Deaderick said, “Nah. I’m sure I left some for this week. We might have to scrape the barrel’s bottom for it, but we’ll make it work.”
“Ma’am?” Ruthie asked.
Josephine patted at her hand to reassure her. Then, to the men, she said, “Things are under control here, aren’t they?”
“As controlled as they’re going to get,” said Honeyfolk. “Now it’s up to that crew to figure out what they’re doing. There’s nothing we can do to help from here, so you might as well head back, if that’s what you need to do. We’ll send someone ahead to let you know when we’re coming downriver, and you can catch up to the assist-boats in the Quarter. Someone’ll pick you up.”
“Ruthie, looks like you get your wish — and we’re heading home.”
“Mais non, madame. You do not understand. I wish to stay here.” She shot Deaderick a protective, almost possessive glance. “I will watch out for the men, eh? Someone has to keep them out of trouble. I will ride with the assist-boats, when they help lead the ship down the river, d’accord?”
Under different circumstances, Josephine might’ve put her foot down, but in truth, she didn’t want to leave the men either — and at least Ruthie could send messages, report back, and watch to make sure Deaderick didn’t overexert himself. If Josephine couldn’t remain, Ruthie was the next best thing.
“Fine, Ruthie. That’s fine. And you’ll keep me posted, won’t you? If anything changes, or, or … happens?”
“You know I will.”
An hour later, Norman Somers had deposited Josephine back at the Metairie lot near the street rail station, and shortly after dark, she was back in the Quarter.
Two Texians stopped her about the curfew, but all they did was demand that she find her way indoors. She assured them that she was on a mission to accomplish that very thing, at which point, one of them recognized her and escorted her back to the Garden Court.
She thought about inviting him inside, in gratitude for delivering her back to the house without further stops or inquiries. It was always good to play nice with the men who could shut off her customer base. But not tonight. Instead, she gave him a round of thanks and shut the front door behind herself. Until it was fully closed, her escort struggled to peer past her, then gave up and left when the front room curtains were drawn.
In the lobby, Hazel Bushrod was lurking near the large desk by the stairs, keeping watch for customers. When Josephine walked in, Hazel leaped up from her seat and seized her with a hug. “Oh, ma’am, I’m so glad you’re back!”
“Thank you, Hazel. I’m … I’m glad to be back, too.”
“Liar.”
“No,” said Josephine. “I’m mostly telling the truth. It’s good to be back in a place where it’s not just me and Ruthie in a skirt. The company of men is one thing. The company of men and only men … that’s another.”
“How’s Deaderick? Is he—?”
“He’s fine. Or he will be fine. He’s up and around too much, that’s for damn sure. If I had my way, he’d be lashed to a bed and forced to rest like a civilized man who’s recovering from a pair of bullet holes … not running the show as a member of the walking wounded.”
Hazel raised an eyebrow and asked, “You left Ruthie at the camp?”
“She insisted.”
“Then he might get lashed to a bed yet.”
“Oh, you stop it,” Josephine said, but she smiled. And she added, “But I want to thank you for sending Cly out, like you did. He was as well prepared as anyone could expect, and I appreciate it. But now that I’m back, I don’t suppose you could cover things for me just a few minutes longer, could you? I’m absolutely filthy from that camp, and if I don’t get a bath soon, I’ll chase away whatever customers we have left, now that this damn curfew is taking hold and sticking.”
An hour later she was back, freshly dressed and feeling fully human once more. Her hair was pinned and free of leaf litter or moss scraps, and there was no more peat beneath her fingernails.
Hazel was no longer alone in the lobby.
On the love seat under the frontmost window, much to Josephine’s surprise, Fenn Calais was happily chattering with Marie Laveau.
At first impression, they nattered as if they’d known each other for a lifetime already, but as Josephine descended the stairs and overheard more of the conversation, she realized that impression was misleading. It was a “getting to know you” chat of the strangest sort — the elderly voudou queen and the somewhat less elderly Texian, who was testing out his precious few words of French and getting a friendly, giggling reaction from the woman. She corrected him gently.
