by Alys Arden
“And I thank you, Professore, for daring to take on Galen, and for the grandest birthday present I could have ever dreamt of.”
“Tanti auguri!” he yells, slapping my shoulder.
“You should come with us to Firenze for the celebration,” says León.
“What a grand idea!” I turn to Tuviani. “You must accompany us back to the palazzo as my guest. I know Father would love to meet you.”
“And it would be an honor to meet the grand duke of Tuscany.”
“It is done, then. We leave in the morning. And you will have to stay for my sister’s wedding next week. It is sure to be the most elaborate celebration in Florentine history.” I hook my arm around León’s neck, just like my brothers always do to me. “And so tonight, to mourn Giovanna’s future with the Neapolitan prince, we will get very, very drunk.”
CHAPTER 29
Le Chat Noir
I swallowed the last sip of beer from the bottle and spun my phone on the bar.
There must have been a hundred people packed into the ballroom behind me, dancing to the brass band, half of them singing along and the other half shushing them so the club didn’t get busted, but I felt completely alone.
I’d circled the whole Quarter after Adele ran out of the brothel, and I’d called her a bunch of times from her front door, but she wouldn’t answer.
I spun my phone again.
I shouldn’t have made the comment about Nicco—but I just didn’t understand why Adele cared about what happened to him and his brother.
The later the night got, the more I was warming up to Callis’s mission. As long as the vampires were in the attic, they’d never be out of our lives.
Now I couldn’t stop thinking about what Adele had said about Callis’s magic. Is that why he’s so sickly looking? From being drained by Nicco? I knew one thing for certain: if Nicco had destroyed my magic, I’d hunt him down to the end of the earth or die trying.
I picked up my phone and scrolled through the contacts until I got to Callis’s number. Both of us being witches made me feel like we had some kind of automatic bond.
Or maybe it’s because we share a common enemy?
The music got louder as the band built up the last song of the set, and so did the crowd.
The bartender, Mia, uncapped another bottle of beer and swapped it with the empty one. I knew it was from Mac’s secret stash, because the city hadn’t seen a delivery truck since pre-Storm. All they really slung was moonshine, which was perfectly appropriate given the bar’s illegal operating status, but not something he’d let me drink, being underage. Not that I wanted to. The stuff tasted like rocket fuel.
“Haven’t seen you here in a while,” she said as I took a swig.
I used to hang out here a lot, with AJ and Chase. Being with the other first responders was the only reason Mac ever let me in.
“Yeah, I guess I’ve been busy.”
“Busy with Mac’s daughter?”
I smiled affirmation, and luckily more customers came up to the bar before she could prod me for details. I took another swig and spun my phone again, worrying that I’d really wrecked things this time.
I wished I could enter some kind of parallel universe where I could team up with Callis, burn down the attic, and rid the world of Nicco and Emilio and their entire clan for good, while in this universe I could just be together with Adele without the lingering threat of the Medici. I pecked out a one-line message to him: Want to get a beer?
Instead of hitting send, I hit the back button until the message vanished. I was already in a world of shit with Adele—a couple beers, and a meeting with a vampire hunter would lead to God knows what, but I could almost guarantee it would be the opposite of fixing things.
I could only imagine the number of enemies the Medici siblings had made throughout their immortal lifetimes. You’d think with something like eternal life, they’d want to do something good for humanity, like cure cancer, or end world hunger, but I guess that’s the thing. They weren’t human. We were just a food source to them.
“Don’t you have to be at work in a couple hours?” Mac asked, appearing behind the bar with a crate of moonshine.
“I’m off tomorrow. I mean, I have to work at the café for Adele, but that’s not really work. It’s just showing up.”
He pulled out a bottle of beer, flicked the cap into the garbage, and took a sip. “It’s very kind of you to take those shifts, Isaac. What happened to Bertrand and Sabine is horrific, but Adele is taking it worse than I expected.”
Because she blames herself for their deaths.
“It’s no big deal. It gives me time to work on my portfolio.” I opted not to tell him that I didn’t really care about my apps anymore because I’m sure that dropout wasn’t a quality he wanted in his daughter’s boyfriend. If I’m still her boyfriend.
“Let me know if you want me to look over it for you. Or if you need a recommendation letter. I know you’re worried about your applications, but with all the work you’ve been doing down here, I can’t see how a school would hold it against you.”
I hated that he was being so nice. It made me feel even more guilty, like I’d slighted him too by fighting with Adele. I took another sip of the beer, finding it hard to look at him.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
Just that I can’t get your daughter to understand that vampires are monsters.
“Something to do with Adele?”
“She told you?” Shit.
“No, Isaac. I grew up in this bar. I know when a man is sulking.”
“Oh. I’m not sulking.”
“Yeah. What’s the problem?”
“It’s . . . um, there’s just something we don’t see eye to eye on.”
He crossed his arms. “What kind of something?”
When I looked up and saw the concern on his face, I realized what he thought my nervous blather might be referring to. “Not that! I completely respect your daughter.”
He uncrossed his arms and took another swig of his beer.
