I tore off my shirt and wrapped white tape tightly around my knuckles while the announcer muttered something in Chinese. I made out a few odd words, recalling my past lessons in Cantonese.
I understood: blood, dumb, and dead.
It was nice to know they were equally jeering both of us.
Right after the announcer finished his spiel, the bell immediately rang. The crowd’s roar eclipsed all other sounds just as Cairo began charging at me like a mad bull.
“Cairo, it wasn’t Lincoln who killed your dad…” but before I could finish my sentence the beast was already on me, tackling me to the ground.
I felt as if I’d been hit by a sledge hammer. Cairo’s heavy fists were quick to discover my face. I blocked the first two blows with my forearms, pleasantly surprised that the bones didn’t break, but the third strike managed to smash into my right cheek.
It fucking hurt like hell.
“Cairo, stop punching me and listen for a damn second,” I said, enduring the pain that pulsated through my face.
My words fell on deaf ears.
Cairo wanted to hurt me.
I ground my teeth together and used all my strength to push him off of me in one fast motion. I scrambled back onto my feet.
“Use your words, you fucking mule,” I cried out, “and stop attacking me.”
He scowled as he prepared to charge at me again.
Meanwhile, the crowd roared at the spectacle. They wanted us to rip each other apart.
“Cairo, we can get revenge for your dad,” I said. “Together.”
His eyes softened for a bit, but the rest of his body was still in a combative stance.
“Give me Lincoln,” he stated. “Give me your best friend so I can choke the life out of him with my own hands.”
“I hate repeating myself, and I won’t do it again,” I said. “Lincoln is innocent.”
“If it wasn’t Lincoln who murdered my dad, then who?” he asked. “His prints were all over the gun that shot him.”
I took a deep breath. “It was my sister.”
I was stupid to think that shifting the blame to my twin would calm him down. He screamed like a wild animal and came charging at me once more. Cairo attempted another take down, but I managed to spin out of the way first, delivering a kick to the back of his legs.
Cairo grunted and fell to one knee, giving me the opening I needed.
I pounced on top of him without hesitation, wrapping my arms around his massive head. I had him in a sleeper hold.
“My sister’s a twisted bitch,” I said, maintain my grip around his neck. “I can’t get to her without your help. You have my word that once we find her, she’ll pay for what she’s done.”
I must have been speaking Yiddish to him, because Cairo didn’t seem to hear a word I said. The monster rose to his feet—my arms still tightly coiled around his head—and began backing up towards the steel cage that held us like prisoners.
He fell back against the steel bars and I felt the wind escape from my lungs. I was crushed between his massive body and the cage. Before I could recover my breath, Cairo fell back again. A shockwave of pain reverberated throughout my body.
Despite feeling mangled, I still refused to let go of the sleeper hold. Instead, I reinforced the grip I had on him.
My muscles were tense and aching. I was convinced I was hugging cinder blocks instead of a man. Cairo couldn’t possibly keep on standing, could he?
He smashed me into the cage again.
Fuck. I was hurting like hell, but I refused to let go. I was stubborn like that.
Fall Cairo, fall. Go to sleep already.
I noticed his movements were becoming slower. Thank the stars.
I was cutting off his oxygen supply and it was only a matter of time before he passed out.
“Fuck you,” I heard him mutter, his voice strained.
“Go fuck yourself first,” I replied.
Once again, Cairo crushed me into the cage, but not with the same force as before. The lion was being subdued.
“My dad’s dead,” he hissed.
“Mine is too.”
“If what you say is true, your bitch sister killed my father.”
“My bitch sister killed mine as well.”
There was a brief moment of silence as I felt all the muscles in Cairo’s body relax.
“Let go of me,” he repeated, but this time, his voice wasn’t filled with the same rage he had before. Instead, it was replaced with sympathy.
I did what he asked.
My muscles were burning as I took a step back, shaking the ache out of them.
