by Rainy Kaye
Side by side with Randall, I followed the woman and Olivier up a stone walkway toward their home. The white lengths of dentils and spandrils, and the decorative gable treatments lent to the appearance of elaborate icing on a gingerbread house.
Perhaps Randall and I were Hansel and Gretel, and the umbrella-wielding woman was a witch.
It was possible that she used magic. She did have a husband who could turn into an alligator. The chances of her not being a witch were almost non-existent.
Either way, she had my talisman. I itched to take it, to hold it in my hand.
She led us up the steps to the porch and then pulled open the front door with the antique brass handleset. Inside, she tugged a string for a light and then, without glancing back at us, gestured toward the sofa.
“Have a seat,” she said.
I stepped just inside the door, Randall touching my back, and surveyed the room. The walls were covered in peony and bird wallpaper in muted pale green and pink, with accent walls painted pale aqua. The furniture was old, heavy, the kind that would remain long after the house was gone.
Randall nudged me from behind. I inched inside and took a seat on the edge of the couch. Randall sat next to me, his closeness protective and reassuring, though given our circumstances, that might be a check he couldn’t cash.
The woman leaned her umbrella against the wall. “I’ll make you some tea for your head.”
I scowled, but the motion sent a new wave of pain through half of my skull. “Tea…?”
She was already gone, into the earthy green and yellow kitchen, which I could just make out through the doorway.
Olivier lowered with grace and dignity into the armchair across from us.
The longer I sat in this room, the more interesting it became. A clock painted with cherubs rested on the mantle, golden table lamps with white shades clustered in one corner, and framed art with dark blue matting hung in a gallery on one wall.
Something moved to the side. I jerked around to the adjoining wall. A small lizard scurried up, and then halted and waited. A moment later, he darted forward again.
Pressing my lips together, I faced Olivier.
“So,” I began, kicking out my leg to prop my heel on the hardwood floor, “you’re an alligator.”
It was the only opening I could come up with, between my pulsing head and the irritation over my stolen talisman.
He looked down at his arms, wry expression in place, and shrugged. “Not at the moment.”
“What kind of magic is that? Standard issue, or you had to pay extra for it?”
“Runs in the blood,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Gotta be born with it.”
“You mean, like, your great grand-daddy was also a gator?”
He grinned. “Something like that.”
The woman returned, carrying a silver tea set. She set it on the coffee table in front of me and stepped back.
“Drink up,” she said, gesturing towards me.
I noted the single teacup, and then looked up at her from under my lashes. “Is it poisoned?”
“Seems an awful long way to bring you, just to have to dump off your body somewhere,” she said as if this was a question she had been asked—and had answered—before. “Think anyone out there cares right now what happens? If there’s anyone left.”
Fair point.
She nodded toward the tea. “It’ll help your head.”
I leaned forward and picked up the steaming mug, before straightening on the edge of my seat. The scent wound its way up to me, twisted with herbal and citrus scents.
I stared down into the cup.
“What kind of tea can help…Oh.” I puckered my lips in a small frown. “It’s a potion.”
Without waiting for her confirmation, I tipped back my head and downed the tea in a few gulps. It went down warm and settled in my stomach.
I snapped straight and narrowed my eyes at Olivier. “Give me back my talisman.”
The woman smiled primly as she took the chair next to her husband. “It’s not exactly a talisman. We call it a medallion and it is, in fact, ours.”
“By whose decree?”
Randall elbowed me, not any too softly, but I twisted away from him.
“My great grandmother by five,” she said evenly.
I studied her, uncertain what I hoped to find. She carried an air about her, much like this house, and it was as if she and it were one.
Inhaling deeply, I tilted my head toward the ceiling and closed my eyes. Silently, I counted to five before I imploded, and then let out the breath. I lowered my head as I slit my eyelids just enough to see her.
My words came out thick: “Who, dare I ask, was your great grandmother by five?”
“The Voodoo Queen of New Orleans,” she said, matter-of-fact.
I deflated. “’Course she is. Good ol’ Marie herself. So, you do voodoo as well then?”
The woman leaned back in her chair, at ease. “No, no, I stick to a few potions and tricks to get us through, but that medallion, you see, it opens portals. Everyone down here only ever has their hearts set on one.”
“The Gates of Guinee,” I said, even though I still wasn’t entirely sure what that meant. “What are they?”
“The seven Gates of Guinee open passages to the spirit world. The afterlife, if you will. We can’t let that happen, and as such, we’ve kept the medallion with us for generations. That is, until recently, when it landed by accident during the mayhem with the Devourer. Olivier and his friends just got it back in time.” She frowned thoughtfully before adding, “I wonder if we shouldn’t have just let him eat it and not have to worry about it anymore.”
I shot out my arm, palm up. “I’ll take it.”
Randall side eyed me and knocked my arm down. “We have no use for it, and the last thing we need is more responsibilities.”
The woman nodded toward him.
“Wise man,” she said, and I resisted rolling my eyes.
She hadn’t seen him fall asleep with cheese dust in the corner of his mouth while binge watching shows about aliens.
