Ghost Train to New Orleans

by Mur Lafferty

  Her roommates didn’t stir at all during this, and she began to worry about them. Were they in comas? Why weren’t they in hospitals getting life support instead of out here in the swamp, apparently getting their life drained?

  Her struggles had increased her heartbeat, unfortunately, which increased the flow of blood from her arm. She began to get light-headed, so she relaxed back to calm herself. She’d fainted once while giving blood, and knew it only meant low blood pressure, and not impending death. At least, she thought, not yet.

  She wondered what Bertie would say. Probably mock her for not having a plan. She had a plan, dammit, it was to use her magical dress to get out of these restraints. It wasn’t her fault her dress became impotent at midnight.

  While she took deep breaths to slow her heart, she heard rustling outside, footsteps.

  “Is this the place you saw from above?” It was Arthur’s voice.

  “It has to be.” Gwen. “Knock on the door, it is your battle.”

  “Did you see where Zoë and the others went?” Arthur.

  “No, I lost them. They were heading in the same direction, so they probably are in the woods somewhere. Unless she was just flying Bertie for a look over the Gulf.”

  Eir spoke up. “That is probably what she did. I understand humans need a distraction after ending relationships.”

  “Lay off,” Arthur said. “Can we focus on what we need?”

  The house shook a bit under Arthur’s knock. Someone stirred outside Zoë’s door.

  She was in the Doyenne’s house. This was the woman who had trained Ben, who had trained the terrifying woman who tried to destroy New York. The woman who had the secret to halting the zombie virus. Why was Zoë trapped in the back?

  Blood. Freely given, that is. I don’t traffic in the other stuff. That’s what the zoëtist in the shop had said he wanted from her. Her blood had power. It made a certain bit of sense: she was coterie, her blood had to be different from a regular human’s blood.

  That zoëtist had wanted blood freely given. This, tying her down and taking the blood, was presumably the “other stuff.” Zoë started to get a very sick feeling about how the zoëtists imbued their herbs with their life magic.

  Or maybe that was just the blood loss.

  “We can search for Zoë and the others after we leave here,” Gwen said.

  “We could leave the man, if you like,” Eir said.

  “I’m right here, you know,” Arthur said.

  “No, we need to keep him safe. We promised Zoë,” Gwen said, continuing as if Arthur wasn’t there.

  Eir snorted. “You promised. I did no such thing.”

  “Then go. If you know where to start looking.”

  Pause. “I will text her again,” Eir said.

  Although it made Zoë feel like a complete idiot, she began to grunt in a pitiful attempt to scream. “Mmmph! Mmmmmrrrrr!”

  Sure. It could sound like “Gwen” and “Arthur” if they were listening. Sure.

  She realized it would be a better idea if she listened to discover what they were talking about. She had missed some of the conversation while she was grunting at them.

  The door had opened. “You must want something real bad,” came a croaking voice, “to visit the Doyenne this late. Who sent you?”

  “Ma’am. My name is Arthur Anthony. Your former student, Ben Rosenberg, is my doctor,” Arthur said. “He supplies the herbs I need to avoid, uh, turning. Zombie. He left town and I had an accident where I ran out of my supply.”

  Croaking laughter interrupted him. “Accident? Do you leave everything that keeps you alive up to the accident gods?”

  “It doesn’t matter how I lost the herbs,” Arthur said, sounding annoyed. “What matters is I am out. And I need more. And I can’t reach Ben. You’re the only person I know that can supply them. We weren’t even sure if you were alive. We needed a psychopomp to find you.”

  “You don’t know me,” she said slowly. “If you did, you wouldn’t have come, bringing death goddesses and life goddesses to my home.”

  “Are you saying you won’t help him?” This was Gwen.

  “What you want with him? If he die, then you get to eat. Or that big woman could cure him.”

  “I am a god of healing,” Eir said. “But this is zoëtist territory.”

  “And that’s none of your business either,” Arthur said. “It shouldn’t matter how I lost my herbs, or why these ladies are with me. I have payment. Are you going to help me?”

