Chapter Nineteen
“It means what?” I asked, and my voice was far too loud for the silent, empty room.
“Wolf. In Spanish.” She shrugged. “A lot of old names do. It was a common choice because wolves were seen as strong, independent, and loyal.”
“Excuse me. Miss?”
A skeletal old man stood in the doorway, squinting as if the light were too bright, or perhaps his glasses weren’t thick enough. His expression had drawn his eyebrows together until they resembled a bushy, white unibrow.
The guy kind of creeped me out. No one could be that skinny, or that pale, and live. “Can I help you?”
Maggie stood. “I’d love something to drink, child. I’m parched.”
“Sure.” She smiled at me. “Playtime’s over.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate the help.”
She hurried from the Internet section into the cafe. The old man glanced at me as he followed, and the sun caught his eyes the way a camera flash sometimes does, turning them briefly red. I liked him even less than before.
Then the red disappeared and his eyes were just blue again; unfortunately, my paranoia remained.
So Rodolfo’s name meant wolf. As Maggie had pointed out, it was a common enough derivation for very old surnames, and around here, I bet many of them were as old as the swamp.
However, since Maggie had left the computer card in the computer, I decided I’d make use of it. I typed in “loup-garou,” got back nothing I didn’t already have, but I did find a list of ways to determine if someone was a werewolf.
I hit print, then started to read.
Hair on the p alms.
“Not that I noticed.”
Purp le urine.
“I don’t think I’ll check that one.”
Unnaturally long middle or ring f inger.
I frowned. John had very long fingers, but none of them seemed any longer than the others.
Call the beast ’s human name while he ’s in wolf f orm, and he will revert to his human shap e.
Which only worked if I happened upon a werewolf, and I really hoped that I didn’t.
Pass iron over the head of the aff licted.
“Hmm. That’s doable.”
I felt kind of foolish as I read over the choices, but as my mom always said, better safe than sorry.
Having the list would hurt no one, except maybe Rodolfo. If he was a werewolf.
I shoved the sheet of paper into my pocket and went to say good-bye to Maggie. Except she wasn’t there. Behind the counter stood a young African-American man with skin the color of latte and impossibly tiny braids.
“I don’t know where Maggie went,” he said. “But I’m sure she’ll be back soon.”
“Thanks.” I decided not to wait. I was certain I’d need coffee, if not information, again.
I considered returning to Rising Moon, but decided against it. I wasn’t tired, thanks to the Jamaican Blue Mountain, and what would I do there anyway but brood?
Instead I made my way through the shops, tourist and antique, searching for something that would help me. I found it not long after lunchtime.
“Remember to hang the horseshoe open side up over your doorway,” the saleslady said as she rang up my purchase, “otherwise all your luck will run out.”
“I’ve heard that,” I said.
“In Europe most horseshoes are hung open side down, so the luck runs into you.” She frowned. “I’m not sure which way I’d hang mine, because in both traditions, if you do it wrong, bad luck follows.”
Since I didn’t believe in luck, good, bad, or otherwise, I wasn’t worried. Although considering I was buying a horseshoe as a werewolf test, maybe I should reconsider.
“This is made of iron?” I asked.
“Of course, ever since iron was discovered that’s what horseshoes have been made out of. Before, they used a kind of rawhide boot, which just wasn’t the same.”
Before she could launch into a treatise on the wonder of the Iron Age, I thanked her and made my escape.
By the time I returned to Rising Moon, afternoon waned. I was disturbed to realize that I’d left my anti-werewolf gris-gris at the coffee shop. I only hoped I wouldn’t need it any more than I needed the horseshoe.
King was already ensconced behind the bar. When I asked him for a hammer and nails he obliged.
“Somethin’ wrong with your place? I’ll fix it.” I shook my head and pulled the horseshoe out of the bag.
He grimaced. “What in hell is that?”
“What does it look like?”
“A smelly old horseshoe.”
I took a whiff. “Doesn’t smell like anything but metal.”
“Thing spent years marinatin’ in horse manure, girlie. That don’t wash off as easily as you think.”
“I’m going to hang it over my door for luck.”
Who knows, maybe having it there would keep whoever waltzed in and out at their leisure from continuing to do so. Better even than a new lock and key—though I’d take the latter, as well.
“Did you get the locks changed yet?” I asked.
“Guy can’t come until after Mardi Gras. He’s an Indian.”
“What does being Native American have to do with anything?”
King shook his head. “You don’t know nothin’ about New Orleans, do ya?”
“A little.”
“If you’re gonna be around for Fat Tuesday, you’d better know more. The Indians are groups of African-American men who parade on Mardi Gras, also Saint Joseph’s night and the Sunday closest to it, Super Sunday. Every year they make new suits.”
“Suits,” I repeated, as an image of a black man in a crisp summer suit, face painted like a Comanche, got stuck in my head.
“Costumes,” King clarified. “Indian costumes, with beads and plumes and feathers.”
“Why?”
“Tradition. Some say the Indians started when Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show came through town. Others believe they began because so many escaped slaves took refuge with the Indian tribes. No one really knows for certain. But the Mardi Gras Indians are a big deal, and the locksmith ain’t comin’ until the season is done.”
I nodded. I’d just have to depend on the horseshoe, and maybe a chair under the doorknob, for added security.
I gathered everything into my hands. “Thanks, King.”
As I left, he muttered, “Crazy white folks and their dumbass traditions.”
He’d better watch it or I might really start to like him.
My bed was empty. I hadn’t expected John to be there. Should be glad he wasn’t since I was nailing the horseshoe up for him. Or was that against him?
I dragged a chair across the floor, climbed on top and went to work. I was pretty good with a hammer, and I finished a few minutes later.
“What’s all the noise?”
Since I hadn’t heard anyone come up the stairs or even down the hall, I started. The sudden movement caused the chair to teeter. I gasped, dropped the hammer, and pinwheeled my arms. I was going to fall and crack my head on the floor like a melon.
Then John was there, grabbing me around the waist. His save was a little clumsy—he socked me in the stomach first—but I didn’t care. The chair fell backward and I tipped forward, sliding all the way down his body until my feet met solid ground.
My heart threatened to burst from my chest; I was dizzy with adrenaline. I could do nothing but hold on to him.
“You okay?”
I rested my cheek against his shoulder. I couldn’t speak for several seconds. When my voice returned, along with my breath, I leaned back. My gaze lifted to the horseshoe, visible behind Rodolfo’s head.
When he’d grabbed me around the waist, he’d stepped into my room and directly beneath the iron.