by G A Chase
“We thought the less I knew the better. That way, I couldn’t give any names if the police came after us. But her people are always keeping an eye on me. Do you think there’s some way we could find out if we were successful in sealing the rift? Sere feeling better is a positive sign, but I would like a professional assessment before I get too excited.”
The band was slowly showing signs of life, though Charlie still lay passed out on the chairs.
“I’m hesitant to contact the loas,” Myles said. “Baron Samedi will probably show up once he feels it’s safe. We’ll have to watch what we say to keep Sere out of their sights.”
“She looked so happy dancing while the band played. It’s too bad those who did so much work to restore her will never get to know that little girl. At the very least, I’d like to tell Joe. We never could have taken care of the bank without him. When do you think it’ll be safe to approach him?”
“I’d say a year, maybe two.” Myles suspected Joe would be in the wind for the foreseeable future. Even with cover from the chief, other detectives would wonder why he wasn’t around during the lawlessness of the night.
She frowned at him. “Don’t be sarcastic. He really should know that Sere is okay.”
I’m not sure I was being sarcastic. He kept that thought to himself. They had enough to worry about without freaking Kendell out about Joe’s safety. “Like contacting the loas, I think we’re going to have to leave it up to Joe’s discretion. We’re already on the police’s radar. If we go asking about Lieutenant Cazenave, that might tip them off to his involvement in our other activities—and give them reason to suspect us on this one.”
“You’re probably right. But the two beings I know we can tell are Cheesecake and Doughnut Hole.”
His legs were stiff, but the coffee was performing its daily magic. “Just don’t move too fast.”
“Is that because you don’t want to draw attention, or are you just not moving very well this morning?” She tossed her cup and grabbed another.
“Well, you are a coffee ahead of me.” He grabbed another for the road.
Outside, the smell of soot got worse as they crossed Esplanade. Though there weren’t many people so far from the middle of the action, Myles felt a quiet despair as if he’d just entered a cemetery.
“Where are you two headed?”
Myles turned around and saw a uniformed patrolman holding a billy club.
“We live in the Quarter. We’re just headed home.” Myles held his hands slightly out from his sides in an attempt to look as nonconfrontational as possible.
“Address?”
He quickly gave the imposing officer their details. “We’re just trying to get home, sir.”
“You weren’t in the Quarter last night?”
Kendell held Myles’s hand and stood slightly behind him. “We run the Scratchy Dog on Frenchmen Street. We were there all night. It seemed safer than trying to get through the mayhem.”
“And others can vouch for you?”
Myles knew the man was doing his job, but he wondered how many times they’d have to go through the same routine before being reunited with their dogs. “Kendell is the guitarist for Polly Urethane and the Strippers. Most of the band is still at the club. Anyone there will tell you we were there all night.” He resisted the urge to let his irritation and lack of sleep get the better of him. At the moment, staying out of jail was the main priority.
“Okay. Be careful walking the streets. There are still a few troublemakers looking for easy prey.”
Myles put his hand around Kendell’s waist. “Thank you, Officer.” Though he had a respectful fear of any authority figure carrying lethal force, he felt a twinge of gratitude for people who kept a lid on potentially dangerous situations. Maybe it’s a feeling of comradery.
The farther they walked into the Quarter, the more the smell of smoke gave way to the stink of pulverized marble and brick. Particles of stone irritated his eyes. “This must have been hell last night.”
“We’ve been to hell. This was probably worse. What have we done?”
He held her close. “Nothing. We were at the club.” He hoped she’d take the hint. If the Quarter had ears before, it would be doubly attentive after what would have looked like a terrorist attack.
She didn’t say anything else for the rest of the walk back to their apartment. Each block was worse than the last—scorch marks traced up brick walls, windows were smashed, a few of the openings had been boarded up, and puddles that had been mostly alcoholic now showed the thick redness that indicated blood.
As they approached their apartment building, Myles saw that a homeless couple had set up camp in front of the gate back to the stairs. The man had soot on his face but otherwise looked unaffected by the night’s activities. “We stood guard at your place. The dogs were barking, but other than being disturbed by the noise, I think they’re okay.”
Myles reached into his pocket to offer the couple something for their diligence.
The grubby man stopped him. “There’s no need for that. Mary is a friend, and Kendell is the river angel that saved Mary’s clan. We look out for each other.”
Kendell stepped forward and kissed the man on the cheek. “Thank you for watching our dogs.”
Once they were off the street, she started to break down. “What have we done?” Her question was less theoretical and more panicky than it had been just a half mile earlier.
“We saved this world we love. Had we done nothing, what we just saw would have been only the beginning. This city will rebuild itself before you know it. We’ve seen it endure worse.”
She was shaking in his arms. “I know you’re right, but I’ve never felt this much guilt.”
He led her up to their apartment. “I prescribe two puppies to make you feel better.”
Her smile looked forced, but he accepted it as the best he’d be able to manage from her. When he opened the door, the two dogs bounded off the ottoman and rushed into Myles’s and Kendell’s arms. What he’d failed to do with words, the pups did with kisses.
