by Alys Arden
“At least someone likes me today,” I said to the cat.
“Chatham?” The voice made my pulse pound like a freight train. Everyone turned to Adele, who was now standing in the hallway.
“Yes, my dear.”
“Codi’s at school, right?”
Who’s Codi?
“Yeah, baby, you know that.” Onyx jumped onto Chatham’s shoulder.
“In Tuscaloosa?” she asked.
“Yes. What’s wrong?”
She held up a phone in her right hand. In her left, a University of Alabama sweatshirt hung limply to the floor. “Then why did I just find his phone?”
“You angel! And I didn’t think he could love you any more than he already does. He’s been looking for that ever since he returned to school after Christmas break.”
She handed them both over.
“I swear. That kid. Typical, right? The son of psychics, and he can never find his things.” There was a slight stutter in his voice.
“It was in Mrs. Philly’s booth.”
“I hope that means he was practicing. He’s got the gift for the cards—maybe even more than you.”
“Ha. For the millionth time, I have no idea how to read tarot cards.”
“You just have to open yourself up, Adele. Open yourself up.”
She looked a little puzzled.
“I hope you got everything you needed from Papa?”
She nodded. “I think so . . . We’ll see.” Then she looked at me without saying anything. Callis shot me a look of sympathy.
“Hi,” I said, trying not to sound meek.
She repeated the greeting without enthusiasm, a mere formality in front of friends. I knew it. They knew it.
She told them good-bye and came around the counter to me, in silence. I touched her shoulder as she walked past, but she didn’t pause, leaving me no choice but to follow her to the door.
Just as I stepped outside, I felt it.
“Isaac.” The word crawled over my neck like an icy whisper. “She’ll never love you like you want.”
I whipped around just in time to see a wave of green rocks pelt through the air from a basket on the right wall. “What the—?” I yelled as they smacked my chest.
Chatham leaned over the counter as the stones rolled down, clanking against the brick floor. He looked at the empty basket on the shelf and then to me.
Callis hurried over and scooped up some of the rocks, pausing to examine one in between his fingers. He looked directly at me. “Jade.”
I didn’t say anything. It took all of my energy just to stand there and not freak out.
He went back behind the counter, and like clockwork the shelf behind him came tumbling down, and the mugs smashed to the floor.
He groaned.
Chatham crossed his arms. “I’m beginning to think you’re right, Callis. Maybe Julie really does hate you.”
“Who’s Julie?” I asked.
“Oh, you know, the family ghost,” Callis answered.
I laughed uncomfortably and went after Adele.
We walked a few steps down the street—me still trying not to freak out about what just happened. I didn’t know if we were walking together or if I was just following her. It wasn’t a good feeling, but at least she hadn’t sent me away.
“Adele, I’m sor—”
A group of people turned the corner, spilling into us.
“I can guarantee,” said Ren, “if you drink enough purple drank you will see the red beady eyes of Jean Lafitte on Bourbon Street.”
He stopped in front of a three-story, mint-green, paint-peeling town house, twilight creeping in behind it as if Mother Nature was Ren’s personal set designer. The place was grimy at best, but the ironwork curled so fluidly, like The Starry Night, between the second and third floor balconies, you couldn’t help pause and look.
Is that the place where . . . ?
Out of habit, I gently grabbed Adele’s elbow. “That’s the house where I first met Callis,” I whispered. Now I wanted to hear the story.
She looked at me, puzzled.
“He was squatting there, with Celestina.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah. I’m glad they have some place to stay now.” It felt good to be actually conversing.
“If I can direct your attention to this pole holding up the second-story gallery?” said Ren. “Does everyone see that cluster of spikes sticking out high up?”
Heads tipped upward, and everyone nodded.
“And what do you think they were for?”
“To keep out burglars?” said a man from the crowd.
“Correct, a colonial alarm system! The spikes were meant to discourage robbers from shimmying up the poles and getting in through the windows. It’s also said that French fathers welded them to scare the Romeos away from their Juliets.”
