by Arden, Alys
Ren’s boyfriend, Theis, brushed past me too, giving my shoulder a squeeze on the way. It felt awkward coming from the standoffish Scandinavian. More taps on the shoulders, and more kisses on my cheek: Chatham and Edgar Daure, with their three sons. Codi, who was closest to my age, lingered behind, pulling me into a hug. I hadn’t seen him since before the Storm, at his going away party when he’d left for freshman year at U of A.
“This is seriously the weakest hug ever, Adele,” he said, refusing to let go. I sighed, wrapping my arms tighter around him. He tightened too.
“Oh God,” I said. “Don’t do that. You’re going to squeeze the tears out.”
“Fine.” He held the hug for one more second before joining the others at the casket. Along with some guys from the roasters, they all picked it up and lifted it to their shoulders.
There should have been two caskets, but resources were scarce thanks to the Storm. I didn’t think Mémé and Pépé Michel would mind being crammed together for eternity. In fact, I couldn’t imagine them wanting it any other way.
It had been three weeks since they’d died—since Emilio had murdered them. A long wait for a funeral, but their bodies had been held as part of the investigation. Really, I think the system was just utterly overwhelmed. There weren’t enough cops back yet, let alone detectives, forensics, coroners. The rumor was there were still over five thousand unclaimed bodies from the Storm.
The funeral being delayed had somehow allowed me to put all my most overwhelming feelings on hold. I’d buried myself in schoolwork, in Kafka and Shakespeare. I’d spent too much time thinking about the way Isaac’s rough hand felt in mine and making mental lists of all the places I wanted to show him when things improved—if things ever improved.
But over the last few days it had all started to crash around me: the guilt, the sadness, the loss, and the horror of their deaths.
And of the role I had played.
But it wasn’t just the time lapse. The adrenaline from the battle with the Medici—the win—and the dark, phantasmal nature of it all had somehow superseded thinking about everything else. Our victory had overshadowed the fact that Emilio had killed two people I loved.
At least the Medici didn’t get what they were after, whatever it was.
At the time, the win felt like we had redeemed everyone who’d died. We had won.
But what exactly had we won?
Your life, I reminded myself. And Désirée’s, and Isaac’s. The lives of who knows how many other innocent people.
More musicians joined the clarinet and trombone duo, and we followed behind the casket, walking in time with the mournful dirge. A lot of the local musicians had worked at the roasters when the cash from their horns wasn’t enough, so there was no way they were letting Mémé and Pépé go without a proper send-off. Dozens of others followed behind us, waving white handkerchiefs, wearing Saints jerseys and three-piece suits and everything in between. Some were as old as Méme and Pépe; others were younger than me. A guy whose curls were so black they gleamed blue—or maybe it was the silver-sequined umbrella the lady next to him carried, reflecting the sky—drifted with the crowd; his enthralled look gave away his out-of-towner status.
Désirée stepped in line next to me with a huff.
“What’s your issue?” I asked.
“Nothing . . .” She crossed her arms as her grandmother and parents walked past us with smiles and waves, photographer in tow.
Isaac glanced back. Despite carrying two dead people, he was still checking on me.
“Ugh,” I whispered beneath the requiem. “I’m so glad the funeral is finally happening so people will stop looking at me like that.”
Désirée raised an eyebrow.
“He’s treating me like a delicate flower that’s about to fall apart. I haven’t even cried since that night.”
“That’s exactly why he’s concerned.” She pulled a flask from the waistband of her tight black pencil skirt and handed it to me.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I didn’t even think about it before unscrewing the cap.
“You are a crier.”
It was totally something Brooke would have said; my dry eyes went to the sky as my lips pinched the metal, and I knocked my head back. Locked myself in an attic full of vengeful vampires, but I’m still known as the crier.
The booze, minty instead of fiery, went down surprisingly easy. It was cool on my throat, which burned from . . . trying not to cry. Both the tingling aftertaste and the smile on Désirée’s lips told me that the flask was not filled with alcohol.
