by G A Chase
She snuck out of the hotel and along the shop overhangs that lined Canal until she was north of Bourbon Street. The closest costume shop was only two blocks down Dauphine. Getting there without attracting harvester attention would be a cinch. Figuring out what to wear would be the real challenge. “One thing at a time.” She pulled out both swords and ran through the water that covered Canal Street.
When she got to the garment shop, she scrunched into the doorway and tapped on the glass with the tip of her sickle. “Let me in.” With both swords drawn, she kept watch of the street while the sales associate worked the lock.
The girl opened the door only far enough to speak through the crack. “What do you want?”
Gratitude for keeping the girl out of harm’s way only went so far, and apparently that consideration ended at the front door. “I need a costume.”
“You have to be fucking kidding me.” The girl pulled away from the opening and started closing the metal-framed door.
Doodlebug slipped the sickle through the crack and twisted it to trap the woman’s throat against the glass. “I’m deadly serious. Open the door, or you won’t find an escort for your trip home. You can sleep in the shop for all I care and wake up as a harvester or run home and show up in the morning missing limbs.”
The door opened wide enough for Doodlebug to squeeze in. “It wasn’t personal,” the girl said.
“Nothing in hell ever is. I need a costume complete with a black bird-beak mask and lots of feathers.”
The woman forced the door shut and turned the key to lock it. “You’re going to the masquerade ball?”
Doodlebug held the tip of her sword under the woman’s chin. “Tell anyone, and I’ll gut you. Now what do you have in the way of an upscale busker outfit?” Though she doubted either Marjory or the Cormorant had a clue as to who she was, their spies were sure to identify the Doppel Avenger. “I need to be unrecognizable.”
“You and everyone else. That’s pretty much the reason for throwing a masquerade ball. If you’ll put the sword down, I think we can get you fixed up.”
Reluctantly, Doodlebug stashed the two swords back in her belt and followed the sales clerk to the women’s costume section. The peasant blouse the woman pulled from the rack wouldn’t have been Doodlebug’s first choice for dealing with the hurricane, but then wearing something stupid was kind of the point. The short maid’s skirt and torn fishnet stockings looked equally ridiculous. “Is this the best you’ve got?”
The woman took a leather bird mask off the wall and placed it on Doodlebug’s face. “You wanted to hide your appearance. Trust me—no one is going to see you as the Doppel Avenger in this getup.” She started bagging up the costume. “My boyfriend will be telling fortunes outside the mansion, as if it’s all that difficult to predict a doppelgänger’s future in hell. He’ll be easy to spot. He likes walking on stilts while marching in a second line. I’ll have him pass the word to the other performers that you’re coming. You have lots of friends among the street buskers.”
Doodlebug curled up the plastic bag until it was water tight. “You’ll continue to have our protection,” she said as her means of payment before heading back out into the storm.
The otherwise empty Crown Astoria had served her well as a place to store her equipment and decompress after a hunt, but sticking to a routine for too long made her predictable. She knew once she was done with the party she’d need to figure out another hiding place since she assumed spies from both Marjory and the Cormorant would be on the lookout for her.
She pushed the bike past the grand cypress-paneled elevator. Though the lift was large enough to accommodate the motorcycle, it would be too conspicuous for her to jet out of the elegant entrance on the bike. A quick exit was good for engaging harvesters but lousy when it came to sneaking away unseen.
At an unassuming doorway at the end of the hallway, she pushed the Honda into an area designated for staff. A single bare lightbulb blazed above the service elevator. Having one working lift in a hotel was a luxury—two was unheard of. But being the Doppel Avenger had its perks. She pulled up the metal gate. The dingy metal box could accommodate a fleet of motorcycles. “I’m going to miss this place.”
Getting the hotel to her liking, however, had required too many workers. So long as they and their families relied on Doodlebug’s contingent of street people for their protection, her secret was relatively safe. But she’d always known the situation, like all conditions in hell, was strictly temporary.