“I swear.” My heart raced. “It’s something more . . . ideological, I suppose.”
He chuckled. “Well, good luck.”
Behind us the audience began clapping in time with the music.
“Whatever it is, don’t push her. Trust me. I have sixteen and a half years of experience. Give her some space.” His gaze moved over my shoulder. “Well, now I’ve seen it all.”
I turned around. The crowd was circling a man and a woman, cheering them on as their dancing became more dramatic. He flung her around like she was a rag doll and snapped her back against his chest, their eye lock never breaking despite the twirling and dipping, like they were about to get it on in the middle of the dance floor.
“Is that?” I squinted. “Is that Ren?” I looked around the room for Theis and his usual gaggle of gothic groupies, but they were nowhere in sight.
The singer held the last note, and the crowd roared as Ren pulled the woman close and planted one on her lips. Ugh. “I didn’t think there was enough moonshine in the world.”
“Ren making out with a woman?” said Mac. “The apocalypse is nigh.”
A couple songs later, Ren appeared at the bar next to me and ordered a drink.
“New friend?” I asked, nodding toward the crowd where the woman still danced with a group of friends.
“She’s no Violette,” Ren said, “but it’s a fool who seeks to outdo perfection.”
“Who’s Violette?”
“Pfft! Only the love of my life!”
“What? What about Theis?”
“Don’t bring up that vagrant around me!”
Mac crossed his arms again, this time with a different kind of worry on his face.
I looked back at the woman, but before I could ask another question, I was being lifted off the stool by Ren, who’d grabbed a fistful of my shirt at the collar.
“Don’t even think about it, Yankee!”
“What the hell?”
I yelled. “Don’t even think about what?”
With as little force as possible, I pushed him off—I didn’t want another black eye—but he came right back at me, even more aggressive.
Mac jumped over the bar and then shoved his way between us.
“Have you lost your goddamn mind?” he said, holding Ren at bay until he released my shirt.
I was glad—the last thing I needed right now was to be throwing punches in front of Adele’s dad. But still, what the fuck?
Ren’s gaze flipped back and forth between us. He pulled the flask out of his jacket pocket and downed the rest of it. “I’m sorry. She just gets me so worked up.”
Mac looked at me in disbelief. All I could do was shrug.
He grabbed Ren’s flask and then paused. “I don’t know if I should confiscate this or refill it to the brim.”
I stumbled into my room, stretching my arms and yawning profusely. Another downside of fighting with Adele was no perching. But it was after 0200 hours, so maybe sleep wouldn’t be so difficult after all.
Yeah, right. At least I didn’t have to work in the morning.
I slipped my phone out of my pocket, kicked off my shoes and jeans, and hoisted myself up onto the top bunk. Lying on my back, I sent up a silent prayer that when I unlocked the screen, there’d be some sign of reconciliation from Adele.
There were three unopened messages but none from her. All three were from my pop, who I’d been actively ignoring all day.
Pop 10:43 Hello, son. Just a reminder that the Pulitzer ceremony is next week, including the press dinner. You’re expected to arrive an hour early to each for photos. I’ll have a coat and tie for you.
Pop 13:08 Isaac, confirm receipt of message.
Pop 15:25 Isaac, just in case it wasn’t clear, your attendance at these events is not optional.
Post-0200 hours seemed like the best chance to respond without starting a conversation.
Isaac 02:13 I think it’s best for all involved if I don’t go. I never want to see that guy’s face again.
My phone vibrated. Of course he responds.
Pop 02:15 You will be there unless you want to go back to New York.
I dropped the phone down to the bottom bunk so I wouldn’t risk throwing it across the room and then punched the pillow a couple times trying to fluff it up. I’m not going. I never wanted to see that photographer again and had no plans to ever go back to that bridge.
Medical choppers fly low overhead, kicking up winds and stirring up the stink of open sewage from somewhere nearby. Sirens blare in the distance.
Triage has been set up on the roof of a bank, which is only about two feet above the water—the closest spot out of the flood zone was too far away for medical emergencies—so we’re in the middle of it.
I look down at my right hand gripping the edge of a steel table while one of my crewmates refills the gas tank in the small motorized rescue boat. My skin is ghost white and streaked with black oily mud, and my fingers are caked with layers of orange spray paint and wrinkled beyond recognition. How long have I been out here? It must have been fifty hours since I went out with the crew, since the first breach . . . maybe more.
“Son, are you listening?”
“What?”
The captain in charge of our ward is staring at me. “Go get some sleep. You’re no use to anyone if you injure yourself.”
“I’m fine, sir.”
“That wasn’t a request. Four hours and you can return. We’ll be here.” He points to a motorized pirogue. “Take the boat to the St. Claude Bridge. Someone from the next crew will bring it back.”
I no longer have the strength to argue.
Even my reserve energy wanes as I scramble into the pirogue. I cruise a couple blocks at no-wake speed. The melodic hum of the engine over the rippling water makes my eyes droop shut more than once, but there’s no faster way to get there unless I want to swim. God only knows what’s in the floodwater. Snakes, rats the size of cats, and debris hidden beneath the murky surface waiting to impale you.
