License Invoked by Robert Asprin Read Free Book Online Page B

who stared with open admiration at Fionna Kenmare all the way up the stairs to the lobby. The star tottered toward the deep armchairs upholstered in cherry pink. She flung herself into one and stretched out a languid hand to the dark-haired man in the expensive suit.
    “Nigel, be a dear, sweet man, and check me in, will you?”
    “Of course, Fee, darling,” Nigel said, with nannylike solicitness. He asked the woman on the other side of the desk. “Sweetheart, can someone get my friend there a drink? And one for me, too. It's so bloody hot here we're evaporating.”
    “I'll have a waiter come by right away, sir,” the young, black woman said, smiling.
    * * *
    It took Elizabeth a moment to sift the hotel clerk's words into a sentence she could understand. The honey-sweet, slurred accent was no easier to understand than broad Irish. The clerk behind the dark-stained wooden desk picked up a phone and tucked it into the angle of her neck and shoulder while she flicked through the sheaf of reservation slips Nigel Peters handed to her.
    Yawning into her hand, Elizabeth stood back a little ways to keep an eye on Fionna while the group checked in. She'd get a room, take a quick shower to sluice off the grime of travel and wake herself up, then call in to HQ. It'd be nearly four A.M. at home. No one would be there, but the switchboard operator could take her message. She cringed at the notion of stepping back out into the saunalike atmosphere, but she needed to connect with solid earth. Now that she was back on the ground she needed to recharge her magical batteries. It would take special intervention to keep from falling asleep while she set up security for Fionna/Phoebe's room. A handsome porter in green livery and a white stock at his neck came over to smile and gesture toward her small suitcase.
    “I'll keep it, thanks,” she said. He nodded and dipped his head in a little bow as he moved on to the next person in the party, the slim, balding man, who gestured toward a heap of document cases.
    A tall, good-looking blond man emerged with alacrity from the offices behind the desk and bore down upon Fionna, who had absorbed her first drink and was waiting for another.
    “Miss Kenmare!” he said. “I'm Boaz Johnson, the evening manager of the Royal Sonesta. How do you do?”
    “I'm well, thank you so much, dear man,” Fionna said graciously, offering him a languid hand.
    Johnson beamed. “We're so happy you're here. We'll make sure your stay is just as comfortable as we can.”
    “I'm sure you will, you dear man,” Fionna said. “Nigel! Mr. Johnson, this is Mr. Peters, my manager. The two of you work out the knotty details, won't you?”
    “Why, of course,” the manager said, shaking hands with Peters. “I'd be honored to take care of your arrangements personally.”
    The pretty desk clerk smiled with a quirk of her head that might have been a shrug. Every Englishman loves a lord, Elizabeth thought wryly, and every American loves a celebrity.
    Elizabeth could not believe how hot it was in New Orleans. Intent on her mission she'd been almost oblivious to the first blast of steaming air as she had set foot outside the airport terminal. Compared to the interior of the air conditioned limousine, the street and the hotel lobby were sweltering. She picked at the sodden collar of her suit while she looked at the people around her. She'd never been to America before. All she knew about New Orleans was what she'd seen in movies like The Big Easy and Interview with the Vampire, both insufficient research, no matter how you looked at it, for the actual place.
    It was curious. In London, home of the punk movement, Fionna Kenmare's weird makeup stood out a mile. Here in New Orleans, she was just another passerby. On the drive through the French Quarter from the highway exit to the hotel, Elizabeth had already seen men with multiple-color-dyed hair, women wearing gaudy body painting and not much else, and at the last intersection,