If the Fates are looking down on me right now, they’re laughing their butts off at my audacity. I’d retaliate by shaking a fist at them and calling them colorful names, but I’m too tired. The kind of tired that’s bone-deep. The kind of tired that actually hurts.
Not even the knowledge I’mnotresponsible for Dean’s death is enough to break through the exhaustion as I make my way into the French Quarter. Exhaustion mixed with the shock of having been witness to an act of unspeakable violence—I don’t think my hands have stopped shaking or my ears have stopped ringing since the moment Luc fired his weapon. And then the cherry on top of this craptastic sundae is not knowing what will happen to him.
Ihatethat he was forced to do what he did. But there was no other option. Sullivan made it crystal clear it was him or us.
Even still… This will weigh on Luc because he’s…well…Luc.And I wish there was a way I could relieve him of this burden. But I know there’s not. He’ll have to deal with this in his own way and in his own time.
My thoughts sink into the cold ocean depths of despair as I plot a path toward Cash’s house. I have to tell him what’s happened. And even though I’d love nothing better than to go home, curl into bed, and put it all in a text message, since I’m without a cell phone, I find myself hanging a right on Royal Street, trudging on thousand-pound legs toward Orleans Avenue.
The sun is rising between the buildings. It’s the golden hour. That time of day when the soft light seems to dull edges and blur lines and make everything look slightly otherworldly.
An old woman on the corner rolls the bones between her gnarled hands. “Care to know your future,cher?” she calls in a crone’s crackling voice. “Come and see what da bones have in store for ya.”
“I’d be afraid to find out, Mawmaw,” I tell her honestly, crossing the street to hand her one of the two coffees I’m carrying. “But have a café au lait to start your day right.”
She accepts my offering gratefully, popping the top off the cup of joe and closing her eyes when the fragrant steam hits her face. “Thank ya,cher.”
Her eyes, I notice, are as black as coal and as clear as day. They seem tosee.Reallysee.Me. Things beyond this place and time. Or maybe, as I said, it’s simply the morning light making everything look otherworldly.
Offering her a smile, I wave and slog up the sidewalk, passing the old-fashioned boutiques filled with things I don’t need, but that I usually can’t help buying.
A leatherworking shop boasts hand-tooled masquerade masks that are more works of art than party favors. And Rouses, our local grocery store, has an accumulation of what we here in the Big Easy callurban campersmilling around out front. They’re waiting for the day manager to come in and hand out the bakery bread left over from last night.
There are five in the group. A black man with a jaunty bow tie and trousers with holes in the knees who goes by the name of Shortie. A Creole woman, whom everyone calls Doris, has a calico cat curled in her arms. There’s a young white kid I don’t recognize—he can’t be much older than twenty. And last but not least, there’s a couple with their heads together carrying on a soft conversation in a language that isn’t French, but sounds very much like it. They’re known around The Quarter as Mr. and Mrs. Porto.
New Orleans isthe melting pot that other places in America only claim to be, and I’ve gotten to know most of these folks from my time volunteering at the local soup kitchen. Auntie June always says the best way to stay humble is to help those less fortunate than ourselves.
“Mornin’, Miss Maggie.” Shortie touches a finger to his brow.
“Good morning, Shortie,” I answer back. “It’s a beautiful start to the day, but the weatherman’s calling for rain this evening. Y’all be sure you find a dry spot before it gets here.”
“Got me a place near the Old Ursuline Convent that’s dry as the Sahara,” he assures me.
I make a face and fake a shiver. “The Old Ursuline Convent? You’re not scared of those casket girls swooping in to suck your blood?”
He grins, his teeth a remarkable shade of yellow. “They don’t want none of my blood, girlie. Too full of piss and vinegar.”
I manage a laugh because that’s what he expects. And then I continue up the street, thinking of the local legend surrounding the imposing, French Colonial building on Ursulines Avenue.
So the story goes, the French colonists who were first shipped here—mostly criminals, vagrants, and men of low character—were in want of wives. They petitioned their government to send over girls of marriageable age, and France, knowing a thriving colony needed families to settle the area, agreed.
Some accounts say the girls sent here were fine, upstanding young women. Others claim they were orphans and prostitutes. But whoever they were, they boarded a ship and survived an arduous Atlantic crossing with all their worldly belongings packed away in wooden boxes calledcasquettes—orcaskets.
When the ship put into port, the men of the town gathered on the banks of the river, eager to welcome their newcome, would-be brides. But they were dismayed to find the girls gaunt and pale upon arrival. The priest and the nuns from Ursuline quickly shepherded the young women and their caskets to the convent, where they were supposed to remain until the nuns could arrange their marriages.
So the story goes, what actually came over on that ship were not, in fact, girls, but vampires who ravaged the city before the nuns could lock them inside their caskets on the third floor of the convent. The sisters nailed shut the shutters on that floor and had the pope come over to bless the nails with the power of God, hoping, of course, that would keep the girls/vampires from escaping.
Whether it’s all a ridiculous load of hogwash or not, I know this to be true: I’ve never seen those third-floor shutters open. And I swear, if you walk by the convent at night, there’s a malevolent buzz in the air and the fog sneaks along the ground like a living cloud.
Then again…maybe that’s simply my imagination.
Everyone says I have a tendency toward the fanciful. And perhaps that’s why I’m thinking of the casket girls now. My fanciful mind needs an escape from the dark reality of my current situation.
I feel like Dumbledore has used his Deluminator on my life, sucking all the light out of it.
Mr. Emerson—a longtime French Quarter resident—is sweeping his stoop. His features are sharp and oddly put together, like his face is made from the discard pile. He has a small, pointed nose paired with a big, jutting chin. His thick brow ridge is juxtaposed against the biggest, softest smile.
He turns the latter on me, lifting his hand. “You’re up early today, Maggie!”