Cairo fell to his knees again; hands pressed against his thighs. He sucked in oxygen with rapid breaths.
He looked exhausted.
Eventually he turned his head to me and looked me in the eye.
“So now wh—” but before he could finish his sentence, I clocked him in the face, knocking him out cold and winning the fight.
The crowd immediately broke out into a chorus of cheers as the bell rung and the caged doors opened. Two of Tse’s men entered into the ring.
“You defeated the Black Devil,” one of them stated.
“Looks like,” I replied, as I glanced at Cairo who was lying flat on his back. “Tell your boss that the Black Devil is officially retired from the fights. I’m going to need him.”
“Nathan will not be happy that you are taking away one of his prized fighters.”
I smiled. “He won’t mind,” I said. “I’m sure when all this is over we’ll all get what we want.”
I looked at Cairo and wondered how many nights since his dad’s death he had fantasized about getting revenge on his killer.
For me, I dreamed about revenge every waking second.
Chapter Eleven
Aria
I wondered at how long it took before I got used to the feeling of the gun tucked away in the back of my jeans. At first, the coldness of the hard iron pressed against my bare back annoyed me. But now, I didn’t seem to mind it as much.
It was almost comforting.
I didn’t want the gun at first, but Lincoln insisted I had to be ready to defend myself as well as provide cover fire for him if required.
After taking a few practice shots and massacring five beer cans with seven bullets, I felt better about my abilities to cover our asses—or assassinate a lager—if need be.
“Don’t hesitate in pulling the trigger,” Lincoln had told me. “It’s that split second of doubt that’ll get us both killed.”
I thought about killing another man in cold blood with the gun. It’s not like I hadn’t killed anyone else before. It seemed so easy, during the heat of the moment, killing one of the hired killers—the kid—in Calisto’s apartment with the simple press of the button.
I was damned already. What was one more body added to my count?
The car finally pulled to a stop, much to my relief. Being crammed in a tiny vehicle for over six hours became unbearable.
I was stiff from the painstakingly long car ride, but I was glad to have finally reached our destination.
New Orleans.
I always heard how different this city was from the rest of America, and the second I stepped out of the car, I saw why.
There was a fiery spirit seeping through the atmosphere, one that was nurtured deep from within the city’s core and radiated out into the streets, possessing the people inhabiting it. Street musicians played their horns and keyboards, filling the sidewalks with beautiful jazz while the people who listened were held captive by the spells of their sounds.
Music, oh how I missed it terribly. However, the thought of touching a piano again reminded me only of Justin, and my failure to him as a friend.
I had gotten him killed because I couldn’t keep my stupid mouth shut, failing to save him when I had the chance.
I stared at my hands, the same hands that once danced across the keys, flooding rooms with lovely music, and I cursed myself. These
hands had let Justin down. They let me down.
“Beautiful place, isn’t it?” Lincoln asked.
I tore myself from the fog of my self-loathing, and smiled at him. “It is,” I said half-heartedly. The truth was it was difficult for me to find beauty in anything lately.
I tried anyways.
The spirit of New Orleans had its hand in the architecture too. I appreciated the French flavors of the handsome Pontabela buildings that lined up all along St. Anne Street, just across from Jackson Square. I paid close attention to the decorative ironwork which adorned the balconies of the building—hanging plants accentuating the liveliness of the city during this sunny afternoon.
Shadow had promised at one point that we’d travel the world. With my sentimental attachment to music, I wondered if New Orleans would have been one of the places we visited.
I was being stupid, thinking of such things. My time with Shadow was coming to an end. He didn’t love me anymore, and quite frankly, the thought of him at the moment made my blood boil.
“We’ve got ten minutes,” he said, glancing at the time on his cellphone.
“Until?”
“Until he arrives,” Lincoln replied.
“Who is it that we’re meeting exactly?” I asked.
Lincoln sighed as he walked over to an empty cast iron bench and took a seat. I sat down next to him.
“Donald Huff’s bastard,” he replied.
