by AJ Sikes
Contents
Gods of New Orleans
Copyright
Dedication
Historical Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
Copyright © 2016 by AJ Sikes
This is a work of fiction. Characters and events portrayed in this work are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to persons or events is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the publisher. The rights of the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Cover Design by Eloise J. Knapp
www.ekcoverdesign.com
ISBN-10: 0997437510
ISBN-13: 978-0997437515
Dedication
To Colin, for helping me get Brand’s story on the airwaves in the first place (anything that’s happened since then is entirely my fault)
Historical Note
Between the years 1936 and 1966, Harlem resident and US postal worker, Victor Green, published a slim volume of travel destinations under the titles The Negro Motorist Green Book, The Negro Travelers’ Green Book, and, finally, The Travelers’ Green Book. In the book were names, numbers, and addresses for locations where African-Americans using the nation’s roads and railways could find lodging, food, and other needs and comforts.
From beauty salons to nightclubs, the Green Book lit the way for safe traveling during the worst years of Jim Crow and through the early stages of the Civil Rights Movement.
This novel is a work of fiction, and of alternate history. Here, the Green Book makes its appearance in New Orleans, in the year 1929, and with a different intended readership.
Readers interested in learning more about Victor Green’s travel guide are encouraged to visit the New York Public Library’s online archives of Public Domain titles:
http://publicdomain.nypl.org/greenbook-map/
~•~
The term krewe isn’t specific to New Orleans, but is perhaps most commonly known to refer to groups and communities that support the annual Mardi Gras festival there. Mardi Gras does not appear in this book, but I do use the term krewe, and have taken more than a smidgen of poetic license in doing so.
Most of the krewes in Gods of New Orleans may be better described as gangs, though the word is not strictly used in that sense. A krewe, here, is any group of people united by a common aim, sensibility, or ethnicity.
Chapter 1
Emma wrapped a hand around her empty gut and took a good long look out the cockpit windows. The long wooden structure of the Memphis mooring deck stretched in both directions beside the airship cabin, but it was empty of anything like what Emma expected to see. Any mooring deck in Chicago City would have had a crew on it waiting to fuel up the first airship to get in line. But this place may as well have had a sign up saying NOTHING DOING.
Emma had been staring at the silent deck for the past few minutes from where she sat in the pilot’s seat in the Vigilance. The airship’s motors thrummed and rumbled behind her, close to using up the last drops of gas they had.
The fuel pumps on the deck below sat quiet and calm. Emma snugged her heavy wool coat tighter when she felt her gut turn over again, this time from fear. What if this was the wrong place?
She’d spotted the fuel station earlier than she expected. It should have been another mile to the west, right up against the outskirts of Memphis. Unless the map she had was out of date. That was possible, but something didn’t smell right. She’d made two calls over the wire and still no answer.
Cracks around the cabin door let in another thin whisper of night air that stung her left shoulder, and Emma gave a cry as a shiver forced its way down her back. To her right, the windows over Brand’s desk were buttoned up against the chill. The airship cabin still felt empty and cold.
Because it is.
But she had five other people on the ship with her. If something went wrong . . .
Emma tried to ignore her worry and checked the station house flag again, to make sure she had the right call sign for the deck.
“Memphis. WMR, sure enough. So what’s with the silent treatment?”
The automatons on the deck hadn’t moved a step. The mooring beacon glowed red in the gathering dusk, but it spoke more warning than welcome. The station house below had no lights on, and she couldn’t see any movement in the small airfield adjacent to the deck.
Emma tried the radio one more time, muffling her voice in her collar like she’d done before. “Airship Vigilance requesting refuel on Farnsworth Wind and Water account.” She gave the account number and drew in a slow breath. Maybe her father’s account had run dry.
Been emptied is more like it.
The old man hadn’t bothered to say good-bye the day he shot himself. Didn’t even leave a note.
Didn’t have to. He came back soon enough, from back there where the gods and monsters live behind the city.
Emma stuffed down the memories of her father dressed in a tramp’s rags and fighting off the monster that chased her through Chicago City. That was all behind them now, her and the others on this ship. But there’d be nothing in front of them if they didn’t get some fuel, and soon.
She reached for the radio again, but paused with her hand on the dial. A light flared in the station house and quickly went out. Then it came back and stayed steady.
The station house door cracked open, spilling a thin wedge of firelight across the threshold and into the gray light and shadows around the building.
Up on the deck, the two automatons came to life, stepped out of their shed, and clattered down to the mooring controls. As soon as she saw the gearboxes move, Emma felt her worry fade away like a ghost. She even cracked a smile while she waited for the gearboxes to work the ratchets and winches that would moor the Vigilance.
On the ground, two farmer types now stood beside the station house. The men shifted from side to side, shaking warmth into their boots even though they were bundled in heavy coats and hats. The station house door swung closed behind them and the dark night swallowed them up for a minute.