He smiled, hung on to the pole with one arm, and swung around, letting us all know that the real story was about to come.
I kept one eye on Adele, in case she was ready to bolt. It had taken two days to get her to acknowledge me. I didn’t want to blow my chance to talk to her. She was only a few inches away, but the distance felt so huge she might as well have been in New York.
“The year was 1840,” said Ren. “It was a cool January night, not unlike this one. Monsieur Gardère, the patriarch of a well-to-do Creole family in the Vieux Carré, took his wife and four of his daughters out to dine on turtle soup and frog legs in the Faubourg Marigny. His eldest daughter, fifteen-year-old Violette, had stayed home sick. Halfway through the étouffée, Papa got that feeling that papas get. With a throaty grumble, he stood from the table, claiming he’d forgotten his billfold back home. ‘I’ll be back before the bread pudding arrives!’
“As his carriage crossed Esplanade Avenue, he regretted having allowed his children to be born so far from France. ‘Violette is never coming into town for carnival season again,’ he grumbled. ‘She can stay back at Chatsworth until she’s married, safely separated by the bayous from these garçons de la ville.’ He coaxed his horse to trot faster.
“You see, the real crème de la crème of New Orleans society lived most of the year upriver on their family plantations, but spent New Year’s to Easter in the city.
“By the time Monsieur Gardère reached his Royal Street home, he was in such a state of panic that he barely had the reigns looped before he jumped from the carriage.
“He made sure his step was light as he entered the house, but it was too late, for he’d shut the front door too hard, warning his daughter of his presence. The sounds of scurrying feet from above enraged him, and he paused on the stairs, wondering whether he should go back to his study to load his gun.
“‘Non!’ he decided. ‘If it’s that scruffy fruit peddler’s son, then the sight of the barrel alone will put the fear of God in him!’ A precious hunter’s moment was lost with the thought.
“He took the stairs three at a time, thinking about that pretty-faced boy’s hands touching his firstborn, but when he burst through Violette’s bedroom door, he found her in bed underneath the duvet, fast asleep, just as he had left her two hours before. Alone.
“The faint scent of citrus tickled Monsieur’s nose. His back stiffened. ‘Where is he?’
“‘Where is who, Papa?’ Suddenly awake, Violette did her best to hide the fear brought on by the sight of the gun; after all, her father was a banker, not a barbarian.
“‘Dis moi la vérité!’ Your cheeks are bright pink. Tell me the truth!’
“‘I have a fever, Papa, of course my cheeks are rouge.’ She smiled as innocently as she knew how, covered her mouth, and pushed two gentle coughs past her lips.
“Monsieur sat on the edge of her bed and tenderly touched her brow. Her smile reminded him of what it was like being fifteen, back in Bordeaux, where people were more civilized, back when social order meant something. Why did the Lord give me five girls? he wondered right before the sound of bending metal scraped through the air.
“Monsieur’s head slowly turned to the window. Violette trembled as the metal creaked again. Monsieur leaped from the bed to the window, nearly ripping the curtain down. Violette sprung to life like a windup ballerina as Monsieur pushed the heavy window open all the way to the ceiling.
“‘Voilà!’ he yelled.
“The sight of the fruit peddler’s son hanging over the wrought-iron balcony both enraged and delighted Monsieur. Now able to revel in the fact that he’d been right all along, he let out a hearty laugh as he aimed his gun, the barrel of which he thought was empty.
“‘Non, Papa!’ Violette screamed for all of the neighbors to hear. ‘Je l’aime! Je l’aime! And he loves me too!’
“The flush drained from Violette’s cheeks as she watched Alessandro’s knuckles turn from pink to white as he struggled to hang on to the slick metal. The terrified boy was strong from pushing his wooden fruit cart, which was always loaded down with heaps of lemons, oranges, and Violette’s favorite, pamplemousse, but the winter air was damp, and little beads of condensation covered the balcony railing.