At the ground floor, she fired up the engine. She had the rear tire spinning before the elevator door fully opened. The dumpsters and laundry carts that lined the loading bay disappeared in a flash as the motorcycle picked up speed. With a launch off the dock, she was back in the storm. Anyone watching for her escape would have to look fast to notice the figure in a black rain slicker on the black bike, zooming into the dark of night.
Using her secret passages to the freeway and to skirt around the Quarter, she navigated the side streets of the Central Business and Warehouse Districts without being noticed. As she passed under the freeway overpass into the Garden District, her stomach tensed into a knot. This was enemy territory controlled by the Laroque family. From there on, she would have to suspect every doppelgänger she passed as being bound to Madam Laroque.
By keeping her head down behind the small windshield and her speed slow enough not to call attention to the superbike, she hoped few would notice the passage of the girl on the speed demon. Each ornate mansion she passed had lights on in every window as if to proclaim that even in hell, wealth could overcome hardship. Three blocks into her mission, she finally found a dark, dilapidated estate too far gone for a cost-effective remodel. With a quick check around her to be sure no one was watching, she turned the motorcycle under the rusting wrought-iron gateway.
When not running, the Blackbird motorcycle wasn’t the easiest thing for a ninety-seven-pound teenage girl to maneuver. Doodlebug leaned all of her weight against the handlebars to get the tires to roll through the soggy grass.
Harvesters who’d desiccated outside of the Quarter tended to be less aggressive than their brethren out to make a buck off of severed limbs, but a monster still needed to eat. Having her gear nearby wouldn’t be of much use during the event, but knowing it was only a few blocks away gave her a hidden stash advantage for any post-party adventures.
She kicked in the door of a greenhouse hidden behind the mansion. Though most of the glass panes had been blown out by the storm, the potting shed against the stone wall at the back remained intact. She propped the motorcycle on its kickstand and laid out her weapons like a surgeon preparing for an especially violent operation. “Now comes the hard part.”
She stepped back out into the storm, feeling as vulnerable as the day she’d been projected on Esplanade’s neutral ground. Without her usual assortment of weapons, the rain slicker felt as lightweight as a harvester’s cape. She pulled the waterproof fabric tight around the peasant blouse and short maid’s dress to keep them from going translucent in the driving rain. With the leather-and-feather mask secured tightly to her face, she pulled the hood over her head. “Time to join the entertainment.”
With flambeaux carriers lighting the way and a brass band blasting out a dirge as if playing for a funeral, the second line of entertainers headed to the Laroque mansion wasn’t hard to find. Doodlebug waited for the line of musicians carrying instrument cases to pass before slipping through the spectators into the procession.
A stilt walker hopped down from his wooden leg extensions to march beside her. “We’ve been expecting you. How can we help?”
“It’d be great if none of the guests at the party knew my true identity.”
The man’s clown outfit was nearly as absurd as the sexy maid costume under her coat. “I’ll pass the word. Should we prepare for a bloodbath?”
“Not this time. I’m just seeking information.” She opened her trench coat. “I’m not even carrying.”
/> The dude shook his head like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Who’d have guessed the Doppel Avenger was so hot.”
She balled her hand into a fist. “I may not be armed, but I can still knock you on your ass.”
“That wouldn’t do much for your cover identity. Once you’re inside the mansion, stick close to the guitarist, and don’t worry about not having your instrument. A number of the musicians are waiting until they get into the mansion before manifesting what they need from the other side.”
“I’m indebted to you.” She pulled on the headband and checked that her mask was fully covering the upper half of her face.
“How are we doing from your side?” Dooly asked.
“Hopefully, right on track. Feel like marching for two?” Doodlebug hoped she’d given the question more of a lighthearted tone than she felt.
“I guess.”
