-close. She’d caught me trying to clean some unfortunate powdered sugar out of my black shirt after my first experience with beignets. Side note: no matter how careful you are, powdered sugar blows everywhere with that first bite. You might think you’re slick, but you’re not, and you’re going to look like a coke fiend. There’s no delicate way to eat them properly without all the sugar, and then, what’s the point?

  She cackled. “She remembers. Please,” she insisted, another gesture toward the stool made the offer a command, “sit.”

  Marty and I exchanged a glance that said everything we didn’t.

  Another breeze blew through, more a ponderous motion of air than relief from the heat and humidity. I shrugged and sat. “Why do you call me ‘hunter’?”

  Sunlight filtered through the faded fabric overhead, and her dark eyes sparkled with mischief. “That’s what you are, isn’t it? A hunter of monsters? A knight of the Church?”

  A shudder ran through me. No one had ever identified me as a monster hunter unless I’d told them, worked with them, or killed a monster in front of them. Most of the time it was the “decapitated something that tried to eat you” experience. Or work. But mostly decapitation.

  She waited for my answer, her crone hands on the black velour table covering.

  “I… Yes. No one’s ever called me a knight before.”

  A dismissive shrug. “Titles change with time.”

  “How did you know? Did you,” my left hand lay on the table, my right crossed under it, hovering over the holster, “see something?”

  “Not the way you think, or expect, but,” she tapped her head, “I see plenty.”

  Unsure what she meant, though knowing it could have multiple meanings, I nodded. “If you’re looking for help—”

  “You are.”

  Her simple declarative stopped my words, and my hands fell into my lap. “What do you mean?”

  “You seek monsters you cannot hunt, cannot kill.” The umbrella bobbed as she sat back. Her clothes seemed as wrinkled as the day I saw her in the park, but the strange light through the umbrella made her look older. Without the animation of expression or talking, deep cracks scarred her face. I wondered how old she must be, how many years she’d spent in the sun.

  “What’s your name?”

  Her hands disappeared into her big sleeves. “Names are shadows that take shape when you focus and change when you stop.” She produced a deck of cards from inside her sleeve and placed them on the velour cloth. I recognized the oversized stack by the blue, white, and black plaid pattern and regretted sitting at her table. The Rider-Waite Tarot deck. “Shuffle,” she commanded.

  “This isn’t a good idea.” Marty bit off my nickname at the first sibilant hint.

  Smart. Names held power.

  “I think I agree,” I said, already reaching for the deck. I’d had my cards read before. Nothing bad had happened, except losing twenty bucks. I hadn’t learned more than I might have gleaned from a horoscope or prescient fortune cookie. In fact, I’d had more illuminating experiences high on caffeine and no sleep. Though I had no burning desire for this woman to read my cards in the middle of Chartres Street on a sticky Louisiana day, I suspected declining wouldn’t be an option.

  The old woman nodded in approval as I shuffled.

  “Will you tell me your name?” I asked.

  “No,” she said and closed her eyes. “Focus. Shuffle.”

&
nbsp; I obeyed. The Louisiana humidity seemed to evaporate from the weak shadows encircling me. After I finished, I stacked them neatly on the table.

  Without opening her eyes, she picked them up and pressed the deck between her palms.

  My stomach cramped with nerves and something I couldn’t identify.

  She opened her eyes, now glowing bluish-white.

  “Holy—”

  The old woman’s head lolled. For a moment, her glamour flickered, her craggy, wrinkled features superimposed over an ageless face.

  “Shut up,” I whispered at Marty. I’d heard about the transformation of half-fae creatures delivering prophecy. A disturbance could disrupt the prophecy or turn the will of the person—

  Creature?

  —offering it.

  Her skin took on a bluish cast, though I couldn’t tell how much distortion came from the light burning out of what had been her eyes.

  A surge of magic poured off her as she smiled, my own body reacting with euphoric relaxation. I bit my lip to restrain a giddy laugh.

  “You are more powerful than you know, hunter.” She sounded nothing like before. Thousands of voices layered to become hers, male and female, from very young to very old.

  I winced, the complexity of the sound hurt my ears, but my heavy limbs refused to move.

  The first card to hit the table wasn’t a card I knew. Unfamiliar runes decorated the upper right and lower left corners. In the center, an emerald green, open-mouthed dragon writhed, spewing spiraling gouts of orange-red flame.

  The old woman didn’t incline her head to the card, but her hand hovered over it. Blue-white light emanated from where her eyes should have been, the glare aimed at me and strong enough to make me squint. “The Dragon,” she said, as if I would understand.

  I knew better than to ask questions, but I certainly had them. This card had not come from the traditional deck. Behind me, Marty tapped notes on his cell phone. At least we’d have a record to review later.

  She withdrew her hand to pull a second card, laying another unfamiliar card to the left of the dragon. This one a gold-foiled bird of flame rising from a pile of ash. Different runes decorated the corners of the card. Her hand hovered over it, palm fractions of an inch from the card’s glossy face. “Oooh,” she crooned. “I should have expected you to manifest The Phoenix.”