  There was a long silence and Zoë wondered if they were doing a standoff or some sort of silent communication.

  “You already paid,” the Doyenne said finally.

  “I have?” Arthur asked. “You mean you’ll give them to me?”

  “Yah. You pay lots. You pay that you don’t tell no one about where you found me. You tell, I will know, and maybe those herbs won’t work so good no more.” She chuckled. “Yeah, you pay. Whether you like or not. Stay. I get what you need.”

  The door slid open and the Doyenne slipped into Zoë’s back room and closed the door behind her. She was tall and stooped, with heavily wrinkled skin. She might have been of African descent but her skin was now faded and gray. She paid no attention to Zoë, who struggled and “mmmph”ed angrily at her. She took a small empty pouch off the shelf and then opened three jars of herbs. A handful of one, a pinch of both the second and third. It looked a lot like the gris-gris bag the zoëtist had made for Zoë.

  The Doyenne finished with a sprinkling from the jar of salts. Then she came to Zoë.

  “He pay, he just don’ know how much. You draining nice here, girlie. You come along at just the right time. I thought you’d be that fox boy, I been huntin’ him for some time, but you’ll do nice-like. My kids over there are just about done.”

  She plucked the tube from the jar, dribbling Zoë’s blood on the floor before she held the tube above the herb packet. She let it soak into the herbs and then smiled.

  Realization sank in and Zoë’s eyes went wide. The Doyenne smiled now, showing graying, rotted teeth. “You know now, ah? Life is the only thing that can hold off death, but not just any life. Human coterie life. Citytalkers were the best, they only powerful in cities. Sometimes I use weres. I used my students if they was bad.” She pointed to the woman. “But lately my supply ran low. I been draining these kids for nigh on forty years. They got almost nothing left.”

  Zoë began furiously “mmmph”ing again, struggling and no longer feeling the sting of the needle in her arm. The Doyenne reached out with her hand and smoothed the hair out of Zoë’s eyes.

  “Don’ fret, you bleed more if you fret. And I need you for a good long while.”

  She cackled again as she left the room. Zoë listened with dawning horror as Arthur gushed thanks to the woman, and the goddesses gave her polite farewells.

  Then they left.

  The Doyenne was draining Zoë’s very essence. She felt as if she were in a Jim Henson movie, a puppet that existed only as sustenance for others. So the other two were talkers? Or zoëtists? The room didn’t look secure enough to hold an angry werewolf, even a geriatric one.

  Her head swam. She longed for the cookies that the Red Cross gave out during blood drives. She had eaten nothing all day, which was not helping things. Was she still bleeding? She had to think she was; the needle was still in her arm and she hadn’t seen the Doyenne put a clamp on the tube.

  Her friends’ voices faded into the woods, and were gone.

  She felt herself instinctively searching for the city’s presence again, if not for advice then at least for companionship. But again there was nothing.

  Anna. Where was the ghost? She looked around for a reflective surface to see if she was there, but the only slightly reflective surface was the jar of blood, and it showed nothing but the floor.

  Anna? Anna! She tried to call out with her mind. The ghost could only hear her in her head. Had she lost interest? Or been detained?

  She flopped bac
k on the cot, exhausted now, and starting to feel light-headed again. Tears pricked at her eyes as she stared at the ceiling.

  Zoë really was truly alone.

  CHAPTER 20

  Swamps

  The swamps that lie between the city and the Gulf of Mexico are largely lawless. The infrastructure is still undergoing a rebuilding effort within the borders of New Orleans, which has allowed the swamps to become a lawless land, much like the American Southwest used to be for humans.

  Some of the water sprites who caused so much chaos during Hurricane Katrina remained after being kicked out of the city. Zoëtists who operate outside of the scope of Public Works have been known to stay there, including a master zoëtist who was reported dead twenty years ago, though some swear she still lives.

  It’s not the best place for vampires, as it’s not a population center, and zombies may find the oppressive humidity unfavorable if they have dermatology issues. But the swamps are teeming with life and are a lovely place for water-loving coterie, or plant lovers.