The tips of trees sticking out of the water show the edges of the streets below the surface. Red peaks and black peaks rise from the water intermittently. It’s hard to reconcile that they’re the roofs of houses.
My skin crawls as an eel slithers through the water alongside the boat. I watch the creature until the bridge up ahead draws my attention.
Finally.
I moor the boat and walk up the long ramp to the bridge, where two National Guard members are standing with some medics. My permanently waterlogged boots feel like they weigh two tons.
“Sorry, kid,” the taller officer says to me when I reach them. “Ground transportation already left . . . They’ll be back in an hour.”
I can’t wait another hour.
“It’s fine. I’ll walk.”
“You’re still looking at three feet of water minimum on this side of the canal, deeper, closer to the river.”
I hold up my pale, water-wrinkled hands. “I’ve been in it for the last two days. I’ll live.”
“Do you have a weapon?” he asks.
“Uh, no.”
“Living is debatable, then. There are looters rampant on this side. It’s mayhem.”
“I just want to get to base camp so I can sleep and come back out.”
He nods approval. “It’s not too far. Just don’t veer off St. Claude until you get to Franklin. Then it’s a straight shot to the dock. The sooner you veer off, the deeper the water.”
I start down the ramp on the opposite side of the bridge, cherishing my last few dry steps. I hit water again before I get to street level.
It quickly passes my ankles and then my shins as I wade down the street. St. Claude looks like it was a main thoroughfare. Now overturned cars float down the street, and there was no signs of people, no voices or music . . . just the sloshing of the water as I walk. I pass a body shop, a dollar store, a post office, and house after house, all destroyed. Some buildings are missing roofs or walls, others just piles of brick and timber resting atop slabs of partially submerged concrete. And this was the unbreeched side of the levee.
Up ahead, a bright-purple house with pink decorative trim that looks suited for a gingerbread man sits in the murky water. Pieces of lethal-looking metal and wood from other buildings have collected against the front. I slog by.
As the water creeps up past my knees to my thighs, I try not to think about eels or snakes or anything else that slithers. Maybe this wasn’t the greatest idea.
A shadow passes over the surface of the water nearby as something swoops overheard. I turn back, shielding my eyes from the sun, trying to catch sight of the bird. Was that an eagle? It seems implausible in the city.
I freeze.
A man is on the bridge, up in the metal frame that lifts the drawbridge. I squint to get a better look—he’s facing my way, shooting a long lens straight at me. Fucking bastard.
I turn again and walk faster, pulling my knees up through the water. It’s incomprehensible that people have come to the city and aren’t helping with rescue. There are seniors in retirement homes and hospitals without electricity and water, yet this asshole’s hanging out on a bridge taking photos for some newspaper editor sitting comfortably in a corner office with a view of Central Park.
I splash my way down the street. When I glance back, I see his lens follow me. I shoot him the bird, yelling choice words I hope he can hear over the two copters coming our way.
A faint noise gives me pause. I stop, straining to listen. Was that a cry or . . . ?
I wait, but all I hear are the receding copters and sirens in the distance. With an uneasy feeling, I continue on through the floodwaters, which I could swear are rising—they’re now nearly midthigh.
I stop again. Barking. A series of sharp, continuous yelps are coming from down the street, somewhere to the left, toward the river. I catch a blur of sandy-brown movement as a dog leaps from the roof of a car and lands in the water with a heav
y splash.
Its floppy-eared head bursts up through the surface. I wade forward to meet her as she paddles toward me.
“I gotcha!” I say, scooping the dog out of the floodwater, which now reaches my hips.
She has a collar with tags and a white spot over her right eye and is a little too big to be held, but I can’t just leave her to swim.
Over my shoulder, I see the photographer turn, following me with his lens. I can feel his energy, like he’s about to get something good.
“It’s just a dog, asshole!” I yell. I know it’s impossible, but I swear I can hear the click, click, clicking of his stupid camera.
“Don’t worry, girl. We’re getting out of here.”
She shakes uncontrollably and barks in my face.
“Calm down, I’m gonna get us out of the water, I swear.”
She doesn’t stop barking as I walk away. I hold her tighter, trying to make her feel safe, but she squirms and kicks. “Shit!” I yell as she launches herself into the water.
She paddles back over to the left side of the street, where the porches are submerged underwater and where I was told not to veer off into. “Do you have a death wish, dog?”
I wade out and try to scoop her up a second time, but she twists out of my hands again, this time growling. She paddles toward a residential side street, relentlessly yelping, and then I get it.
“Shit.”
She doesn’t want to be rescued. She wants to be followed.
I chase after her, splashing against the water. Her yelps become more excitable, and I know we’re finally understanding each other: someone’s in trouble. I scoop her up and propel us forward, holding her high as I wade through floating wreckage. An ominous feeling sweeps over me as the water rises to my waist and keeps rising. It reaches my chest, almost too deep to walk in, but the dog seems riveted on a group of houses a few doors down.
