by Callie Hart
I bare my teeth at her by way of response, which she doesn’t seem to like.
“That must make you Charlie and Diane, then?” Russell asks hurriedly, stepping between us.
“Yes, sir. We was looking forward to havin’ the bejebbus scared out of us, Russell. Do you think you’re gonna be able to deliver? We don’t want no classroom lesson about dead folk. We want excitement. We want to fear for our lives and our eternal souls, don’t we, honey?”
Diane nods solemnly.
“I’m afraid your eternal souls are in no danger, Mr. Bryson. But yes, there are some sections of the tour that some people can find quite intimidating,” Russell informs them. “If at any point anyone would like to stop the tour so they can return to the bus, please just let me know and I will escort you back immediately.”
“We’ll be just fine,” Diane says defensively. Meanwhile, Harriett and Rebecca both look immensely relieved. I feel a little bad for them. They’re not from New Orleans, clearly. They’re probably from a tiny town in the middle of nowhere, where the chance of any kind of scandal or intrigue, paranormal or otherwise, sends the locals into piques of hysteria.
“Okay, then. I can see we’re going to be a fun crowd this evening,” Russell says, as he casts a doubtful glance around our motley crew. “Let’s get this show on the road, folks. Everyone in the van.”
I’d rather not go anywhere in Russell’s rape van, but it would look weird if I balk at his request, so I climb up into the front passenger seat. I think he expects everyone to sit in the back, because he looks sideways at me awkwardly when he notices me. “Oh. Okay, then.”
I shoot him a menacing smile in response. He immediately turns the stereo on, though he does turn the volume down a little, so the car isn’t so much vibrating as gently rumbling with every thump of the bass line.
Charlie and Diane coo over each other like newlyweds in the back, while Harriett and Rebecca sit quietly, each of them with their hands folded in their laps, eyes locked straight ahead, lips pressed into identical white lines. I don’t understand why they’re here if they’re so terrified. I mean, why put yourself through such torment?
Russell focuses on the road, fiercely squinting out into the darkness as he drives, swerving erratically every time another vehicle approaches from the opposite direction.
“Why couldn’t we meet at the cemetery?” I ask.
“This cemetery isn’t open to the public. The grounds are private. Papa Rioux has a standing arrangement with the grounds keepers, but they don’t want the location advertised. You understand. This is a very spiritual place. Very haunted. Supernatural beings are very sensitive to the comings and goings of the living. If too may people started traipsing through the place, who knows…it could send the spirits away. Or worse…it could make them violent.” He waggles his eyebrows for effect. I just stare at him. The guy’s a moron if he thinks spouting that kind of shit is going to freak me out. When I don’t gasp or start fidgeting uncomfortably in my seat, he clears his throat, fidgeting himself. “We don’t get many people coming to the tours on their own. You must have been really excited to come and check this thing out, huh?”
“Not particularly.”
“Oh. Then, why…?” He trails off, hands tightening then releasing the steering wheel. He’s clearly beginning to worry about my motives. Am I a serial killer? Am I going to go postal and murder everyone on the tour as soon as we reach the darkest, most secluded part of the cemetery? Am I going to flay him alive and wear his skin suit as a bespoke jacket? Russell is one twitchy dude. His discomfort would be mildly entertaining if I weren’t so uncomfortable myself.
“Some friends told me this was fun,” I say vaguely. “They love a good spectacle. A little…blood sport.”
His eyes go wide. “I’m sorry? Did you just say blood sport?”
I don’t reply. I just let that sit there between us for a moment. I plan on dropping a few more non-too-subtle hints on the car ride to our destination. If I’m wrong and the Papa Rioux tours have nothing to do with the Champion Ultime fights, then he’ll probably think I’m crazy and maybe he’ll call the police. If I’m right and the tour is linked to the fights, then he might eventually click and point me in the right direction.
“I’m afraid there’s no sport involved in our ghost tours,” Russell says. “And definitely no blood. Not real blood, anyway.”