“Non, Mr. Calais. You spell the t on the end, but you do not say it. You let the word end a few letters from its conclusion. Say it again: vraiment. Say it, and don’t close your mouth at the end to make the t sound. It’s not so hard, vraiment,” she added with a wink.
“Ma’am, I just cannot do it to save my life. I think the French are the only folks on earth who are harder on their vowels than us Southerners. And if I never master it, c’est la vie!”
She laughed and said, “Now I know you’ve only been teasing!” Then, upon seeing Josephine, stalled and perplexed on the bottom stair, she said, “Ah, my dear. There you are. Hazel told me you were in the bath.”
“Madame Laveau, yes. Hello. Welcome to the Garden Court. Can I … can I get you anything?”
“Non, sweet dear. Only your time, if I might impose.”
“At any time. Ever.”
Fenn took this as his cue to relocate, saying, “I suppose Delphine is starting to wonder where I’ve gone off to. Perhaps I’ll just rejoin her.”
“Have a good evening, Mr. Calais,” Josephine told him, never taking her eyes off the woman ensconced on the firmly padded seat. When Fenn was gone, she took his place. She did not bother to ask how her visitor made it past the curfew. Instead she asked, “What can I do for you, ma’am?”
Mrs. Laveau took her hand and squeezed it. “I’m here because you’ll be receiving a visitor, any minute now. A gentleman.”
“This is a certain kind of business,” she murmured, half joking but half nervous, too.
“Not a customer, a visitor. And I’m not telling your fortune, dear one. I’m here to prepare you for the introduction. He’s a man you’re likely to treat with hostility, insofar as you’re able. But I’m here to tell you, you must not do that.”
“I don’t understand.” Josephine frowned over at Hazel, who looked back anxiously.
“He’s a Texian. But he’s no part of your … present interests. He wishes to consult you, about the Dead Who Walk.”
“Ma’am Laveau, I try hard to be a hostess, and in this city that means I am compelled to be civil to many Texians, whether I like it or not. I’m sure I can find it in my heart to be polite to this one. Why is he coming here? Why would he think I know anything about the zombis?”
“He’s a Ranger, dearest. An investigating man, for a matter requiring careful investigation. And he’s coming here because I suggested it,” she said, lowering her voice and leaning close. She held Josephine’s hand tighter, and Hazel drew in her breath with a tiny gasp — reminding them both that she was in the room.
The hands that clasped Josephine’s were as thin as twigs, despite the woman’s otherwise stout appearance. Gas lamplight twinkled on the silver of her rings, and on the red, blue, and green of the gems or colored glass found therein. The queen smelled like sandalwood and sage, feathers and dust. And in her eyes, sunken with age, there smoldered a deep, grim light.
“Child, do you know how long I’ve walked this world?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Eighty years, give or take, as the Lord gives — and the Lord takes. I do not think I shall live to enjoy another one.”
“Ma’am, don’t talk that way.”
She released Josephine’s fingers and gave them a loving pat. “Why not? Such is the way of things, isn’t it? Time turns us all, and I’ve danced longer
than many. I do not regret a single tune.” Her smile slipped, only a little. She restored it and continued. “But that’s why you must speak to this Ranger. He will help you, when I’m gone.”
“Ma’am, I am very confused. A Ranger?”
“Speak with him,” she pleaded. “New Orleans is home these days to worse than Texians, dearest. The zombis grow in numbers every day, and soon even the most determined nonbeliever will be forced to face them. They must be managed now, before they become unmanageable. And I will not be able to help. These Texians who you hate so much, they are only men — only living men, and most of them would leave as happily as you’d have them gone. While they are here, you must work with them. We do not always get to choose our allies.”
Josephine sat back, staring hard at Mrs. Laveau. Was the woman dying? She looked healthy, given her advanced age. But there was something … less about her. Something missing, or lacking — something that had been stronger in their previous encounter, not even a week ago. “People have … I’ve heard that you were controlling them. Has it been true, all this time?”
