Page 242 of Fearless

It was startling to be back inside the city, amid the crowded, colorful buildings of the French Quarter, the traffic, the pedestrians, the indulgent, sultry twist of the heat here amid New Orleans’ people. It was spectacular all on its own, but it was the proud human element that put the breath in the city, made its pulse thump.

Mercy had taken her to Café du Monde on Decatur Street, for Café au Lait and beignets at an outdoor table under the striped canopy. The tumble of voices around them evidenced tourists and locals alike; the laughter, the chatter, the clink of cups, and the smell of the coffee reminded her of a breakfast on the patio at Stella’s. This was a hot tourist spot, sure, but Ava was convinced the sense of home was the reason Mercy had brought her.

She dusted powdered sugar off her fingers, reached for her Café au Lait and said, “The diabetic coma is so worth it.”

They’d ordered two plates of beignets – they came three to a plate – and she’d eaten one and a half. Mercy was putting away the rest. He reached for the half she’d left behind and grinned. “They’re famous for these for a reason.”

She sipped her coffee; the chicory was such an alien addition to her, but she liked it. And she watched Mercy devour the beignet without a shred of self-consciousness, dusting himself with sugar.

“For the record,” she said, “I love your hometown.”

“You say that now,” he said, and just like that, his good mood was soured again. All the ride to Lew’s, he’d bounced between childish excitement and absolute melancholy.

She made a wifely executive decision to ignore the mood changes and keep things light. “I read once that they do ghost tours. Do they still do those?”

His narrowed gaze told her he knew she was trying to distract him. “Yeah. Maybe later. Some of them happen at night.” He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and reached to slug the rest of his Café au Lait. “Let’s get this shit with Dee over with first, though.”

She was starting to get nervous about meeting this woman, but she didn’t want him to know it. She smiled. “Sounds good.”

The waiter came around with their tab and Ava took one last luxurious moment, hands wrapped around her coffee cup, to take a long look at Decatur Street. There was a mammoth jack pulling an open carriage full of picture-snapping tourists rolling past, the mule’s hooves clop-clopping on the hot pavement. In a delightful irony, the locals were the ones who were flamboyantly dressed. She watched two African-American men walk down the opposite sidewalk, chatting and smoking, in bright sport coats: one mustard and one teal. They both wore white shirts and orange bowties and carried slim leather briefcases; they turned in at the door of a ground-level flat that was stenciled with the names of attorneys. The tourists, by contrast, were in jeans and hoodies, drab and ordinary. All around them was that warm, New Orleans-specific accent, not like anywhere else in the South, heavily Cajun from some mouths, almost Boston Irish from others.

Her slow visual sweep came to a halt when her eyes struck a figure who wasn’t moving along with the rest of the morning foot traffic. A nondescript man in a black hoodie and jeans stood propped against one of the ornate iron lampposts, hands shoved in his pockets. What caught her eyes was his utter stillness, and his pallid, almost sickly complexion, his eyes dark by contrast.

He was looking right at her.

She tried to tell herself that she was imagining his attention – surely he was just looking at the crowd under the Café canopy, or he was mistaking her for someone else.

But her MC-raised instincts tickled at the back of her neck.

She glanced at Mercy and saw him sliding his wallet back in his pocket, the chain clacking against the seat of his chair. The waiter was gone.

“Merc.” She heard the note of tension in her voice.

He heard it too, his expression stiffening.

“There’s someone watching us,” she said, glancing back out toward the street.

But the man was gone.

“Where?”

She chewed at her lip in frustration. “He was right there, up against the lamppost. But I don’t see him anymore.”

He stared at the street a long moment, lashes flickering as his eyes scanned the crowds. His shoulders lifted in a quiet show of aggression. But his voice was carefully designed not to frighten her as he said, “Come on, baby. We can stop back by for lunch, if you want.”

She took his hand as they left the table, comforted by the strong grip of his fingers. “Merc,” she said as they reached the sidewalk, “who could know that we’re here?”

“Sly wouldn’t have said anything to anyone, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

She fell into step beside him, still holding his hand. “No, it’s not. But if we were followed– ?”

Mercy shook his head. “Not possible.”

She didn’t think it was possible either; all she knew was that her sense of trouble brewing wasn’t something to be ignored or taken lightly. She glanced over her shoulder one last time, searching for the man, but he was truly gone.

He threaded his long fingers through hers; their shadow on the sidewalk was a bit of a lopsided heart, their joined hands the point, their heads the mismatched high points. Ava took a deep breath and decided to push their mystery starer from her mind. “It’s within walking distance, you said?” she asked.

He nodded. “I don’t want her or any of her people seeing what we’re riding, or getting the tag number.” He gave her a sideways, apologetic look. “It’s kind of a long walk.”

---