Oh, great. Someone’s going to jump out from behind a headstone and spray us with fake blood? No, thank you. I will literally throat punch the underpaid actor who attempts to douse me in corn syrup and food dye. “There aren’t any special side events that people can visit?” I ask. “No other attractions people can visit if they pay extra?”
“I’m not sure I follow,” Russell says slowly. Sounds like he suspects I’m asking about an illicit sex club by the tone of his voice.
“Never mind.” I look out of the window.
We arrive at the first cemetery and Russell takes us around, giving us information about the historical figures that are buried here. The tour is bland to say the least; Diane and Charles look like they’re bored to their back teeth, while Harriett and Rebecca are starting to look a little calmer. I continue to make vague comments about fighting, asking if there are any famous boxers buried in the grounds, but Russell doesn’t seem to get it.
My frustration levels are pretty damn high by the time we get to the second cemetery. Halfway around the tour’s loop, Russell finally loses his temper with me and tells me that I can wait in the van and receive a full refund from Papa Rioux’s Tour Group if I’m not satisfied with the content of the tour. I decline his offer politely, flashing him my teeth.
I’m going to ride this out. I’m going to see it through until the bitter end. I won’t be able to sleep otherwise. It’s looking like I was wrong, though. The tours don’t appear to have anything to do with the Champion Ultime fights. Disappointment hits me in waves as we head back toward Russell’s van. I was so sure I was onto something. So sure. Now it looks like I’ve wasted most of my night lurking in cemeteries with the strangest mix of people, and I have nothing to show for it.
We’re back in the parking lot and I’m about to climb into the van when I see two guys wearing ball caps and leather jackets jogging toward the entrance of the cemetery, though. I stop dead, watching them as they jostle and rough house with each other, laughing as they boost themselves over the gates Russell locked behind us when we left.
“I think I’m going to walk back,” I tell Russell. “I’m not feeling too hot.”
He looks relieved, though he masters his face into a look of professional concern. “Are you okay? Do you need me to call you a taxi?”
“No, really. It’s fine. I think the night air will do me good.” I take off after the guys before he can reply. He shouts something at me as I vault over the gates too, but I don’t pay attention. My focus is on the two men a hundred feet ahead of me, weaving through the crumbling, aged headstones and looming mausoleums. They have no idea they’re being followed. No clue whatsoever. I hold back, watching them, waiting.
They eventually head toward one of the grander, more impressive mausoleums—a great dusky pale grey block of marble amongst otherwise sandstone and limestone structures. I wait until they’ve vanished inside before I approach the mausoleum. As soon as I see the words carved into the lintel above the door, I’m kicking myself. Of course. How could I not have thought of this?
Bienveillant et Gentil. Règles Sur Tous.
The name Bastien is nowhere to be seen on the vault, but I’d know that motto anywhere. It’s also carved above the doorway of the Bastien mansion. It also takes up half the skin on Alex’s back.
It makes perfect sense that the fights would be here, somehow concealed, hidden from the prying eyes of the public. But where, though? The vault is large, sure, huge compared to the other mausoleums in the cemetery, but it’s not that big.
I take out my gun and hold it by my side, cautiously entering through the same
door the two guys in leather jackets just walked through. Inside: candles. Hundred and hundreds of candles, all lit, the flames guttering and flickering, sending wild, long fingered shadows stretching up to the mosaicked ceiling. A number of caskets sit on shelves, and coins are piled up high around them, placed on top of them, slotted into the cracks in the stone-tiled floor, precariously balanced on every available surface, stacked high in the corners of the room. At the far end of the vault, on the other side of a narrow fold out table, a gnarled old man stares at me with glassy, confused eyes. Behind him, a wide stone stairway leads down into the ground. My pulse spikes when I hear the unmistakeable rumble of chatter and boots on solid packed earth, flooding upward from the stairwell.
“You can’t be here, miss,” the old guy informs me.
“Sure I can.”