“Yes. And no. I can urge them, and guide them. As you saw, I can often stop them. But bend them to my will? Command them to do my bidding?” She fluttered one elaborately jeweled hand in a gesture of bemused contempt. “Not at all. Though if it comforts people to feel that they are controlled, so let them be comforted.”
“I think I understand.”
“I knew you would. We’re two of a kind, you and me.”
“You flatter me to say so.”
“You and I both understand, as women of color and women of power … that power is too often in the eyes of the beholders.” Her right hand drew up into a closed fist, a pointed finger. The finger aimed between Josephine’s eyes. “And let me give you some advice, eh? One devilish old crone to a devilish young one: Never, never, never diminish yourself by correcting the beholders out of modesty. When your beauty is gone, when your money is spent, and when your time in this world runs low … the one thing you’ll take with you into the next world is your reputation.”
Footsteps outside on the stoop came uncommonly loud, or so Josephine thought. She started at hearing them, the scrape of hard heels on the stones, and then on the steps.
Marie Laveau brightened. “Ah. Here he is now.” She rose to her feet and Josephine rose with her, in perfect time to the door opening.
It let in a gust of air that smelled sharp and softly sour, like the river before a storm. And it let in a Texian.
He was approximately Josephine’s age, perhaps as young as forty, with a truly outstanding mustache occupying most of the acreage below his nose and above his mouth. It spread like a pair of wings, as if at any time his face might need to take flight. Despite the warmth of the evening, he wore a duster and, instead of the military leather boots of the enlisted boys, proper snakeskin cowboy boots.
Josephine thought he looked familiar.
If he knew what kind of business Josephine operated, it didn’t inhibit his manners. A shapely suede hat the color of old bones rested atop his head until he removed it, revealing a pressed-down swirl of dark hair that was beginning to go light at the temples.
He said, “Ladies?” And he shut the door behind himself.
“Yes, please come in,” Josephine said, too late for it to mean anything.
Marie Laveau added, “Nice to see you again, Ranger. I’d stay and chat, but it’s time I went on my way. My daughter is expecting me, and now that I’m so old, she worries if I’m gone too late.”
He held his hat in his hands and opened the door to let her pass, then closed it again behind her, shutting the old woman out into the night, where she preferred to be — and where she met no resistance. She was gone as quietly as she’d arrived, without even footsteps to remind them that she’d ever been there in the first place.
The Texian frowned, looked back and forth between Josephine and Hazel, and shook his head as if to clear it. “Pardon me, I was just wondering how she’d navigate the curfew home. And then I realized that she’s got her ways, and I shouldn’t worry about it.”
Hazel actually smiled, and Josephine’s mouth tightened involuntarily into something similar. “She got here on her own, she’ll get home on her own — I have no doubt of it. I’m sorry, but she didn’t tell me much and I’m not sure why you’re here.”
He came forward, seeming uncertain of how to proceed politely. Settling for a small bow in her general direction, and then one to Hazel, he told them both, “I’m Horatio Korman, a Ranger of the Republic. Are you Miss Josephine Early?”
“Yes, that’s me. Mrs. Laveau said that you and I should have a talk.”
“That was her recommendation, yes.” He glanced back at the door, as if not quite believing she’d really gone. “I get the feeling people tend to follow her recommendations.”
“Perhaps we could step into my office, upstairs. Hazel, I hate to ask you for yet another favor, but do you mind watching the parlor a little longer?”
“Not at all, ma’am,” she said, but her eyes were wide with curiosity, and a silent demand that she should be told all about it later. “I’ve been here this long, a little longer won’t matter. Besides, it’s been slow tonight, what with the curfew and all.”
Horatio Korman said, “Yeah, I’m real sorry about that. I mean, I didn’t do it. But. You know what I mean. I wish it weren’t the case.”