A small lamp glowed to life on a set of wooden stairs leading from the airfield up to the mooring deck. One of the men carried a lantern as he climbed up. The other man waited at the bottom of the stairs.
Up on the deck, the first man waved to Emma to indicate that the ship was secure. She thumbed her acknowledgment and silently hoped the guy wouldn’t tumble to her being a woman.
Everything seemed fine; the gearboxes had connected the fueling hoses. Emma was prepared to unlock the valves when the man on the deck shouted an alarm. She thought something might be wrong wit
h the ship and left her seat to open the cabin door. She froze mid-step when she saw the man holding a pistol in his hand. He had it pointed straight at her through the cabin glass while his partner climbed the ladder up to the Vigilance.
~•~
Aiden woke with a start, feeling a twisting in his guts that carried over from his dream. The darkness of the bunkroom threatened to choke him, and he quickly shuffled the blanket off his legs, untangling himself from the chair beside the bunk. His pa was up already and at the door. Aiden went to stand with him and drew up short at the sound of a muffled shout from inside the cabin.
In a flash, Aiden’s pa rushed out of the bunkroom and made for the cabin. Aiden spared a look at his ma then. She lay on the bed, with her brown hair all around her head in a tangle. She was just staring up at the ceiling.
Aiden saw the rise and fall of her breathing, and he stepped back to whisper to her to stay hush, just in case someone rough had got on the ship somehow. Ever since they’d left Chicago City, Aiden’d worried they’d be nabbed by a patrol boat.
“Just going to check on Miss Farnsworth. Okay, Ma? Me and Pa. Okay?”
His ma didn’t move or say anything in reply, but her eyes flicked at him for a moment, like she’d heard him but didn’t care he was there.
Another muffled shout came to his ears, and Aiden knew that Miss Farnsworth was in trouble. Then his pa added his voice, and Aiden felt his stomach flip over with fright.
“Hey, how about just settling down? We don’t want any trouble. We’re just here for some fuel and then we’ll be on our way.”
Aiden bit his tongue when he heard a man reply and with a voice that spoke of hard times on harder streets. It was a voice Aiden heard plenty back in Chicago City, back when he’d spent his days delivering papers up and down the stem.
Tough birds and tougher crooks made a habit of snatching papers from him and only sometimes pitching a nickel back at his feet. The way they sneered when they said, “Thanks for the paper, kid,” sounded just like the voice in the cabin now.
“I’ll say it again, and this’ll be the last time. Sit down and shut up.”
Aiden went to the bunkroom door. He risked a look down the corridor and into the cabin. His pa was backing up against Mr. Brand’s desk. Across the cabin, Miss Farnsworth leaned against something.
No. Someone.
Whoever it was had a hand wrapped around Miss Farnsworth’s mouth, and the barrel of a pistol poked out next to her ribs, aimed at Aiden’s pa.
The unseen man spoke again, with more force this time.
“I said sit down. Now hop to, buddy.”
A rustling came then, followed by a third voice. Somewhere in his mind, Aiden felt a snag, like a memory wanted to come out where he could see it and hold it. He rubbed at his eyes and shook his head clear, thinking that if he could see the memory, he’d have a reason to smile again.
But Miss Farnsworth was screaming, and Aiden forgot about smiling and ran into the cabin.
~•~
Emma stayed put. The touch of cold metal from a gun barrel still lingered on her cheek. The guy hadn’t wasted a second when he’d come into the cabin. He stuck the snub nose in her face and forced her to back up as he’d climbed into the cabin. Now Emma searched the cabin with her eyes for anything she could use to defend herself.
She’d been such a dope. This wasn’t the Memphis fueling station; it was a pirate outfit run by two-bit tough guys, no better than the mobsters who’d rustled power off her father’s plant for years.
She knew it sure as she knew they’d never make it to New Orleans.
The fight drained out of her like water from a sieve and Emma’s knees buckled. She felt herself slipping until the gunman wrapped his hand around her mouth tighter and yanked her up. He pointed his piece at Al Conroy and told him to sit down. Emma darted her watery eyes around the cabin, as much as she could without her moving her head and giving the gunman an excuse to wrench her neck again.
The dark space of the cabin felt like a cave around her, empty of any help or light or safety. Even Al Conroy’s eyes were bugging wide as he looked over Emma’s shoulder. Another man’s voice came into the cabin then, and Emma felt the gunman shift in place, like he was trying to pivot around to face whoever stood behind him.
Emma recognized the new voice and knew it was one she shouldn’t be hearing. The gunman took his hand off her mouth and gripped her arm. He turned her around to face the hidden speaker and Emma felt the cabin floor dropping out from under her. The air of the room shook, rippling before her eyes. A thin film fluttered, like a curtain, and a dirty tramp stepped out of nowhere to stand in front of her.