I sniffed the remaining contents. “What did I just drink?”
“You’re welcome.”
“Dee!”
Note to self: do not consume anything from a Borges without first inquiring.
“Chill out.” She yanked the flask back, took a swig, then offered it to me again. “It’s just a little herbal refreshment to take the edge off the day. I figured you’d be freaking out.”
Is this why Désirée is so placid all of the time? Swigs of enchanted herbs?
I reclaimed the flask and raised it to my lips. “Back to you. What were you in a tizzy about?”
“The Casquette Girls Coven descendant research has to pause for now. Not that you or Isaac care—neither of you have been helping me.”
It’s not that I didn’t care about finding the rest of our coven members. It just wasn’t a priority these days. I looked back at the casket.
“Sorry,” she said with an expression that might have been sympathy.
“Why do you have to stop the search?” I asked, taking another sip.
“Gran found out about the coven.”
Potion sprayed out of my lips. She yanked back the flask and stealthily tucked it into her blazer pocket before anyone saw.
“What do you mean she found out? Does she know about the curse? About what we did?”
“Relax. She doesn’t know about anything else. She just knows we bound the coven, and she’s pissed.”
“Pissed about what?”
“That I joined another coven instead of the family’s. We got into the fight to end all fights. Books were thrown. Jars exploded. A batch of fermenting seaweed got on everything. She even tried to make me break the coven’s bond.”
“What?”
“Don’t worry. I didn’t.”
“Does that mean she knows about . . . me?”
“Oui, and Isaac. Although, I think she’s always known you’re witches. Obviously she doesn’t have a problem with your magic, just as long as Borges aren’t binding themselves to it. We’re supposed to stick to our kind. You know, keep the magic line as strong as possible.”
Jeanne dropped into step beside me, looking perfectly put together in Mémé’s pearls and the black pantsuit I’d picked out for her. The loose braid I’d swept her long blond locks into was mostly intact. She extended her open palm toward Désirée in a way that made her look much older than her twenty years.
My stomach tightened. Only I would get busted for drinking when I’m not even drinking.
“What?” Désirée asked, as if clueless.
Jeanne further extended her arm. “I’ll give it back.”
Désirée shrugged and conceded the flask. “Drink at your own risk.”
I wondered what exactly was in the herbal cocktail, or more precisely what spell she had used—and whether Jeanne, in her life, had ever drunk a sip of anything stronger than the tight-rolled leaves of China Gunpowder tea.
I guess we’re about to find out.
As we continued to walk, she took a healthy swig, but before she swallowed, she swished it between her cheeks. “What is this? It’s not alcohol.”
“Pfft.” Désirée smiled. “Like you’d know, Little Miss Scientist.”
I gave her a harsh look, but Jeanne was utterly unfazed by the jab.
“It’s Dr. Little Miss Scientist,” she answered, somehow still holding the liquid in her cheeks. “And that’s exactly
how I know there’s nothing fermented in this solution.” She gargled for a deeper investigation.
“Is she serious?”
“As a starved alligator.” I fought the urge to smile.
Walking in between the two of them, my anxiety began to dissipate. Neither Jeanne nor Désirée could coddle me if their lives depended on it. Jeanne’s empathy gene was buried deep beneath all of her genius—I was pretty sure she had to consciously remember simple social norms like greeting people when she walked into a room. And Désirée was, well . . . Désirée.
My gaze wandered to check on Isaac, which made me feel like a hypocrite.
Sometimes his New Yorkiness—his mouth—made him stand out, but now he totally looked like a fish out of water, surely the only person in the krewe who had never seen a casket dance. When he’d offered to help carry Mémé and Pépé, I wasn’t sure if he was trying to be helpful or just trying to befriend Sébastien, or my father, who wasn’t exactly thrilled about our sudden closeness. Either way, they weren’t going to turn down his roof-repairing upper-body strength. As the rest of the guys began to casually shake with the beat, Isaac’s awkwardness made my smile finally crack.