* * *
Myles was happy to hang around the apartment for the day and rest up from the night before. Out on the veranda, he could feel a tension settle on the city like the fine white marble dust from the bombed-out bank. The city relied on its reputation to attract tourists, and terrorism was never an incentive to visit a place.
Kendell brought out a couple of iced teas. “What are you thinking about?”
He didn’t want to tell her he was considering cutting back on the alcohol order for the club. “Just wondering what the projection must look like to Colin. Shit.”
“What is it?”
“I suppose it doesn’t matter at this point, but our projections rely on these buildings as reality’s recording devices. We’re back to what Professor Yates was talking about in class years ago about the walls’ atoms being the silent observers of what happens in a room.”
She shook her head. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“People’s experiences are amplified by our drink additives. When those people are out on the street, the buildings capture what’s happening, and that’s what we send into hell.” He waved his hand around the Quarter. “Only now we’ve put a layer of magical crap over our projectors’ lenses.”
She set her glass on the table. “Colin knows what we were up to, so you’re right—it probably doesn’t matter.”
Colin wasn’t the only person in hell, however. “Sere is living in one of those projected bodies.”
“Shit.”
“That’s what I said.”
Kendell tapped on the table. “Sanguine’s already picked up Sere. Oh, and Polly said Sanguine said to tell you that you were right. I have no idea what she was talking about. Do you?”
“No, but anytime a woman tells me I was right about something, I usually start checking for what’s about to fall out of the sky and land on my head.”
“I’m worried that it migh
t have something to do with Colin passing through her sixth gate. And if you say anything sexual, I’m going to punch you.”
“Fair enough,” Myles said. “Do you think that’s why she wanted the babysitters last night—so she could have it out with Colin? I really wish one of us had been able to see her this morning.”
Kendell’s look of agreement didn’t help ease his fears. “I asked Polly how she looked, but Polly had been up all night and was feeling a little snarky. If he did go through Sanguine’s gate, then I guess I’d better check in with Delphine. I can’t have him bugging her shop just because that’s where we hid the totem that represents the final gate back to life.”
“Suddenly, I’m less concerned about the bombing last night.”
60
Colin stumbled through the Quarter, searching for any sign of Sanguine and Serephine. The contents of his stomach sloshed around as if he were on a ship in high seas. Everywhere he looked, he saw his surroundings shifting and distorting. If this is what I get for having sex with a witch angel, I’m going to use protection next time.
But his corrupted perceptions paled in comparison to his out-of-control emotions. Sanguine was hiding his daughter, and that alone would have been enough to piss him off, but the blind hatred he experienced violated his basic tenets of self-control. Emotions were power, and losing control of them was a gift to his enemies.
People walked past him with their usual disregard. As virtual projections, they were nothing more than window dressing in his nightmarish world. To prove his point, he took a swing at a passing gentleman who was escorting a ravishing brunette. Instead of the satisfying thud of fist to jaw, however, the momentum swung Colin around in a circle and landed him on the wet pavement.
He remained on the ground while trying to regain some sense of control. His hand ached at having missed its target. In a wild fit of anger, Colin lunged to his feet and tried to tackle the man from behind. Again he landed on the ground—this time facedown and spread-eagle in the gutter.
“I know I hit you.” Rolling over, he saw the man and his companion continuing down the street as if Colin didn’t even exist.
“Are we back to Sanguine fucking with my perception of the world?” He tried to dust the dirt off his arms, but whatever was coating his skin didn’t leave a visual or physical trace. Like pepper spray, the irritant on his body grew more intense with each passing second. Instead of a single burning sensation, Colin felt as if he were wearing a dozen different skins—each suffering from separate ailments.
“This is crazy.” The irritation wasn’t confined to his exposed skin. He rolled up his pants and searched his legs for some insect bite that might explain his situation. If whatever he was experiencing wasn’t from the city’s gutters, it must have come from his time in Sanguine’s swamp. Hell’s bayous would be filled with critters out to make his life miserable. And if he hadn’t picked up something from having sex with the witch turned angel, then maybe it had been from her damn insect army.
He gave up on his search for his daughter and headed back to his condo. A good shower was what he needed and maybe a nap. His feet slipped on the wet concrete and asphalt with each step as if he were walking on ice. When he did finally make it to his loft, he stripped off every stitch of clothing and tossed it into the fireplace. The demonic chiggers that were driving him mad were about to suffer a fiery demise. Before heading to the shower, he turned on the gas and lit the flame. “Burn, you little suckers.”
The shower he’d longed for felt like hot ash bombarding his skin at high speed. He still didn’t see any bites, rashes, or cuts, but the more he tried to relieve the irritation, the worse it got. He rubbed at his skin like a patient at an insane asylum. “This condo isn’t any better than outside. It might even be worse. I’ve gotta get out of here.”
