DJ, are you awake? Freaking elf. Go home, Rand. I am home. Where are you? I frowned and burrowed my face into the soft down pillow. Which wasnt my pillow. Holy crap. What had happened? I sat up and took in several observations at once, none of which made sense and all of which sent my heart rate jack-rabbiting hard enough to send my blood pressure into the ozone. First, I was lying beneath a heavy bedspread woven in a rich blue-and-cream print. The bed was an elaborate confection made to look like an antique half-tester, and a brass chandelier hung overhead. I recognized the Hotel Monteleone. I recognized Jean Lafittes bedroom in the posh Eudora Welty Suite in the Monteleone. I didnt have a clue as to how I got here. Second, I wore only underwear. My clothes were thrown across a chair in the corner. I had no recollection of removing them. Third, the pillow next to mine still held the clear indentation of a head, and there was water running behind the closed bathroom door. What in Gods name had I done? Rand! Where are you? So help me, if that elf was behind this, Id splay him open like a catfish and watch his guts fall on the floor. Then Id batter and deep-fry him. God, Dru. Stop shrieking like an elven shrew. I think you got too cold and went into a survival state.
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About Suzanne Johnson, Pirate's Alley
Suzanne Johnson, Pirate's Alley.