Still, I hated to admit that he had a point, and it was one I shouldn’t have missed. Why did I care about that medallion so much? So it could give me powers that I lacked on my own?
The whole situation picked at my skin. I just wanted to find Fiona and get out of here, even though I wasn’t quite sure where we would go from there.
One problem at a time.
I shoved to my feet.
“Well, this has been great, truly,” I said with all the sincerity I could muster, which wasn’t much. “If you have any tricks for finding my missing friend, that would be great. Otherwise, I think we need to go.”
She raised her eyebrows at me. “I don’t think I can help you with that, but perhaps you could ask Great Grandmother.”
“Right…” I let out a groan, all manners out the window. “I’ll be sure to ask her.”
“She’s buried at Saint Louis Cemetery One,” the woman said, unbothered by my sudden and probably unwarranted attitude. “We can take you over there if you want to see if she’ll speak to you.”
I looked at Randall, who was still seated on the couch, like we were having a friendly chat with longtime friends.
“We don’t have anything to lose,” he said.
Whatever hope was in me finished collapsing. This is what we had come to: asking for help from a grave routinely visited by tourists.
Maybe I could summon her.
Yeah, that’s exactly what I should do—piss off the ghost of Marie Laveau.
“I’m going to need a mirror,” I muttered.
The woman shook her head, small smile in place. “No conjuring needed for her.”
What did that even mean?
The thought twisted through my mind as Olivier stood and turned to the woman. “Are you joining us, Edolie?”
She waved one hand. “You go on ahead. I’ll get dinner started.”
He reached down
, capturing her hand, and leaned forward to kiss it. The one movement contained so much emotion, I found myself staring.
He released her and nodded toward us.
“Let’s go,” he said. “It will take some time to get through the mess.”
“Hopefully the graveyard isn’t too damaged from the earthquakes,” I muttered as Randall stood next to me.
“I have no doubt the graveyards are unharmed,” Olivier said. He headed for the door, and Randall and I followed.
Outside, the calming stillness warred with the panicked, half-formed thoughts in my brain.
Olivier led us around back to where a blue pickup waited and halted on the driver side. “There’s not enough room in the cab, so you’ll have to ride in the back.”
Randall and I exchanged glances, but, without discussion, both of us climbed up into the bed. We nestled our backs against the cab, shoulder to shoulder. A ramp was folded up and tucked against the backside of the tailgate.
Olivier pulled open the driver side door and stepped up inside. A moment later, the truck started and he U-turned out of the property. The truck bounced as we dipped down onto the road.
Randall took my hand. “How’s your noggin?”
I assessed the situation.
“Better,” I said. “Much better, actually. And who uses words like noggin?”
He shrugged. “Who tries to beat an alligator with a wooden beam?”
“Touché.” I slumped my weight into him. “I’m worried about Fiona. I still don’t get why anyone took her.”
“Maybe she had a secret life. Undercover agent witch living as a mortal,” he said. “I always found it suspicious she hung out with the likes of us.”
I chuckled, resting my head against his. The truck jostled us along until my tailbone ached.
After a long moment, I said, “We need a shower. Both of us. It’s beyond offensive.”
“They never made a cologne called Adventuring for a reason,” he said.
“Hints of sweat, monsters, and despair,” I mumbled, a small grin in place as I pressed my face into him. “It’s all the rage, I hear.”
It felt good to be silly again. To be us. We hadn’t been us in a long time. Not since Joseph Stone came into our lives. It had only been a week or so—I was losing track—but it felt like forever.
The truck meandered through the streets and over debris, bumping along until we turned onto a road that had been mostly spared. The speed picked up, and wind cut off any further conversation. We sat in silence, tight together. My hair whipped around, and I fought to hold it back in a ponytail with my hand.
At length, the truck slowed until it came to a stop. I tugged my fingers through my knotted hair and leaned forward. We were parked outside a cemetery with rows of mausoleums, each different than the next, a dedication to the soul inhabiting it. Time had treated each one just as distinctly: gray, brown, and orange marred the surfaces in unique patterns; cracks formed unreadable maps. A few mausoleums had crumbled. Dotted among the cemetery were pristine white ones, as clean as if they had just been built.
I pushed myself up and swung my leg over the side of the bed, dropping to the ground. Randall joined me.
Without a word, Olivier sped off. I turned and watched as the truck disappeared into the distance.
“Did we just get abandoned?” I asked, putting my hand up to shield my eyes.
“Seems so.” Randall sighed, taking my free hand. “Let’s go see if the queen feels like visitors.”
We trudged forward and entered into a walkway between graves. A bent wrought iron fence caught the hem of my shirt, and I tore it free, barely noticing. From the mausoleum roofs, statues stared down at us. It seemed as likely they would turn sentient as it had been to find an alligator shapeshifter. I wondered what they would have to say if they did.
We made our way farther into the cemetery, taking in the detail of each home in this eternal neighborhood. So many resources had been put into this place, as if to ascertain the living that they too would matter after they died.
“I’ve heard her grave was vandalized a lot,” Randall said, still holding my hand. “It shouldn’t be hard to find.”