I was taken aback. “Donald had a bastard?” I asked.
“Two actually,” Lincoln said. “He lost touch with the older one a while ago. The last I heard he was a part of some motorcycle gang somewhere in Canada. The second bastard though, Donald had formed a relationship. In fact, he’s currently employed by the Midnight Society, a Cajun fellow by the name of Beau Rouge.”
“He’s trusty worthy?” I asked.
Lincoln shrugged. “I never met the man before, so I really don’t know too much about him aside from the fact that he’s very good with money and forging any documents we need.”
“Great.”
“Shadow says we can trust him though. Beau can give us what we need to set ourselves up temporarily,” Lincoln said. “Weapons, stacks of unmarked bills, fake identifications—you know, the essentials for any underground secret society ready to go to war.”
Though I shouldn’t have laughed, I couldn’t help myself. It wasn’t one of those ‘that was funny’ type of laughs, but more of an ‘I’ve gone completely insane’ laugh. Underground secret societies, blood baths, illegal weapons, and war—just how far down the rabbit hole had I gone? Was there any way of coming back from it?
Lincoln pursed his lips. “I didn’t think it was that funny,” he said.
I shook my head. “It’s nothing Lincoln,” I said, struggling to suppress my tears. “I’m just going crazy, that’s all.”
I could tell he wanted to say something to me to make me feel better, but what could he possibly say? What sweet words could possibly make my life all right again?
Lincoln gently held my forearm and gave it a gentle squeeze. His touch felt…nice.
Sometimes, a little human contact went a long way to ease the burdens of a broken heart.
“I’m okay,” I said, doing my best to get a grip. “I promise I’ll be tougher than this. I am Aria, the Crow Killer after all.”
“You don’t need to be tough around me,” Lincoln said. “I’m serious.”
“When you’re ready to sulk, then I will too.”
Lincoln didn’t say anything, but I read his eyes like words on a page. There was a lot of hurt inside of him. However, Lincoln—being the tough guy that he was—chose to bury it deep inside.
Across the street, there was a commotion brewing in front of the gates of St. Louis Cathedral, the centerpiece of the entire square. The cathedral was the color of clouds, its three towers giving the basilica a regal feel. From where I sat, I felt its holy magic radiating from within the structure’s walls.
Even from this distance, I could smell the strong aromas of incense coming from deep within the church.
“It looks like they’re getting ready,” Lincoln said as he rose from the iron bench.
“For what?”
He looked at me and grinned. “Isn’t it obvious? For the burial of course.”
Within a matter of minutes, the somber sounds of a large brass band permeated through the streets. Their soulful rendition of Amazing Grace sent shivers up my spine with its rich, beautiful sound.
“This is a funeral?” I asked. “It’s not the typical funerals that I’m used to.”
Lincoln nodded. “It’s a jazz funeral,” he replied. “It’s a New Orleans tradition. The dead are ushered into the afterlife through music. Believe it or not, the origins of this ceremony stemmed from another secret society, situated deep within the Yoruba tribe of Africa.”
I watched as the procession made its way towards us, every powerful and soulful note reverberating from the deep within the hollow lungs of the brass instruments, filling the atmosphere with a mournful melody.
“Take note of the trumpet players,” Lincoln said. “Beau Rouge is one of them.”
My eyes darted across the entire row of brass trumpeters, scanning for a man who could have looked like Donald’s offspring.
“The odd man out,” Lincoln noted.
I furrowed my brow as I focused on the musicians, my eyes zeroing in on one man in particular.
He was handsome, in a rough southern kind of way, with wild straw blonde hair that fell to his chin and high, prominent cheekbones that made his eyes smile fondly. As he walked past us, I saw that his eyes were green, a beautiful emerald color that was too spellbinding not to notice. He was tall and lanky, and walked with absolute confidence as he played his instrument.
While all the other trumpets were gold in color, the one Beau was holding was painted crimson. I mouthed the words ‘red’ and Lincoln nodded in confirmation.