He has no idea what he’s gotten himself into.
It was tradition at a New Orleans jazz funeral for the pallbearers to shake the casket on the way to the cemetery in order to give the deceased one last dance before they were locked away for eternity.
But Isaac didn’t seem scared of our weird ways in New Orleans. He didn’t seem to be scared of anything, actually.
The tempo picked up as the trumpets transitioned the band into a jazzier tune, and for a full street block, I watched him watch the others sway with the music, like trying to learn the moves from an aerobics instructor without tripping in the process. After another block, his body began to move naturally with the rhythm, and I found myself starting to wish he was back here with me.
Ren, Chatham, and the others carried the huge box like they had done it a hundred times before. Maybe they had.
I wondered if Isaac had carried his mother’s casket at her funeral. Do they play jazz at funerals in Brooklyn? Was it a small, intimate affair?
My mother didn’t get a funeral. No one had mourned for her. No one even knew that she’d died, other than me.
Except, of course, her killer.
And his famiglia.
Before my thoughts could spiral any deeper, a man turned around—the mayor—and offered his hand to Dee. “Y’all need to stop looking like someone died.” A satin Zulu sash was tied across his chest.
Each Social Aid and Pleasure Club had their own marching krewe with their own colors, costumes, rituals, and funeral rites. The walking parade rolled to celebrate the joy of someone’s life, rather than the ominous fact that it was over. The family, the casket bearers, the krewe, and the band made up the First Line, while the mourners-slash-celebrators, and really anyone in the neighborhood, formed the Second Line.
He pulled Désirée away. The staff photographer put a white handkerchief in her hand and followed behind them. Dee despised that guy and his camera clicks, and I couldn’t blame her. I could tell she was trying to not give the photographer the shot, but when her father twisted her around, she cracked a smile.
Watching them dance made my senses wildly confused. My hips wanted to sway along with the brassy song as the band really got going, and my arms wanted to wave Blanche’s umbrella above my head, but my brain told me that I should be overwhelmed with melancholy.
Dee danced back, grabbed my hand, and spun me around just as I crossed a pothole. I had to grind my heel into the rocky road to help balance the momentum to keep from falling. More and more people joined the parade behind us, until I was sure that everyone east of the Quarter who’d returned post-Storm had joined the Second Line. More singing, and more dancing, and more handkerchiefs waving high as paraders riled up.
At first it was only my shoulders moving side to side as I walked, but half a block later, Blanche’s umbrella was open to the sky, getting the proper attention a purple bedazzled parasol deserved. My strut slid into a bounce, and the bounce, well that’s what New Orleans dance is all about. Once you’ve hit the bounce, you’re doomed. The world ceases to exist as the energy pushes through your muscles, making your body pop. When it occurs in the middle of the street with a large group of people, half of whom you’ve known since birth and half total strangers, well, it’s something special.
I yelled to Jeanne. She shook her head fiercely, refusing to join me, but I grabbed her hand and twirled her until her blond braid spun. Désirée’s potion coursed through my veins like a permission slip to smile.
Despite the occasion, and despite dancing through such a heavily devastated area, euphoria washed over me as the music pounded. The energy from the krewes was infectious, and for a few blocks I forgot why we were parading. A genuine giggle slipped from Jeanne’s mouth, and I gave myself over to the zeal of the crowd.
If we didn’t hold on to the spirit of the city, it would be like all of those people lost in the Storm had died in vain . . . if we didn’t stay and rebuild, if we didn’t shake the caskets and dance to the beats on the mispronounced French streets.
Mother Nature had taken our homes, our schools, our electricity, and even our people, but there’s no way New Orleans would let her take our traditions.
The brass band banged on. I floated down the street in the euphoric bubble with the Pleasure Club krewes in their brightly colored jackets—magenta, tangerine, and teal—and their matching hats with towering feathers. The ladies of a club who all wore lime green twirled by, waving fans made of fuchsia feathers that looked like they were borrowed from a Las Vegas showgirl’s dressing room. The explosion of color against the decrepit post-Storm Ninth Ward gray was impossible to process.