We wandered the rows, passing by a small pyramid, and a site that looked like a round set of drawers with a statue of a man guarding it.
The longer we roamed the cemetery, the more the watchful statues seemed to be daring me to try to summon the spirit they guarded.
“Ah, here we go,” Randall said, releasing my hand.
The mausoleum in front of us was simple, but the offerings left around it surpassed any of its neighbors. Flowers, candles, beads, trinkets, bottles; what she lacked in her gravesite, she made up tenfold in her power over the living.
“What should we do?” I said aloud, more to myself than to Randall.
He answered anyway. “Knock?”
I shrugged, shoving my hands into my pant pockets. He leaned forward and rapped three times on the mausoleum, like it was a totally normal thing to do. We hung back together and waited.
Nothing.
He knocked again. “Hello?”
I supposed it wasn’t too far-fetched. I could channel magic from the earth, after all.
Still, nothing happened.
“Maybe she’s not home.” I turned slowly back and forth, taking in the area. There wasn’t much else for us to try, and this wasn’t getting us any closer to finding Fiona. “Let’s just—”
I spun around and stared straight down the walkway.
Something in a long black cloak ambled away from us. The hood was drawn, concealing its head, and the bottom of the cloak swished on the ground. The being was barely more than a shadow.
“Um, Randall?” I said in a low voice.
“Yep, seeing it. Any clue what it is?”
“Not a one,” I said, fixed on its retreating form, “but given our luck lately, it will probably be something awful.”
Randall frowned at me. “We’re going to follow it, aren’t we?”
“Yep.” I nodded and set forward after the creature.
14
At first, Randall and I walked with soft, intentional steps, careful not to step on any twigs or crumbling stones that might catch the attention of the cloaked being. We hung back far enough that it could easily slip us if it wanted to.
The being never seemed to notice us, though. We followed it through the cemetery and out onto what had been St. Louis Street but now served as the hunting ground for the carnival demons. I wasn’t sure what they were hunting, but the way they roamed in packs, darting behind collapsed buildings and peering out at us, was predatory. Yet they made no move at us.
After a few minutes, I gave up on stealth and instead concerned myself with not losing the being among the rubble. We closed the distance between us and him, and if he realized he was being followed, he didn’t show any signs of caring. We were nearly riding on his back when he took a sharp turn at the corner. Picking up his pace, he followed along a wall until he reached an area that had collapsed, though it was impossible to tell if it was from lack of upkeep or the result of the tremors and earthquake earlier.
He stepped through the gap and slipped beyond the wall. We hurried after him, squeezing through the opening.
Another cemetery stretched before us. It was similar to the previous one, yet distinctly different. More crypts lined walkways, like houses and shops facing a street.
Up ahead, the cloaked being strolled around the side of a mausoleum surrounded by a wrought iron fence and disappeared.
The cemetery was peaceful, as if the dead were immune to the chaos happening just beyond their sanctuary.
I plodded after the being. My soles crunched over dry grass and stray pieces of bricks as I turned into the next row of mausoleums.
The walkway was empty. It was as if the being had vanished—which, to be fair, he probably had. He seemed like the sort to have that kind of ability.
I faced Randall with an exasperated sigh. “Now
what do we do?”
Randall started to speak but snapped his mouth shut. He stared past me.
I spun around to see what was coming our way.
Another cloaked being, this one much taller and thinner, sauntered toward us, the hem of his garment dusting the ground as he went. His face was concealed in shadows under his hood. With one hand he carried a long wooden weapon that ended in an elaborate gold head, a bit like a partizan. Etched in the gold was the image of a winged hourglass.
If this wasn’t Death himself, it was clearly a first cousin.
The memo to run reached my brain about the same time he stopped in front of us, only a few feet away.
“Welcome to the Dark Bazaar, witch,” he said in a low voice that seemed to somehow carry. I could feel his gaze on me even though I couldn’t see if he even had eyes…or a face. “What do you seek?”
“I’m looking for my friend,” I said, but the words felt distant, like I was hearing someone else speak instead.
“What might she sell?” he asked, partizan pointed skyward, wooden end on the ground.
I blinked and my eyes burned, like I had been staring, unmoving, at the being. “Um, she doesn’t…I was told someone here might know of her.”
“Hmm,” he said in a way that seemed he should stroke his chin, but he did no such thing. He stepped back, gesturing down the walkway. “Feel free to have a look around.”
Down the walkway, the mausoleums on either side shimmered and changed: the fence gates swung open; awnings appeared and rolled out from the roofs, propped up by poles; stands sprung up, overflowing with merchandise. Groups of people gathered behind the stands, but they had a strange, flat quality to them.
It took me a minute to realize they were the spirits of the bodies housed in the mausoleums.
The cloaked being nodded once at us, before turning and strolling away.
Randall shrugged, and together we headed down the walkway, through the bazaar. The sellers smiled at us, lazily gesturing at their wares: strange trinkets, bottles of what I assume were potions—or moonshine, if there was much of a difference—and home-cooked foods. I did a double take, mind reeling about how spirits made tangible food, and where.