He tried on every piece of clothing in his closet, but any touch of fabric to skin created new nightmares. The physical sensations were affecting his thoughts. “This is my body.” He resorted to a plush bathrobe as the least physically offensive attire. It fit loose enough not to bind against his skin yet covered him from neck to feet. The galoshes only added to his look of insanity, but they would protect his feet, ankles, and lower legs from whatever was jumping off the pavement to bite him. “Those people out there aren’t even real. I should have resorted to wearing whatever I wanted long ago.”
With the justification firmly in mind, he headed back outside. No matter how bad Kendell, Sanguine, and their gang of fools made things, he always had one spot they couldn’t reach.
He didn’t pay any attention to the other pedestrians as he walked along the river path. They weren’t real. Nothing was real. In his intense irritation, he wondered if even his feelings for Sanguine had been nothing more than a calculated ploy to keep him in hell. If she felt anything at all for him, she wouldn’t be hiding his daughter. She knew what the girl meant to him. Even if the swamp angel didn’t want to join him as hell’s ruler, she could at least have the decency to let him be with the child he’d worked so hard to free.
The two-mile walk to the grounded pleasure yacht allowed plenty of time for his anger to grow into full-blown rage. He stomped onto the deck and into the wheelhouse. The iron vault was right where he’d left it and still sealed shut. Pricking his finger for the drop of blood that would unlock the door was nearly a relief. At least that was a pain whose source he could identify.
He rushed into the metal closet and pulled the door shut. Though Sere had made a mess of his den when she’d first been introduced to her new body, he’d had plenty of time to put his possessions back in order. The batteries that powered the green light were failing, but they managed to keep him from sitting in complete darkness. Whichever of hell’s invisible monsters had been munching on his skin was safely locked outside.
He watched his arm for any sign of the change. Under the green glow, he made out the parallel scratches that crossed his skin like a railway switching yard. “Guess I was a little overly enthusiastic with those fingernails.”
Though the prickling and burning of his skin eased off, the same could not be said for his emotions. The need to strike back—even if he couldn’t identify the source of the original transgression—continued to dominate his thoughts. He pulled the nearest treasure chest of his old possessions off the shelf. “I used the curse to pull Kendell into my world and the drawings to connect with Sere. No reason to believe I can’t figure out someone else to entice into my domain.”
He pulled an elegant letter opener from the box. The golden handle was covered in skull engravings. Turning it in his hands, he sought the familiar resonance that accompanied all of his old possessions. The damn object could have come from a thrift store for all the comfort it provided. Though it was a thing of beauty, he tossed it across the small room with such violence that it snapped in half. He pulled out the next item to suffer his wrath—the matching ink pen. He grasped it tightly in his fist, but like the letter opener, there was no return energy. It was as if the failing vault battery was also draining the curse from his items.
In desperation, he pulled down box after box, searching for something that still maintained some vestige of paranormal energy. “How is this even possible?”
He’d been duped. That was the only reasonable explanation. Somehow, while Sanguine distracted him with her ethereal womanly charms, Kendell must have found a way to disarm the curse. “Damn you, witches!”
He struggled to control his emotions so he could think. Even if Kendell had managed to shut down his end of the paranormal connection, she’d never be able to disconnect her essence from the golden guitar pick where she’d stashed her side of the curse. And that little triangle of gold was still in his hell. He rummaged around the vault, collecting the objects he’d recently thrown against every wall. If that pick still had power, there had to be a way to use it to reinvigorate his side of things.
The pockets of his bathrobe drooped from the golden objects. He had to tie the sash tightly ar
ound his waist to keep the robe closed. As he snuck out of the vault, he felt like a thief hoping not to set off the guard dogs. The difference, of course, was that these were his possessions, and the guardians he hoped to avoid were whatever microbugs had been munching on his skin.
So long as he stayed close to the river’s edge, the feeling of being covered in fire ants wasn’t unbearable, but if he moved a block into the Quarter, he was again pawing at his skin like a flea-riddled mangy dog. He pulled his robe tightly around his body and ran the shortest route possible to Scratch and Sniff. Delphine’s shop is an interdimensional embassy, so whatever’s after me shouldn’t be able to enter.
He pushed open the door he’d bashed in when he first entered hell. It seemed like a lifetime ago. “I know you’re here. You can either materialize, or I’ll show myself around.”
He headed to the back room without waiting for a reply. If Delphine cared about his activities in hell, or about her possessions, she should have done a better job at securing her voodoo library. The glass-and-wood display case that stood in front of the hidden door to her most precious journals was filled with hideous totems. It didn’t take long to find the one he sought. The golden guitar pick, nestled in the square-head nails that were supposed to represent hair, was a dead giveaway. As Baron Malveaux, he’d had the displeasure of having his soul incarcerated in the old African sculpture—not something he was bound to forget.
Without worrying about any secret voodoo alarm system, he opened the case and lifted the totem from its resting place. Instead of heading into the back room filled with so many memories, he set the hated head on the nearest table. “We’re going to do things my way this time.”
He pulled out all of his old cursed items and sprinkled them around the totem like Mardi Gras favors. The pile of objects looked pathetically small. In all of hell, this is the best I can do?