But I didn’t want to process anymore; I just wanted to be.
And so I danced on, past sights that will haunt me forever. It wasn’t the conditions of the streets or the spray-painted Xs—those I was getting used to. It was the evidence of returned life that now stood out so starkly.
We danced past a sign painted on an old sheet:
FUCK FEMA
And then another, which had been painted on the side of a half-demolished house:
LOOTERS WILL BE SHOT ON SIGHT!!
Then another:
STILL ALIVE
I hoped they were.
The landscape didn’t seem to bother anyone else, for we were rolling and today was about Bertrand and Sabine Michel and giving them their last dance.
My quads burned, and my toes bordered on numb, but the color-me-lime-clad ladies were revving up for the end of the road. Or better said, getting down—because when buckjumping, the lower you got to the ground, the better.
A lady with cushy shoulders and an enormous fuchsia-feathered hat backed up against me, nearly making me topple. Doing anything else but joining her felt downright disrespectful. The tandem dance created an energy that defied public humiliation.
Her back supported mine, and mine hers, as we bounced and bounced, getting ever closer to the ground. The people around us clapped and shouted, and the band rang louder. I laughed, worrying that if we got any lower I wouldn’t be able to get back up. But the adrenaline pushed me down. And then the music pulled me back up.
I let my weight press against her back so I didn’t bounce away.
But then the euphoric bubble popped. The procession halted, and the music stopped. We had arrived at the cemetery.
CHAPTER 4
Never Trust a Vampire
The Second Line slowly walked underneath an iron archway that spelled out ST. VINCENT DE PAUL CEMETERY NO. 1, and the mood changed so suddenly, chills swept up my arms.
As the priest led our procession to Bertrand and Sabine’s new home, a solo came from Alphonse Jones’s horn, so somber and quiet I could hear the birds swooping above us. MICHEL had been carved into the mausoleum where Jeanne and Sébastien’s parents already resided. I�
�d never given the idea of eternity much thought, but now its vastness sucked me in like a black hole.
They were gone forever.
The pallbearers set the casket down, and my father walked over to join me. He stretched his back. “I’m getting too old—”
I plowed into him like a child, my arms locking tightly around his chest, as I buried my face in his shoulder.
“Hey,” he said, cupping the back of my head.
“I don’t want you to die, Dad.”
“Sweetheart, I’m not going to die. Well, not anytime soon.”
“I don’t want you to die ever.”
“I guess you’ll be accompanying me on more runs, then?”
I looked up with a meek smile.
He rested his arm around my shoulder and guided me to the front row. Jeanne and Sébastien filled the space on my other side, Dee and the Borges on his other side. Isaac filed behind us with Ren’s crew and the Daures. I hoped neither of them had just witnessed the moment with my father; surely that was crier behavior. The rest of the crowd filled in, and the priest moved to the head of the closed casket.
I tried not to think about the level of decomposition hidden underneath the lid. I tried not to think about how much the casket looked like les cassettes stacked in the convent attic.
“May the souls of the faithful departed through the mercy of God rest in peace.” Father McKinley’s voice was the kind that made you believe things, like Ritha’s, and as he spoke about life and about death, I was moved by his words . . . until he began to talk about forgiveness.
I will never forgive Emilio for what he did. To Mémé and Pépé or to my mother. My clammy palms clutched handfuls of my skirt. Was it random when he killed her, or was it planned? Had Nicco known he was going to do it? My chain rippled against my chest, along with the sun charm and Isaac’s feather. I took a deep breath.
When Father McKinley finished, my father left my side to deliver the eulogy. He did his best to keep the speech lighthearted, starting out with a joke about Bertrand’s “French hours” fitting perfectly into New Orleanian work culture. I caught sight of Ritha’s expression—the one worn too often by New Orleanians lately—the how did this senseless tragedy happen look.