Page 86 of Fallen Court

The tap turned on as another text arrived from Roark.

Don’t make me come in there.

Followed shortly by a perfunctory Please.

“Roark is getting impatient,” I called in after her. “Maybe I should—”

“Ready!” she cut me off as she reappeared and headed straight for the bedroom door. Cate threw it open, skidding to a stop when she came face-to-face with Roark, who was planted across the hall.

His scowl—meant for me—slipped from his face and was replaced by wide-eyed amusement when he saw her. “Joining us?”

“Someone has to keep him in line,” she said with a slight shrug, continuing past him like this was business as usual.

Roark shot me a questioning look as we fell into step behind her. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“It’s not up to me.” A centuries-old sense of self-preservation kept me from adding apparently at the end. At least some of my instincts were intact. And maybe it would take a murder scene to get Cate to see why I wanted her armed when she went out.

“This could be interesting,” he muttered under his breath.

Tell me something I didn’t know.

I clamped down on my concern, but it gnawed at me. All I could see were the ways it might go wrong. How her presence in a crisis might be used against me. How the killer might—even now—just be waiting for us to appear. How she wasn’t ready for a fight between creatures.

It’s how I’d get to us. And it’s exactly what Roark meant when he said interesting.

I pushed away the feeling, although my eyes remained glued to Cate’s back. “Is it another witch?”

“No.” His answer surprised me. Cate glanced over her shoulder, clearly listening. “It’s a human.”

Cate stumbled, and I shot toward her, but she righted herself. “I’m okay,” she said, even as the color drained from her face. She shook off my steadying hands. “Really.”

“Maybe…” Roark started, trailing off as he, like me, failed to find the right combination of tact and forcefulness.

“I wouldn’t finish that thought,” I warned him.

“If you’re both finished protecting me from you-know-not-what,” Cate said, lifting her chin but not quite hiding the tremble in her voice, “I think we should get moving.”

“Come on, princess.” I offered her my hand. “Let’s get this over with.”

St. Roch Campo Santo was young by New Orleans cemetery standards. Built by a priest who supposedly bargained with God himself, it was outside the heart of the city. That meant that unlike Lafayette, Metairie, and New Orleans’s other more famous cemeteries, it wasn’t choked with tourists as soon as the sun set. St. Roch was quiet and a bit out of the way—and ringed by a tall wall covering two whole blocks.

I could feel its eerie, still quiet descend on us as we pulled up in Roark’s G-Wagon. We had ridden in silence the whole way. But as soon as the engine cut off, Cate popped the door open and stepped out in front of the cemetery’s ornate wrought iron gate before Roark or I knew what was happening.

Some of my people were already on site, standing along both sides of Music Street, which bisected the cemetery’s two plots, and trying to look casual as they followed Roark’s earlier orders to keep prying eyes away. They shifted uncomfortably at this strange woman’s sudden appearance, exchanging furtive glances, and the two closest began to walk toward Cate.

Their gaze swiveled to Roark and me as we climbed out of the Mercedes, relaxing when they realized it was us—only to tense up when they realized Cate was with us. One took a step toward her, and she squared her shoulders, waiting for him to make the mistake of speaking. The guard decided it was better to leave well enough alone and shuffled back over to his prior spot, studiously avoiding eye contact.

Cate stood in front of the open cemetery gate, hands on her hips, elbows out, back to us. As I approached, I tried to work out—again—how to convince her to return to the car. But, as with the decision to come at all, I found myself simply overmatched.

She must have sensed another attempt was coming, because she strode confidently through the gates as soon as I drew near.

Gods dammit, she was fearless.

And hot.

And this was happening. Apparently.

The muggy New Orleans air, now shielded from blowing away by the walls, settled over the three of us like a pall as we walked down what passed for the cemetery’s main path. Anyone watching us would assume Cate was in charge, as she walked a few paces ahead and never bothered to look back.