She knew for the deception to work, every muscle in her body would have to mirror Dooly’s actions. She focused on her arm movements first. “This is so weird. I’ve never thought about how I walk before.”
“We don’t have to do this. You can simply turn over your body at the mansion.”
Doodlebug formed a fist then stretched out her fingers. “Nope. I could freak out and take back control too easily. I have to adjust to being you before we get on stage.” Though she had Dooly’s inherent ability to play the violin, practicing was another matter. If she started screeching the strings, any guest in attendance in both dimensions would notice the divergence.
“Any good New Orleans party is sure to run past midnight,” Dooly said. “What do you want to do about the nightly opening of the hellmouth?”
Doodlebug could only juggle so many problems, and her agreement to watch the hellmouth proved to be one too many. “I completely forgot, and I can’t afford to have you running off to warn the others about the swamp being unguarded. Besides, Sere is the only one who could have stopped the invasion. Without her, I guess the living are just going to have to take their chances.” Doodlebug rubbed her stomach. “The good news is I don’t have the usual feeling of impending doom prior to the dimensional opening. We did bust up Marjory’s power bridge. With the freed nineteen souls, the ghosting of their guardian demons, and Aloysius stuck in her vault with his spirit in hell, Marjory should be limited in what more she can handle. Hopefully, she has enough to focus on while hosting the party without trying to cross someone else over from hell.”
For the first two blocks, each time Doodlebug thought she was mastering being a marionette, a tingling in her limbs made her jump and shake out of the connection.
“Are you feeling okay?” the stilt walker asked. “You look like someone newly possessed.”
“You’re more right than you know,” she mumbled.
Doodlebug lagged behind the other musicians. As the last one inside, she sat unnoticed on the wooden bench in the mudroom at the back of the mansion. “Time to do this thing,” she said to Dooly before taking off the headband and stashing it in her rain slicker. As a mirror image of the girl, Doodlebug’s usual form of communication would not only be redundant, it might create a degree of separation. She took off the coat and laid it on the bench. Anything she had on her body would be exchanged for whatever Dooly was carrying.
Muscle by muscle, she willed her body into synchronization with her projection. Her breathing slowed to the Zen-like state Dooly sought prior to a gig. Her heart beat out of time with the girl in life as if refusing to accept the inevitable. I have to do this. The thought shared by both versions of herself crossed the gap between dimensions.
She stood without realizing the action. The violin in her hand was both familiar and alien at the same time. I want to see what I’m wearing. At the floor-to-ceiling mirror next to the kitchen door, she saw herself as never before. The flower-print free-flowing short dress did wonders for attracting attention—from both men and women—but it worked best on warm spring days with a light breeze to move the fabric around her diminutive body. The black boots laced up to above her knees added to the sexy street performer look. She fluffed her recently cut short hair. It’s springy. She turned back to her bag on the bench and pulled out the feathered bird mask. It would be challenging to keep the beak off the strings, but she’d played in more challenging conditions.
A dude wearing an identical mask and carrying his guitar by the neck like he was trying to strangle the poor thing poked his face through the doorway. “I’m Lewis, your protector and chaperone for the evening. You coming, or what?”
She turned from the mirror to him fast enough to give her dress a seductive twirl. “Sorry. Just getting myself together.”
Passing through the unassuming side entrance from the kitchen to the opulent grand ballroom made her stand in wonder. A chandelier larger than her whole body hung from the middle of the ceiling. The power needed to light the dozens of bulbs to full intensity could illuminate Doodlebug’s entire hotel. Plaster cherubs being chased by demons decorated the cornice. Like the twinkling light off the cut crystal, her attention wafted down the red-and-black fleur-de-lis wallpaper to the growing crowd of elegantly dressed guests.
Lewis nodded toward the stage in the corner of the room. “Keep moving. You don’t want to draw attention.”
She quickly lowered her head and shuffled along behind him. The banquet table loaded down with iced seafood and raw fish tempted her with its smells. The spread must be in honor of the Cormorant.
