Free Pirate's Alley by Suzanne Johnson Page A

around the arena … and he disappeared. How the hell could he disappear?
    A flash to my right sent me into a crouch, ready to fire the staff again. Etienne had reappeared at least a hundred yards away, near one of the stone columns. His shirt hung in scorched tatters, and bloody red stripes stretched around his neck. Probably below the tatters on his chest as well. Good. I’d scorched the fanged son of a bitch.
    I pointed the staff at him and fired, but again he disappeared, causing my shot to blow out a chunk of the stone column behind where he’d been standing. Creepy vampire. How did he do that?
    I scanned the arena, waiting for him to materialize in another spot, but all was silent except for Jean’s labored wheezing and the drip of water from somewhere nearby. Etienne seemed to have joined Melnick and the First Elder, skulking away to regroup.
    Turning my attention back to where Jean lay unconscious, I crawled to him and took in the blood quickly soaking his right side just above the waist. Damn it, where was Zrakovi?
    I didn’t dare put down the staff with Etienne popping in and out like a half-burned, bloodsucking whack-a-mole. Sitting on the ground next to Jean, I kept Charlie at the ready with my right hand while reaching over to pull aside Jean’s shirtfront with my left. He was wheezing less, but the stab wound was deep, the outer edges jagged. Etienne had used a serrated blade and twisted it on the way out.
    Jean’s blood coated my fingers when I pulled the ragged fabric away from the injury. The historical undead were immortal unless they were forgotten and no longer had the magic of human memory to sustain them in the modern world, but otherwise they appeared purely human. They breathed and bled like humans. They didn’t have superstrength. They didn’t have extraordinary speed or magical talents.
    In other words, they weren’t that hard to kill. True, they didn’t stay dead, but they felt the pain of death. Until he healed, which he would do fairly quickly because he was probably fueled by more memory magic than any other famous New Orleanian, Jean would be in pain.
    I didn’t want that. I so didn’t want that.
    “Jean, damn it. I should’ve taken out that vampire from the start and forgotten about Hoffman.”
    My useless sling still hung around my neck, so I pulled it off, folded it, and pressed it on the wound. Above me, a full moon hung low in the black sky, and the soft lights hanging at intervals around the arena cast heavy shadows in which a million vampires could be lurking. Could they feed from Jean? Would the blood scent lure them here? Obviously, I tasted like crap.
    And what the hell did vampires watch at an arena anyway? Somehow, I doubted it was football or soccer. I shivered, and it had nothing to do with the temperature. In fact, Vampyre was toasty warm.
    Where the hell was Zrakovi?
    I’d waited long enough. I was getting the crawling creeps, and everyone who needed killing or arresting had fled the scene. My magic might not power up that transport, but Charlie’s would. I just had to drag a hefty unconscious pirate a couple dozen yards and never mind my bloody shoulder and bruised ribs. No problem.
    I studied the pirate in question. He’d ditched his fancy waistcoat, his hair had come loose from its ponytail, and his light-colored pants were a mess of grass stains and dirt and blood. Then again, he had more money than God; unlike me, he could replace his wardrobe.
    It would be easier to drag him by his boots, but somehow I doubted he’d appreciate his head bouncing along the ground. He had almost a foot of height and probably sixty or seventy pounds of weight on me, but I had determination on my side and a strong streak of stubborn.
    Kneeling behind his head, I hooked my hands under his arms and heaved. His head lolled against my chest; pity he wasn’t conscious to enjoy it. I got to my feet after a couple of tries and pulled him a dozen steps toward the transport before