  There are few official hotels if you’re looking for a place to stay that involves someone taking care of you (we all like someone to wash our linens from time to time, after all, and everyone likes room service), but if you are a vampire or someone else who prefers human or coterie contact and service, the Other Shoe is an elaborate hotel carved into a giant cypress tree. The trunk is hollow and contains a ladder to the surprisingly luxurious rooms in the branches of the tree. For coterie who need a more accessible entrance, the concierge is a tree nymph who controls the Spanish moss that hangs from the tree. The tree itself can grab its guests and bring them to the branches.*

  The hotel has accommodating places for different coterie to sleep, but where it stands out is the catering. It could be its stable of bewitched gators that go hunting every night, it could be its contacts within the city, or it could be the humans on the staff who allow for (chaperoned) feedings for vampires. Regardless, it is known for its remote location and romanticism—it is a popular honeymooning spot—and for being one of the best out-of-the-way places to eat in Louisiana.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Zoë.

  Anna! Holy shit, man, where have you been?

  Zoë had been trying to find constellations out the window to keep herself awake when the ghost found her. She still had the tape on her face, which was starting to itch, but at least the Doyenne had come in and removed the needle at last. She had said nothing else, despite Zoë’s silent demanding. The Doyenne hadn’t bandaged her arm, so the blood still oozed out of the puncture and had coated her inner elbow.

  Now there were more voices coming from outside, but Zoë didn’t pay attention to them.

  I couldn’t keep up with the dragon! The ghost girl wailed in Zoë’s head.

  Can’t you guys just teleport, kind of?

  Not somewhere we haven’t been. So I had to follow, and then find you. I almost couldn’t do it, but there are a lot of people in the woods tonight, so I figured out where this place was.

  I’m glad you’re here. Do you know where my friends are? The dragon and the vampire?

  The dragon is caught in a trap. The vampire is hiding.

  Hiding. Zoë was incredulous. From what?

  Zoëtists as strong as the Doyenne can control the undead. She probably felt safe with the dragon, but he’s gone now. She doesn’t know how to get out of the swamp, and she’s afraid to come help you.

  Lovely. Can you get me free?

  I don’t think so. I can’t touch anything, and you’re restrained.

  Can you go tell Gwen where I am?

  Yes, but that will take some time. I have another idea.

  The ghost left her. Zoë looked around but couldn’t tell what Anna was up to.

  To distract herself, she focused on the new voices. One of them was Reynard.

  “… And we have on good authority that you are practicing a forbidden branch of zoëtism,” he said. “Not to mention I believe I can prove you released an inugami on the streets of New Orleans, where it attacked humans.”

  “I knowed you was gonna find me some day. I hoped I’d find you first. But tell me, with vampires killin’ people and zombies eating people and citytalkers goin’ around assassinating everyone they find, why my magic the forbidden one? My magic, it save lives.”

  Reynard was calm. “Some lives, yes. But you steal from others to do it. Every other zoëtist creates life, while you take it.”

  “You steal from me. You kill my dog.”

  “Your ‘dog’ attacked my associate and murdered an ancient ally of the goddess Freya. Now, I can turn you over to Public Works. Or perhaps He Who Kills and Is Thanked for It will wish to know your whereabouts. Or we could just take care of things here.” Zoë didn’t like the tone of his voice.

  He’s here to assassinate the Doyenne. Zoë let this sink in and didn’t know which of them was worse.

  “How you find me?” the Doyenne asked. “I been hidden from He Who Kill for a long time now.”

  “I followed a psychopomp,” Reynard said.

  “I make life. I make it. I just gave life-savin’ herbs to a young colored man. He gonna be a zombie without.”

  “And where did you get the life force? Was it given freely?” Reynard asked.

  “It was, once the citytalker was held down!” The Doyenne laughed at her own joke. Outside, branches cracked and trees creaked and fell. Something moaned. The Doyenne was ready to fight.

  If anyone could stand against an assassin, it would be the woman who had trained Ben and Lucy.