“I’d bet anything they’re making us walk beside all this food as a way of tormenting the underprivileged entertainers,” she said out loud without realizing it.
“It would sure beat the cold pizza I had last night,” he whispered over his shoulder.
Keep it together, girl. This isn’t the time or place for flirting. She stepped up on stage and scrunched behind the dude to be as inconspicuous as possible. The room was quickly filling with elegant partygoers, but she found it impossible to tell one person from the next. Everyone was wearing outfits either accentuated with black feathers or completely covered in them. Combined with their bird masks, she feared the Cormorant might be standing right in front of her and she wouldn’t notice. It’s like a conspiracy of ravens in here.
She let her gaze roam around the room. The overlaying images of life and hell blurred her vision like she’d had too many glasses of champagne. Apparently rich doppelgängers don’t find it necessary to follow the actions of their reals. Though if the Cormorant were here, I suspect I’d notice. She doesn’t seem like the type of deity to remain in the shadows.
The musicians around her began preparing their instruments. Her hand holding the violin swung the instrument under her chin while the other teased the bow over the strings.
If this reconnaissance is going to work, I need to be able to see hell. I need to keep playing, but my eyes need to focus on one dimension. As she lost herself to her music, another piece of her felt like a damsel imprisoned in a medieval torture device that she could only see out of. Without distracting a single muscle movement—from the delicately precise finger thrusts against the strings to the swaying of her back in rhythm with the playing—she turned her eyes to the room. As providers of background noise to the far more important conversations, the musicians received less attention than the serving staff behind the banquet table. Even if someone in the crowd did know of the Doppel Avenger, none of them would cast a glance in her direction for fear of validating the hired help.
Women in short black wings and even shorter dresses laughed over their wine glasses at men in feathered tuxedoes with long tails. Seeing them attempting to slip the fluted glassware under the ungainly long bird beaks made her wonder why they didn’t just take the stupid things off. No one wants to be easily identified, but is that out of reverence to the Cormorant, respect for Marjory’s wishes, or fear of being recognized by the hired help? In hell, knowledge of other’s secrets was the only true currency. Being identified as one of the Laroques’ upper echelon would make a
ny of the partygoers prime targets for abduction.
In the center of the ballroom, Marjory Laroque was impossible to miss. The diamonds that dripped from her earlobes and neck caught the light of the chandelier and passed it to the crowd like a Mardi Gras queen tossing strings of colorful beads to the revelers. Unlike the other guests, her mask—studded with rubies, sapphires, and with a peacock-feather flourish—called attention to the woman, highlighting more than covering her eyes and nose.
There’s Gerald Laroque. I’d recognize the former chief of police anywhere. I would have thought he could have gone with a better costume. Without the feathered shoulders and leather bird mask, the man could have been going to a night of opera in his well-tailored tux. His lack of illusion is probably deliberate. Even in his eighties, the man served as his sister’s bodyguard in image if not in practice. And since Doodlebug could spot the man standing next to the most fashionably attired woman in the room, the Cormorant would know who to approach as well—as if Marjory needed more of an introduction. With Dooly’s help, Doodlebug made a slow survey of the room. Looks like the guest of honor likes to be fashionably late. She’s probably waiting to make a grand entrance. Individuals who think themselves gods like making a scene. I need to keep my cool when I do see her.
With fighting not being an option, she was out of her depths. She needed to know if she could trust the Cormorant to be true to Nocturne’s offer. Their meeting at the airport gate seemed like a lifetime ago. If Marjory and the Cormorant were overly chummy, even that offered union could be in peril. Joining forces with the harvesters, however, still made her skin crawl. I’m just here to watch how events play out.
The twelve-foot tall French doors across the ballroom burst open, causing the musicians to lower their instruments. Two rows of harvesters dressed in capes so black they sucked the light from the room marched through the party, cutting a lane from doorway to hostess.