Upstairs she guided him to the wood seat with the shoulder-height back and padded arms that faced her desk, which she then sat behind. The show of authority might not have been called for, but it was as Laveau had said about power in the eyes of the beholder. She wanted the Texian to behold that he was on her business, her property, in her city.
The Ranger was not particularly ill at ease, not as far as Josephine could see. He was composed and confident, bordering on arrogant even just sitting there, but he’d shown a small sign of respect to both Josephine and Hazel on her premises, which was not something every Southern man did. She’d give him that much credit, but if he wanted more, he’d have to earn it.
She opened the conversation by saying, “You aren’t stationed here in New Orleans, are you? Rangers aren’t military, are they?” She wasn’t absolutely clear on the distinctions between the designations.
“No, we’re not part of the military, and no, I’m not stationed here. Not precisely.” He rested his hat on the chair arm and crossed one leg over the other, his ankle upon his knee. “I was sent here to look into a situation y’all been having, down by the river. Sent as punishment,” he mused, nearly to himself.
Josephine’s tone was icy. “I beg your pardon?”
Realizing her displeasure, he clarified. “The Republic wants me out of its hair, so to speak. My superiors wanted to get me out of Austin for a while, and I suppose someone figured the river was far enough away that I couldn’t bother them too much.”
“Are you a difficult man, Ranger Korman?”
He didn’t exactly answer. “Boy, if they think I’m difficult…” His voice trailed off, then returned. “There’s worse trouble than me weighing against Texas. Maybe not yet, but soon. And bad.”
Josephine went straight to the meat of it. “Zombis. That’s what Madame Laveau calls them.”
“The walking dead men? Same thing?”
“Same thing.” She nodded. “And it surprises me to have a Ranger under my roof, wanting to talk about it.”
“Why’s that?”
“Up until Betters and Cardiff went missing, you couldn’t convince Texas anything was wrong down by the river. Not for love or money, and believe me, I tried both.”
“Pardon me for putting it this way, but nobody would believe you. I know, because I’ve been trying to warn them for months — and I’m one of their own. Nobody wants to hear it.”
Josephine looked him up and down, reaffirming her initial impression that this was a dyed-in-the-wool, run-of-the-mill, straight-out-of-the-mold upstanding Republican, at least by all app
earances. Why would he meet resistance from his own men?
Horatio Korman eyed her back, likewise weighing something as he assessed her. Coming to a decision, he said bluntly, “Mrs. Laveau said you were there the night Colonel Betters and Lieutenant Cardiff were killed. She said you saw what happened. I’m not accusing you of anything, Miss Early, but right now we’ve got Texians down on the riverbanks hunting something they don’t understand — trying to defend this city from it—” He tapped his finger on the armrest to emphasize the point. “And they’re having the shit scared out of them. I was directed here on the basis of other people’s reports, soldiers and merchants who’ve worked down there, people with friends who’ve gone missing. My boss sent me to New Orleans to get me out of their way, yes — but they might’ve done us all a favor.”
“And how’s that?” she asked cautiously, giving away nothing.
“Because no matter what you tell me, I’m likely to believe it and likely to help you. These … zombis, or whatever Mrs. Laveau wants to call them. I’ve seen them myself, and I know what they’re capable of.”
“You’ve been down to the river?”
“No, and that’s the bad part. It’s a national secret at the moment, but those things, those zombis, they’re not just down by your river. They aren’t just in New Orleans. They’re in north Texas, and the turf west of that, too — all the way to the Utah territories and maybe farther west than that. Texas is getting positively lousy with them.”
A shiver went tickling down Josephine’s neck. “Are you … are you sure?”
“I’ve seen them myself, at the Provo pass. Seen them by the hundreds. And I almost didn’t escape to sit here now and tell you about it.”
“But how could they possibly be anywhere else? Lots of folks think they’re a voudou thing — spell-blind or ritual-maddened men, maybe even created by Marie Laveau herself! Lord knows half the city thinks she’s in charge of them.”
“Count me in the other half,” Korman said dryly, his mustache bobbing. “And you, too, I bet.”
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