He shakes his head. “No women allowed. Sorry, sweetheart.” He spreads his hands in front of him, giving me an apologetic look. “I don’t make the rules, see. And this is no place for a lady.”
I raise my gun, blowing out a deep, exasperated breath. “I’m afraid I’m no lady. I’m pretty sure I need to be down there right now. I don’t want to hurt you, so—”
The old man gets up from his seat behind the table, groaning a little from the strain of his movement. “I did what I was supposed to,” he says gruffly. “They don’t pay me enough to face down heavy artillery.” He holds out his hand to me, palm up.
“I’m not giving you the gun, buddy.”
“I don’t want it,” he says. “I just need something to pay the dead. Then by all means you can go down and face the consequences.” He jerks his head, indicating toward the coins. “Offer them a good tribute and you might make just it out alive.”
I check my pockets, but I don’t have any coins. The old man gives me a toothless smile, pulling out a smart phone with a Square sticking out of it. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he says. “The dearly departed accept Visa, MasterCard and American Express, too.”
CHAPTER FIVE
TOMMY
I can’t believe I’m here. Of all the places in New Orleans David could have brought me, Champion Ultime seems like the stupidest place possible. The vast space underneath the Bastien vault is crawling with security. Alex runs a huge gambling ring out of the place, after all, not to mention a bar and female entertainment, so it goes without saying that the place is heavily guarded.
“This is fucking crazy,” I hiss under my breath. “We might as well have gone directly to the mansion and knocked on the front fucking door. We’re gonna die down here, David.”
My brother, reckless as ever, shrugs his shoulders in a blasé fashion. “Maybe. The fights are the only time Alex lets Gen out of the house, though. And coming here is so blatantly insane. Alex will never expect us to show our faces, ergo he won’t be looking for us.”
“I hope for both our sakes you’re right.”
“If I’m not, you can kick my ass,” he says mildly.
“If you’re not, I won’t have to. Alex will kick it for me, and then he’ll kick mine and probably remove a bunch of our fingers while he’s at it.”
“Damn. You got so negative in California. With all that sunshine, I’d have thought you’d be optimistic as hell by now.”
I duck around a half-naked cocktail waitress carrying a tray of drinks, sequined silver stars covering her nipples, her full, perfect breasts bouncing slightly as she struts through the crowd. “I’m not being negative. I’m being a realist. Alex took Genevieve to force me back here. He broke your ribs, man. Honestly, what do you think is going to happen when he realizes I’m here, right where he wants me? There’s one way in and out of this place, David. Once he has the place on lockdown…”
“Just keep your hood up and everything will be fine.”
I’m about five inches taller than the majority of the crowd. The hood is probably only making me more conspicuous but I do as he says and I keep it up, hoping that my features are thrown into shadow. “Are you sure she’s going to be here?”
“Yes,” David grunts. “He brings her here to show her off. To make sure everyone else sees her, so they’ll know…”
A knot of steel and iron forms in the pit of my stomach. “Know what?”
“What will happen if you fuck with him. He’ll fuck your sister, and turn her into his whore.”
If Genevieve wasn’t his sister too, I’d probably king-hit him in the back of the head right now for even saying such a thing. I know he’s angry, though. He’s upset, and he has every right to be. He’s never said the words out loud, but I know he blames me for all of this. If I hadn’t gotten involved with Alex in the first place, if I hadn’t taken that fight, if I hadn’t taken my eyes off Serena all those years ago, then Gen would never have had to flee New Orleans like a thief in the night. I wouldn’t have had to go live in California, and David wouldn’t have ended up rootless, floating from one place to the next without a purpose.
I’ll accept responsibility for all of this bullshit. I’ll wear the cape of blame, and I’ll carry the burden that comes with it. What I won’t do is hear my sister being called a fucking whore. I shove David in the back, growling under my breath. “Careful, motherfucker.”
He grins nastily over his shoulder. “You realize that’s your dead mother you’re talking about too, right?”
“Just don’t,” I snap.
“All right, all right. Fuck. All that sun zapped the sense of humor right out of you, too, huh?”
