Читать книгу Ghost Walk - Heather Graham, Heather Graham - Страница 13

Brent walked down the street, shaking his head.

New Orleans.

America’s most European city. A mixture of architecture and mood, sultry heat and shifting shadows. It was as if time had cast a mood over the city that had sunk into the very bones of its man-made structures. History piled upon the passions of those who had lived before.

It held the remnants of days gone by, mixed with the new, the lively, the present-day city, with its love of gardens, jazz, good times and voodoo.

There was unbelievable talent to be found with the turn of a corner, like the old black man two streets over who had played a banjo better than he’d ever heard before. The man had just been sitting there, playing and smiling and, Brent hoped, making a fair amount of money from the passersby who were dropping bills in his instrument case.

Brent passed a closed shop with a storefront announcing “Dolly’s Dolls,” and next to it was a neon light advertising “Girls, Girls, Naked Girls.”

People laughing, drinking, admiring artists, musicians, mimes…

People drinking themselves silly, picking fights.

The encounter he’d just had was disturbing, and he didn’t want to think about it.

He could still feel her hand in his.

And he’d walked away. Which had been smart. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder about the woman. She had the biggest, brightest eyes he’d ever seen. Green. Blue. Aqua. Something like the sea, somewhere in between. Fairly tall, nice figure, obvious even in the long black dress she’d been wearing.

A Goth? Hell, everybody in this city seemed to think they were a voodoo queen, a long-dead duchess, a vampire or a tarot reader.

No, maybe not. The guy with her had been wearing a somber black suit.

Funeral, he realized suddenly.

He shook his head, stopped in the street. From the corner to his right, a rock band hammered out a Stones tune. From the other corner, he could hear jazz. Somewhere down the street, a blues guitar was belting out an indiscernible tune.

He swore softly.

New Orleans.

Hell, welcome home.

Oh, yeah. It was just great to be here.

“You’re going off the deep end, Nikki,” Julian said. “That was just great. Throwing yourself into a group of drunks. What were you expecting? And don’t even think about giving me a lecture on how no one deserves to be attacked. You went flying into a sludge of inebriated testosterone in its sweet young prime, so what were you expecting?”

“I saw him!” she said, finding the catch on the gate and pushing it open herself. Julian’s words made her feel guilty—he was a good friend, and he would have defended her to the death, which, considering the drunken mood of the rowdy gang, just might have been the sad finale if it hadn’t been for their strange savior—but he couldn’t begin to understand how she was feeling. “Julian, I’m sorry, but…I saw him,” she repeated.

“Yeah, and I saw him, too, whoever the hell he was, and I have to admit, it was a damn good thing he showed up when he did. I’m not much brighter than you are, apparently, since I got it into my head to defend you from a pack of wolves.”