River
Road by Suzanne Johnson
Book Description:
Hurricane
Katrina is long gone, but the preternatural storm rages on in New Orleans. New
species from the Beyond moved into Louisiana after the hurricane destroyed the
borders between worlds, and it falls to wizard sentinel Drusilla Jaco and her
partner, Alex Warin, to keep the preternaturals peaceful and the humans unaware.
But a war is brewing between two clans of Cajun merpeople in Plaquemines
Parish, and down in the swamp, DJ learns, there’s more stirring than angry
mermen and the threat of a were-gator.
Wizards
are dying, and something—or someone—from the Beyond is poisoning the waters of
the mighty Mississippi, threatening the humans who live and work along the
river. DJ and Alex must figure out what unearthly source is contaminating the
water and who—or what—is killing the wizards. Is it a malcontented merman, the
naughty nymph, or some other critter altogether? After all, DJ’s undead suitor,
the pirate Jean Lafitte, knows his way around a body or two.
It’s
anything but smooth sailing on the bayou as the Sentinels of New Orleans series
continues.
About
the Author:
Suzanne
Johnson writes urban fantasy and paranormal romance from Auburn, Alabama, after
a career in educational publishing that has spanned five states and six
universities. She grew up halfway between the Bear Bryant Museum and
Elvis' birthplace and lived in New Orleans for fifteen years, so she has a
highly refined sense of the absurd and an ingrained love of SEC football and
fried gator on a stick.
Excerpt:
The
minute hand of the ornate grandfather clock crept like a gator
stuck in swamp mud. I’d been watching it for half an hour, nursing a fizzy
cocktail from my perch inside the Hotel Monteleone. The plaque
on the enormous clock claimed it had been hand- carved of
mahogany in 1909, about 130 years after the birth of the
undead pirate waiting for me upstairs.
They were both quite handsome, but the
clock was a lot safer.
The infamous Jean Lafitte had expected
me at seven. He’d summoned me to his French Quarter hotel suite by courier like
I was one of his early nineteenth-century wenches, and I hated to destroy his
pirate-king delusions, but the historical undead don’t summon wizards. We
summon them.
I’d have blown him off if my boss on
the Congress of Elders hadn’t ordered me to comply and my co-sentinel, Alex,
hadn’t claimed a prior engagement.
At seven thirty, I abandoned my drink,
took a deep breath, and marched through the lobby toward the bank of elevators.
On the long dead-man-walking stroll
down the carpeted hallway, I imagined all the horrible requests Jean might
make. He’d saved my life a few years ago, after Hurricane Katrina sent the city
into freefall, and I hadn’t seen him since. I’d been desperate at the time. I
might have promised him unfettered access to modern New Orleans in exchange for
his assistance. I might have promised him a place to live. I might have
promised him things I don’t even remember. In other words, I might be totally
screwed.
I reached the door of the Eudora Welty
Suite and knocked, reflecting that Jean Lafitte probably had no idea who Eudora
Welty was, and wouldn’t like her if he did. Ms. Welty had been a modern sort of
woman who wouldn’t hop to attention when summoned by a scoundrel.
He didn’t answer immediately. I’d made
him wait, after all, and Jean lived in a tit- for- tat world. I paused a few
breaths and knocked harder. Finally, he flung open the door, waving me inside
to a suite plush with tapestries of peach and royal blue, thick carpet that
swallowed the narrow heels of my pumps, and a plasma TV he couldn’t possibly
know how to operate. What a waste.
“You have many assets, Drusilla, but
apparently a respect for time is not among them.” Deep, disapproving voice,
French accent, broad shoulders encased in a red linen shirt, long dark hair
pulled back into a tail, eyes such a cobalt blue they bordered on navy. And
technically speaking, dead.
He was as sexy as ever.
“Sorry.” I slipped my hand in my skirt
pocket, fingering the small pouch of magic-infused herbs I carried at all
times. My mojo bag wouldn’t help with my own perverse attraction to the man,
but it would keep my empathic abilities in check. If he still had a perverse
attraction to me, I didn’t want to feel it.
He eased his six-foot-two frame into a
sturdy blue chair and slung one long leg over the arm as he gave me a thorough
eyeraking, a ghost of a smile on his face.
I perched on the edge of the adjacent
sofa, easing back against a pair of plump throw pillows, and looked at him expectantly.
I hoped what ever he wanted wouldn’t jeopardize my life, my job, or my meager
bank account.
“You are as lovely as ever, Jolie,”
Jean said, trotting out his pet name for me that sounded deceptively intimate
and brought back a lot of memories, most of them bad. “I will forgive your
tardiness— perhaps you were late because you were selecting clothing that I
would like.” His gaze lingered on my legs. “You chose beautifully.”
I’d picked a conservative black skirt
and simple white blouse with the aim of looking professional for a business
meeting, part of my ongoing attempt to prove to the Elders I was a mature
wizard worthy of a pay raise. But this was Jean Lafitte, so I should have worn
coveralls. I’d forgotten what a letch he could be.
“I have a date after our meeting,” I
lied. He didn’t need to know said date involved a round carton with the words
Blue Bell Ice Cream printed on front. “Why did you want to see me?”
There, that hadn’t been so
difficult—just a simple request. No drama. No threats. No double- entendre.
Straight to business.
“Does a man need a reason to see a
beautiful woman? Especially one who is indebted to him, and who has made him
many promises?” A slow smile spread across his face, drawing my eyes to his
full lips and the ragged scar that trailed his jawline.
I might be the empath in the room, but
he knew very well that, in some undead kind of way, I thought he was hot.
I felt my face warming to the shade of
a trailer- trash bridesmaid’s dress, one whose color had a name like raging
rouge. I’d had a similar reaction when I first met Jean in 2005, two days
before a mean hurricane with a sissy name turned her malevolent eye toward the
Gulf Coast. I blamed my whole predicament on Katrina, the bitch.
Her winds had driven the waters of
Lake Pontchartrain into the canals that crisscrossed the city, collapsing
levees and filling the low, concave metro area like a gigantic soup bowl.
But NBC Nightly News and Anderson
Cooper had missed the biggest story of all: how, after the storm, a mob of old
gods, historical undead, and other preternatural victims of the scientific age
flooded New Orleans. As a wizard, I’d had a ringside seat. Now, three years
later, the wizards had finally reached accords with the major preternatural
ruling bodies, and the borders were down, as of two days ago. Jean hadn’t wasted any
time.
Happy Reading!
Cana
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