I find nothing about this situation funny. I don’t think he does really, either, but it’s always been my brother’s way to crack jokes and try to make light of dire, shitty circumstances. Conversely, I like breaking people’s necks and permanently paralyzing them. I did back in the day, at least. Back when everyone around here called me Havoc. I earned that name. I shudder every time I think about the things I did…
“Good evening, gentlemen! Welcome to tonight’s Champion Ultime fight. Our one thousand and eighteenth ticket is literally one of the biggest fights ever hosted here beneath the Bastien vaults, so check out the boards and calculate those odds before calling in your bets. There’s big money to be won here this evening, gentlemen! And some major takedowns on the horizon. Forget Bellator. Forget the UFC. Their fighters look like candy stripers next to our savage gladiators. Reigning champion, Devon Rathbone, is heading up the main ticket—”
Over a crackly PA system, the announcer continues to speak but his words are drowned out by the roar that spreads like wildfire through the crowd at the name of Devon Rathbone. I remember him. I never fought the guy. He had just started training at one of Alex’s gyms when I was the reigning champ of the Champion Ultime fights. As far as I can recall, he was sloppy and careless with his footwork, but he had both a powerful right and left hook. And his ego was unmatched, even by me.
People bet like crazy all around us, waving stacks of money in the air as David and I push through the frantic sea of men. It feels so normal to be back here in some ways. Absolutely nothing has changed. Nothing. The crunch of grit and dirt on concrete under the soles of my feet is the same. The smell of sweat and dried blood. The excitement that snaps and pops in the air, infecting people with the same, recognizable mania that grips hold of men by the balls and squeezes when the promise of violence is on the horizon. I can feel it seeping into me, trying to catch at my soul, to light me on fire the way it used to five years ago, and it turns my stomach.
I try not to look at the octagon. For years, that arena was the center of my life. I trained six hours a day in order to dominate inside its chain-link walls. I stamped my feet on the boards. I howled with wrath and almighty vengeance as I broke bones and spilled blood. There was a fury deep inside me that I embraced wholeheartedly, giving it free rein to do with me as it pleased, and the result was like an addiction. I loved to win. I loved to feel powerful and strong. I especially loved watching the spirit inside other men break the moment they realized they were going to lose to me. I ate that shit up.
I lived off it, fueled by the idea that I was a god amongst mere mortals.
The truth was, I was angry and hurting and I couldn’t even see it. The truth was, I was never winning, even when I was taking home twenty or thirty grand a night to spend on hookers and blow. I was lost, and no matter how hard I hit, or how many people I put down, I could never satisfy the demon inside me. His appetite for chaos was limitless.
There’s electricity in the air tonight. My skin is prickling all over with anticipation. I’m only here to watch, to observe, to find my sister and get the fuck out of here, but try telling that to my body. My heart thinks I’m about to step inside the cage and it’s slamming around inside my rib cage accordingly. My nerves think I’m about to fight, so they’re jumping. And my fists…my fists think I’m about to draw blood. They’re tensed and ready. The hundreds of men in the crowd are sensitive to a fighter’s stance. They’re professional gamblers. Bloodthirsty spectators who show up every fight night without fail. They’re trained to study a man’s stance and the slope of his shoulders, to read the lines of bone and muscle in a body in order to assess how well they think a fighter is going to fair against another inside the cage. I need to be careful. Right now, it would be easy for someone to take one look at me and recognize me for what I am: a man, primed and prepped for battle. And once people are paying attention to me, it’s only a matter of time before someone recognizes me and says my name. It’ll be all over once that happens.
“There she is,” David hisses.
My head snaps up. David flicks a brief sideways glance at a raised dais off to the left of us, an addition to the room that was never there before, back when I used to fight. Four overstuffed armchairs sit on the dais, and Alex’s twin brothers, West and Vaughn are already sitting side by side in two of them. Behind the dais, a door is yawning open, and my sister is walking out onto the raised platform, holding the door open for the man himself, Alexander Bastien.