So this was Donald Huff’s son. He was very handsome, which surprised me seeing as how Donald didn’t exactly have the looks that turned too many heads.
We followed the procession, trailing behind an elegantly crafted wooden hearse which was being pulled by a horse and buggy.
“Whose funeral is it?” I whispered to Lincoln.
He shrugged.
“No clue,” Lincoln said. “The only info Shadow gave me before he left was that we’d find Beau playing in the jazz funeral of today’s procession, using a red trumpet.”
We continued to follow the brass band and the crowd of people who marched along with the procession. I listened to the brassy high notes of the trumpets, which had transitioned from Amazing Grace to Down By the Riverside. I drank in the atmosphere of sorrow and mourning.
Closing my eyes, I thought of Justin, and for a moment, as twisted as this sounded, I envisioned him lying within the hearse, and that all this music and these mourners were here for him.
I had missed Justin’s funeral—being that it was too dangerous for me to show myself in public because of the psycho donkey bitch. It felt like a knife in my heart knowing that I couldn’t pay him my last respects.
We entered into the cemetery, just outside of Congo Square, with Over in the Land of Glory playing. I had lost control of my tear ducts.
Lincoln looked at me, but didn’t bother asking me what was wrong. He knew.
The pallbearers carefully took the casket out of the hearse and lifted it slowly over to the grave. They laid it onto the ground while the mourners gathered around and bowed their heads, waiting for the sermon to begin.
From the distance, I listened intently, still picturing Justin inside the coffin. I needed to say goodbye to my best friend.
“Look on the bright side—words that he always lived by,” the woman giving the eulogy, began. Her voice was soft like water, drawing me in as I thirsted for her words. “There always was a bright side, though it was often impossible for me to see it. I remember the day I lost my job and had no idea how I
was going to support my children. I called him that same night, and told him of my fears, that I had no idea where my next meal was coming from. He said to me—in the calmest of voice—‘Look on the bright side.’
“My response to him at the time was ‘What bright side? There’s no mother f-ing bright side,’ and he replied, ‘Don’t worry, you’ll find one.’ The next morning, he came to my house, hands filled groceries, and he said to me with the warmest of smiles, ‘I’ll cook. Meanwhile you keep searching for that bright side.’
“That was the type of friend he was—a man who gave all he had, and asked for nothing in return. So while I searched long and hard for that elusive bright side, he continued to keep my family fed, and spent countless hours playing with my children. This went on for a month, and though I didn’t see it at first, with each passing day, the bright side I was looking for slowly revealed itself to me.
“For the first time in their lives, my children had a father. And for the first time in almost five years, I allowed myself to fall in love again.” The woman paused, choking back tears. “It was through his strength that I was able to rebuild myself, to discover new talents that lay buried inside of me for far too long. He allowed my untrusting heart to love again. Our time together was far too short, and now once again my children are without a father, and I without a husband. I stand here today, my love, hearing your words echo through my head, ‘Look on the bright side.’
“I know I can’t see it now, but I know it’s there somewhere. It is because you said it that I know it is indeed true. I love you, and I miss you, my sunshine.”
I stood there in silence, wiping tears away from my cheeks furiously, as I thought of Justin, and how for the first few years of University, he was the only bright side of my life.
But he was gone now, and I needed to say goodbye.
Justin, you were my best friend—my only friend, and if there’s one thing in my life that I regret, it’s not being able to give you the love you deserved, I thought to myself, in a silent prayer. I hoped that wherever he was, he could hear my thoughts with crystal clarity. If I had only loved you, then perhaps I would have been content with my life and not ended up going to the Mansion, and not agreed to go on those dates with Shadow, and you would still be alive. But if there’s one thing that this experience has taught me, you can’t force someone to love you. You can trick them into it, but at some point, they’ll snap out of it and someone ends up getting hurt.
Penumbra (The Midnight Society #2) Page 9