  This wasn’t going to be pretty.

  Reynard began shouting instructions to someone, and the Doyenne cried out. A louder crack came, then heavy footfalls. Zoë pictured a giant tree golem preparing to rip Reynard apart.

  The woman on the cot on the other end of the room twitched and sat up. Zoë jumped. Or tried to, being that she was tied to the bed.

  “Zoë,” the voice was cracked from exhaustion and disuse, but the Irish lilt was there. “This woman has allowed me to use her body, I’ve promised her freedom if she helps free you. She’s greatly weakened, though.” Anna held up the old woman’s hands, which were swollen and twisted from arthritis.

  This woman wasn’t going to be unbuckling anything anytime soon.

  “She’s a citytalker, but she has zoëtist blood. She’s from a mixed family. She has rudimentary experience in golem raising, and she says if I can keep her body going, she can focus on helping you.”

  Zoë nodded fervently.

  There was a huge crash and the houseboat rocked alarmingly.

  A male voice cried out, and Zoë heard a sickening crunch.

  A wet sound came from under her bed, and she looked down as best she could. A little golem was climbing out of the bottle, made entirely of Zoë’s blood. It left behind most of the blood; it apparently took only a cup or so of blood to create a little humanoid.

  You’re kidding me.

  Zoë swallowed in revulsion when her own bodily fluid climbed up the dirty sheet that she lay upon, leaving little bloody footprints in its wake. It stopped on her chest to wave at her, and she was grateful for the shadows that made it look like a little person made of wet clay instead of her own blood.

  The blood golem trotted down her arm and started wrestling with the strap on her left wrist. Once her hand was free, she pulled the tape off her mouth and then freed the rest of her limbs. She sat up.

  “Fuck, it’s so good to breathe,” she gasped. “Thank you.” The little golem in her lap did something that looked oddly like a salute, and then lost all form, splashing down on her dress.

  “I could have done without that part, but beggars and choosers and all that,” she muttered. She threw her legs over the side of the cot and grabbed her leather jacket from the end of the bed. She checked her pockets for her phone, but both had been removed. Too much to hope for.

  She stood up. “Anna, are you going to stay with the woman?” Zoë asked. “Is she OK
? She looks really weak.”

  The woman nodded. “She has asked me to go help you, and come get her after the excitement is over.”

  Zoë nodded. The woman lay carefully back down, and then the ghost was with Zoë again.

  “Thank you. We’ll be back soon,” she promised.

  She took a step and the world swam.

  She had forgotten how much blood she had lost. Black flowers bloomed in her vision for a moment, and she felt Anna help her stand until her blood pressure got to where it needed to be.

  “I owe you, big time,” Zoë said. “Now can you help me get out of here? Any idea what’s beyond the next door?”

  Just a living room, and a front door. Bedroom on the other side of this wall. The thing is, the only way out is the front door, and that’s somewhat blocked by a very angry master zoëtist who isn’t really human anymore, and a very angry citytalker who’s clearly been trained by whatever old talkers remain.

  “But there’s no city out here to talk to. How does he have power?” Zoë asked.

  He is a trained killer. The citytalking ability makes it easier for him, but he doesn’t need the city to kill.

  Of course. Just as Granny Good Mae had trained Zoë to defend herself against coterie without specifically asking New York City for help. Only Reynard seemed to have been working on that skill a lot longer than Zoë.

  “What are they doing now?” Zoë asked.

  Anna left her briefly, and Zoë held on to the doorjamb to keep upright.

  The ghost returned. The Doyenne has killed one of the citytalker’s companions and has raised him as a zombie. They are not fighting now, just a zoëtist and her golems and one small citytalker. I think she’s trying to intimidate him.

  Zoë felt impatience rising in her chest, and knew it for her own, not Anna’s. “There’s only one way out and I have to go through that way. Unless you have a way of knocking down this wall,” she said.

  Anna was silent, so Zoë continued with her rudimentary plan.

  She slid the door open and peeked into the living room.