Ghost Walk. Heather Graham

She managed to crawl out of bed and into the bathroom, and down several aspirins. In the kitchen, she decided toast would be a good thing. Coffee first, because she couldn’t bear life without it, then toast and orange juice.

      Walking back into her bedroom, she unlatched her glass doors and walked out on the little balcony that looked over the small courtyard in the back of the house where she lived. The antebellum grande dame had been restored beautifully—into six apartments. She had chosen her own when the work had barely been completed because of the two upstairs bedrooms, hers, that she slept in, with the windows that faced the garden, and the spare bedroom, that she used as an office, that overlooked Bourbon just beyond the small front yard and brick fence. Then, to make it all the more wonderful, downstairs her front entry wasn’t through the main hall, but was a separate entrance, a one-time servants’ door. It opened to the far end of the broad porch, an amenity accessible to all the tenants, but convenient to her. The porch looked on to grass and flowers and the swing that fell from a huge old oak. Downstairs, the street was blocked from view—and vice versa—by the brick fence. From the front, all the music and mayhem of the city could be heard, but in the rear, all was quiet.

      A slight breeze filtered in. Fall was coming, and with it, days and nights that were beautiful, still warm, but relieved of the drop-dead humidity that could plague the city.

      She determined to shower quickly and dress. That might help.

      It did. Her hair still damp, in jeans and a knit shirt, she walked out to pour her coffee. The headache was beginning to recede. She took her coffee outside.

      It was at the front door—where she discovered both her bolt and the chain lock still in place—that she remembered the dream. She smiled to herself.

      Hurricanes.

      She’d never have another.

      So—the crew hadn’t sneaked in on her last night, determined to play the world’s most annoying practical joke.

      She really had dreamed it all up!

      Andrea would be amused when she heard about it. No…she wasn’t going to say anything to Andrea at all. That would only bolster the teasing concept that she had no life other than her work, that her life would be much more fun if she did submit to more alcohol upon occasion, and that she was…well, something of a workaholic.

      She took her coffee outside, sat in one of the big wicker chairs on the porch, and looked out at the lawn and the eternal flowers there. Pretty. The breeze was pleasant.

      A few more cups of coffee, her toast…and she might feel like living again.

      She closed her eyes, letting the air caress her cheeks, ease away the night of living it up a bit too much—well, for her, anyway. But she was very serious about her work for Max. She might be underpaid for the amount of responsibility she was taking on now, but she knew that Max had big plans. He wanted to go around the country with his tours. Nikki had always loved to travel, and once Max got going, she wanted in on the whole thing. People simply loved this kind of tour. And no matter where a city might lure lots of tourists, there were surely ghosts to be found!

      All right, this was her special turf. She’d spent her life here, right here, in the French Quarter. If there was a story out there, she’d heard it. The history of the city was something she could recite in her sleep. And she loved it. Funny, that made her think of Andy.

      When she’d first met the girl, her friend had been amazed that she still loved living in New Orleans. In fact, she’d burst into laughter when Nikki had urged her to tell her why she was grinning like an imp.

      “It’s just…well, you’re not a drinker. And it seems you always want to go somewhere without crowds…so, why live in and love New Orleans?”

      The question had startled Nikki. “It’s home. It’s all I know. And, okay, so I’m not a big boozer. I love jazz! I love the artists on the street, and the performers…and even the people who pass through!”

      And she did.

      “What on earth do you do during Mardi Gras?” Andy had demanded, still laughing.

      “Visit friends in Biloxi,” she said dryly.

      It was true. There were always tourists in New Orleans. She liked tourists. She just didn’t like the melee that came along with Mardi Gras in New Orleans.

      Well, she thought, yawning and stretching, she would stay in New Orleans for Mardi Gras next year. They all wanted a party. She’d do it—for Andy, and the others, as well, she figured. Julian was Mr. Party himself, a good friend, and she loved him—even if she was ready to clobber him right now. She’d known him her whole life, and he’d taken the job when she’d asked him on Max’s behalf because of her, not because he’d originally thought they could really do something new and special. He was wickedly tall and good looking, and great at this work, even if he was overly dramatic. Didn’t matter—those who went on the ghost walk with him were always thrilled.

      Sure, this year, she’d have a party. Patricia, who had grown up not too far away, in Cajun country, longed to have a really good Mardi Gras party, too. She’d grown up close—but far enough away so that she longed to be part of the real heart of the celebration, too—from the above-the-vomit line, as she called it. Mitch, of course, was from Pittsburgh, and he was dying to get into the dead center of it all. As he had told Patricia, he didn’t care what evils lurked on the street; he wanted to see it all. Of course, he’d prefer a nice party place, but…

      Nathan was more like her. He was shy, except with friends, unless he was on, and then, like Julian, he was on. Now, he was madly in love with Patricia, and he was comfortable with their close group of workers. Though Nikki was certain Nathan would just as soon head for Biloxi during Mardi Gras, too, he would want a party because Patricia would want a party.

      And, of course, it would be an important time for them to be working.

      They were doing so well.

      Nikki felt a real sense of pride—despite her pounding headache. A lot of the time, tourists thought that costumes and makeup on tour guides was just schmaltz.

      Not so with their group.

      They were good. They knew their subject matter. They could answer questions. They didn’t just give a tour—they were an event.

      And though the whole thing had been created through Max’s plan, vision—and money—Nikki felt as if it were her own dream child finding real fruition. She had been there with Max at the very beginning, when there had been just the two of them, working hard, footing it all over the place by herself. Befriending the concierge staff at the hotels, begging store managers for flyer space. She had been the one to give the free tours to travel agents, thanking God that Max had saved up enough to be able to bring the people in. After the first go, Max had told her to bring Julian in. He hadn’t been convinced that he’d ever really get a substantial income from the enterprise, but he’d been willing to take a chance because she was so impassioned.

      And he was a total ham.

      They had begun to thrive, and so, Max had told her to increase the program, and the staff. She had found the others later—they’d had to “audition,” both for historical accuracy, and for their ability to tell a damned good and eerie story without getting into outright lies. No one in their group ever said that such things as vampires, ghosts, or any other metaphysical creature existed. They told the stories that had been told. The legends. They were still known as the “ghost” walk, though officially, the company was called “Myths and Legends of New Orleans.”

      Nikki ran her fingers through her hair, trying to let it dry in the breeze.

      A newspaper came flying over the brick wall. The newsboy—late as he was!—had cast it over the brick with amazing accuracy.

      It landed in front of her. Staring down at the headline, she let out a sigh. There were two pictures on the front page. One of the statelier Harold Grant and one of the more charismatic Billy Banks.

      “Billy Banks,”