“No!” Emma hollered, pushing back against the gunman and overbalancing him. He stepped to the side, holding the gun out in front of him, aiming at the scruffy, smelly tramp standing just inside the cabin door.
Emma’s mind went in every direction at once.
He went out that door when we were over Chicago City. He can’t be here. Not now.
Emma moved away from the gunman, frantic thoughts still weaving through her head. The Conroy kid rushed into the cabin and pulled up at the entrance to the bunkroom corridor, with his hair sticking out every which way. He slapped his hands over his mouth as he took in the tramp.
“Why don’t you go out the way you came in, pal?” the tramp said from under his whiskers and through cracked lips. He stepped to the side, and lifted a hand to show the path to the door was clear. “Last time I was in this ship, I was the one holding the gat and facing a guy who looked a lot like I do now. Things didn’t go so well for me, as you can see. So maybe you want to think twice about trying a stickup.”
“You a . . . You some kind of ghost? What are you?” the gunman said.
Emma shifted farther away from the gunman, who’d forgotten about her as far as she could tell. She hoped he didn’t remember all of a sudden. Emma kept backing up until she came up against the kid. They both edged back into the corridor.
The tramp stayed by the cabin door, but kept out of the gunman’s way. Emma got look at both men now. The gunman was scruffy and thin, like he hadn’t eaten in a month of Sundays, and he was nobody she knew. But the tramp—Emma took a good look. Good enough to know the madness she thought she’d left behind in Chicago City had followed her. Mitchell Brand stood before her, covered in grime and filth, looking nothing like the newshawk he’d once been and every bit as threatening as the last tramp who had come out of nowhere to stand in the airship’s cabin.
“Brand?” she asked, holding a hand over her heart and keeping the other on the wall behind her, as if touching something solid might keep her from blowing away into the night outside.
“Yeah, it’s me,” the tramp answered, not taking his eyes from the gunman. “Looks like we meet again, and in this damn ship. You still got a grudge against me for Saint Valentine’s?”
Emma shook her head in reply, not wanting to say anything to the man standing in front of her. As she stared at Brand, his face shifted, grew darker, more threatening. Was he going to turn into the monster now? Had he killed it only to become its replacement?
The gunman cut in on her thoughts by pulling back the hammer on his pistol.
“Enough chatter. I don’t know where you came from, or what you are, but this operation runs on two rules: me, and this shooter in my fist.”
Brand sniffed at him. “That’s a low pair. Put it down and get out.”
The gunman lifted the pistol and aimed at Brand’s chest. “Fine by me if you want to die, friend,” he said, and fired.
Brand jerked back with the impact, but kept his feet. He stepped forward and the man fired again. Then again. Each shot made Brand twitch like he’d been socked by a two-bit palooka, but he kept moving.
“Die, dammit! Die!” the gunman yelled as he emptied his piece, all six shots right into Brand’s chest. Emma watched it all with her mind half in shock and half sure that she and Eddie would see New Orleans after all.
Aiden stared, struck dumb as a box of bricks, while Mr. Brand stepped close enough to grab the gunman. The guy flailed out, trying to bash his pistol into Mr. Brand’s face. But Aiden’s old boss sidestepped and brought his arms up and around the gunman’s chest, lifting him off the floor. In a flash, both men disappeared from the airship cabin, leaving only a sliver of sparkling darkness that flickered and vanished like a curtain falling across a window.
Aiden’s pa came to him, keeping his eyes on the space where Mr. Brand had just been.
“Aiden, you go on, get back with your mother. Make sure she’s okay. I’ll stay here with Miss Farnsworth and—”
“No, you won’t, Al,” Aiden’s ma said from the corridor behind him.
“Alice—”
Aiden had words of warning for his pa, too. He’d seen how his father kept eyeing Miss Farnsworth the whole time the gunman and Mr. Brand were in the cabin. It wasn’t just a look of concern in his eyes.
There was something pushing its way out of his pa, something Aiden knew himself because he’d felt it, and he knew it wasn’t something his pa should feel for anyone but Aiden’s mother. Before he could open his mouth, the cabin shimmered again and the space in front of Aiden shook. His pa leaned away, and put a hand up to shield his eyes. Aiden’s ma crossed herself and began to pray. Miss Farnsworth stood back, too, but she kept her head up and her hands free.
A film pulled aside and Mr. Brand stepped into the space of the cabin, right next to his old desk like he’d been standing there all along, hiding in plain sight.
~•~
“Miss Farnsworth,” Brand said to Emma but with his eyes on her feet. Now that she didn’t have to keep one eye on a gun that might end up pointing her way, Emma left the corridor and stepped into the cabin. She spent a few breaths taking in Brand’s appearance. His clothes had changed a lot from the last time she’d seen him. He looked like any bum, with a face full of whiskers and smears of who knew what. The rags he had on spoke of three rough and tumble days spent on the streets.