“Tears dripped from Violette’s eyes. ‘Stop this, Papa! I will never disobey you again!’ She begged him to put down the weapon, but Monsieur was fixated on Alessandro’s ragged clothing, overwhelmed with the notion of this unkempt boy ruining his daughter’s life.
“Underneath his tattered jacket, Alessandro’s forearms quivered, and his biceps spasmed. Soon his entire body shook. His legs danced in the air as he hung over the three-story drop. He cried out for mercy in Italian, his native tongue, as each vertebra in his back felt like it was sliding down with weight. ‘Dio mi salvi!’
“Praying a father’s threat was stronger than the young boy’s love, Monsieur Gardère sighed in concession, prepared to put down the gun and offer his hand to the boy. But Violette, who had grown hysterical, grabbed her father’s shoulder, sending the weapon aimed toward the sky. A gunshot exploded, startling all three of them, but most of all poor Alessandro. His grip slipped.
“The gun clanked to the ground, and through the cloud of gunpowder smoke, Monsieur grabbed Violette’s waist as she leaped over the balcony, screaming, desperately reaching out for Alessandro.
“The poor boy might have escaped the botched rendezvous with nothing more than a few broken bones, but, to his misfortune, a spike caught him on the way down, and, as the locals say, ‘Ripped his skin open like an unraveling sweater.’ The spike had hooked his hip and tore his abdomen straight through to his thigh. From chest to toe, the fruit peddler’s son was filleted like a catfish.
“Violette hung over the rail, her gaze locked on the terror-filled eyes of the fruit peddler’s son. Unfortunately, Death had not taken its toll before Alessandro hit the ground, and for a brief moment, he lay splayed out on the street, staring up at his own flesh, his manhood, and his intestines, hanging down, taunting him like a rope he could use to climb back up to his love’s arms.”
Jesus Christ. My hands folded below my belt.
“Blood gurgling from young Alessandro’s mouth, he made it known to his beloved Violette that he would be waiting for her in the next life. ‘Io sono tuo, mia bella!’” Ren dragged out an Italian accent for maximum possible effect.
“And so, folks, on that cold January night, it wasn’t just Violette Gardère who saw her lover’s Romeo bits. They dangled from the spike, on display for the entire neighborhood to see. I’m sure it’s safe to say that every teenage boy in La Nouvelle-Orléans thought twice before sneaking into the bedroom of la belle he was sweet on.”
Ren took a dramatic pause, and for the first time in my experience, no one clapped after one of his stories. We all just stared up with sheer horror at the spikes sticking out of the pole that supported the gallery. The iron spikes jutted out every which way for maximum damage.
“Is that true?” someone whispered.
For Alessandro’s sake, I hoped it wasn’t.
“Now, folks, I told you to have your cameras ready on the tour because there’s always a chance you’ll capture paranormal activity here in La Nouvelle-Orléans.” He pulled out his phone and tapped the screen a few times. “Here’s a picture from my personal collection from back in November.” He held it out for everyone to see.
Everyone closed in, oohing and ahhing.
When the phone passed to Adele, I peered over her shoulder, along with a guy with a crooked toupee. “That’s nuts,” she said.
The image looked like just a street shot at first, but as my eyes focused on the negative space, the form easily came into view. I shivered. Coming straight at the camera, straight at Ren, was the figure of a man, dark and translucent like a smokestack. Flying? Floating?
“That’s bullshit,” said the man with the bad hairpiece. “Basic Photoshop.”
“Excuse me, sir!” Ren yelled, stepping right into the guy’s face. “I can assure you that no such enhancements were made, and if you take issue with the concrete evidence in front of your face, this might not be the tour for you!” He was so worked up, spit uncontrollably flung from his mouth onto the guy’s face.
A couple girls giggled, and the guy fell back into line, but something about Ren’s dramatic style felt off. It wasn’t that the guy didn’t deserve it, but it did seem a bit out of character for Ren, who usually enjoyed the odd heckler or skeptic. I turned to Adele, who also looked a little taken aback.
As the tour group began to move toward the tearoom, Adele caught Ren’s eye and waved good-bye, then began walking away without even a glance at me.
“Hey,” I said, hurrying after her. “Can I walk you home?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Yeah. You always have a choice, Adele.” I suddenly felt like I’d punched myself in the gut, like I’d given her permission to break up with me.
She sighed and resumed walking. I took it as a sign that it was okay to follow.
She didn’t say anything at all for the remaining blocks, and I managed to keep my mouth shut. The silence seemed better than anything I could come up with.
When we got to her house, the awkwardness came tenfold. It had been a long time since I’d dropped her off without kissing her good night, but I got the feeling I was about to remember what it was like. The iron gate unlocked as soon as she touched the handle, and each moment became more dreadful than the one before as we walked up the steps.
“Can I come in?”
She shook her head without looking at me.
“Okay. I can give you some space.”
“I don’t need space, Isaac, and I don’t need any more apologies. I need you to stop blaming me for what happened. Don’t you think I feel guilty enough about everything? About the Michels? About the Wolfman? About everyone else who got killed?”
“What? Jesus, Adele, I don’t blame you for any of that.”
“How do you think I feel every time you rub Nicco in my face?”
The door clicked as she mentally unlocked it.
She got halfway through the threshold before I grabbed a hold of her arm. I knew she was running away because she was about to cry and didn’t want me to see, but I pulled her back anyway.
“I’m sorry, I swear, that’s the absolute last thing I wanted you to feel.”
Her eyes stayed glued to the ground.
Without thinking, I touched her face so she’d look at me. “I know my words don’t mean anything right now . . .”
She nodded, her eyes glistening.
“But I’m going to find a way to prove to you how sorry I am.”
I leaned in and kissed her quickly on the lips, knowing the affection wouldn’t be returned, but it seemed like it would hurt less than not kissing her at all.
As I walked away, it felt like I’d been kicked by a Clydesdale.
“Isaac?” My heart stopped. “You should take this.”
When I turned around, she was holding something out.
This is it. She was giving me back the necklace, the feather. She was breaking up with me.
I walked back, my chest tight, trying not to show the fear on my face.
“I think you need it more than me,” she said. “You look like you haven’t slept in days.” She passed over the object and then slipped through the doorway and closed it behind her.
I stood there for a second, on her stoop, catching my breath, staring at the dream catcher in my hand.
CHAPTER 33
Elixir of Life and Death
Breathe, Adele.
Sucking in a big swig of air seemed to make my heart ache more, watching through the peephole as Isaac walked away.
When he was out of sight, I ran upstairs and changed into light-blue jeans, thicker socks, and the woolliest black sweater I could find—it had been freezing at the convent last night. I shoved an extra sweater in my bag, rebuttoned my coat, and was out the door before I could think any more about the laundry list of bad decisions I was making: disobeying my dad, lying to Isaac, and soon to be breaking curfew. Not to mention the dream-twinning.
I hustled down the street, focusing on the visible breath slipping from my lips into the night air and watching carefully for any sign of Isaac. If I ran into him on the way to the attic, that would be the sure way to end things. And I didn’t want to end things. Not at all.
I thought about how much he probably would have liked Nicco and León back in the day, the do-gooders of their time. By the time I reached the convent, I was almost in a trance, the need for answers possessing me. I wove through the maze of hedges in the convent courtyard, climbed the old staircase, and unlocked the giant padlock on the first attic door.
Three little orbs of light floated over my head as I stood in front of the final door, grounding myself. My fingers swept the locks, careful to not open them as I wondered what my mom looked like on the other side. A vampiric Sleeping Beauty, or an emaciated, decaying monster? Are they in pain?
I turned around, trying to put her out of my mind, and slid down to the ground against the door.
And there he was, standing on the other side of the room, staring at me in disbelief.
“Isaac!” I yelled, jumping up. “It’s not what it looks like! I swear!” Before he could say anything, my defensiveness switched to offense. “I can’t believe you followed me here!”
