The Romeo Catchers

by Arden, Alys

  I ran the rag under hot water until all of the coffee grounds came clean.

  Despite not needing the inventory, Sébastien had refilled all of the jars on the wall with coffee beans, for which I was grateful because it brought back the intoxicating smell to the little corner café. Those little signs of familiarity were the things I gripped on to on the days when everything felt so different. The smell of chicory, the sound of Ren’s voice on the street, telling the story of Delphine LaLaurie for the eight millionth time.

  Some changes happened so gradually you didn’t even notice when the abnormal took over. You got used to eating meals that came exclusively from cans and dehydrated bags, and to carrying scarves around with you in case you found yourself surrounded by mold, and to boiling water before drinking it. You got used to the electricity only working sometimes, and to the blinking lights that indicated the overwhelmed grid had crashed again. And you got used to all the blue tarps on roofs.

  The city was covered in them.

  The more people that came back, the more blue tarps went up. We all should have bought stock in blue plastic.

  Government-issued trailers popped up on lawns for people who no longer had housing. They weren’t much more than white boxes on concrete blocks, and the joke around town was that FEMA required you to have a house with working electricity and running water to be eligible for one. The circular logic was pissing people off endlessly, and, I assumed, making Norwood Thompson’s life a nightmare.

  If Brooke and her parents had stayed in the city, they’d be living in one of those trailers while fighting day and night with their insurance company. I guess Alphonse and Klara were right about their family being better off in L.A. I’d had one phone call with Brooke—which was really made up of ten phone calls because the reception kept dropping. She was having the time of her life shooting the reality show, and I was happy for her. I know she’ll win; she always does. I mostly told her about Isaac, because there was certainly nothing else in my life I could tell her about, other than the bleak state of the city. For her it was still shocking; for us it was just . . . life.

  Five months after the Storm had soused the city, no real progress had been made other than finally pumping the water out. Life had become more about trying to adjust to the insanity rather than improving it, and along the way everything became normal: the missions for generator gas, your dad illegally running a bar and moonshine business, moving metal objects with your mind—all just another day. As was your new best friend being the heir to a Voodoo priestess and your boyfriend being able to turn into a crow.

  But whether the city was moving forward or not, we went on with our lives. Isaac’s crew fixed our back wall (paid in moonshine), and I taught him how to properly make a roux, and he even worked some of the shifts at the café—for free—because I refused to let it close down. Without being asked, he repaired the kitchen door and hauled crates of illegal booze from Ren’s to the bar for my dad. Mac doubled our grocery supply. I think my dad approved of him even before I did. Like I said, the abnormal had become normal.

  “Does anyone care about this city?” the DJ asked. “The president? The governor? What about you, Mayor Borges? How are you choosing which people get help? And how much to give them, and when? I guess some things never change, not even at the end of the world.”

  During the holiday break, between work and family things, the three of us spent our remaining moments at Madam Monvoisin’s brothel, which had become a part of our lives just as seamlessly as the magic had. It effortlessly became routine like a new school year did: strange and shiny at first, but almost immediately the everyday. It became our headquarters—our sanctuary from Storm life.

  The mansion was dilapidated and without certain amenities, but it had been like that for a long time, which was somehow different for us than if the Storm had taken it down. And with the invisibility spells enabling us to practice magic so freely, the non-amenities were soon fixed one by one with magical solutions—that and Isaac’s recovery-worker skills.

  And it all became normal too. Well, the new normal.

  Mastering our elements. Practicing new spells. Looking for answers about Isaac’s mark, which we still couldn’t see, but he insisted was there. Isaac refused to do any more séances, and Dee refused to ask her gran about the mark. Needless to say, the list of questions was piling up alarmingly faster than the list of answers.

  We spent hours drying herbs, grinding rocks of pink Himalayan salt, and brewing potions, all the while trying to guess what had happened to Adeline and our ancestors postdiary—what kind of lives they’d had. I made an insane timeline with everything we knew about them and the Medici, covering the walls of the little closet room where Adeline’s safe was hidden beneath the floor. I even broke into the New Orleans Historical Society and scoured everything they had from the years 1725 to 1750, from tax records to property records to books on historical French architecture to the history of prostitution in the Vieux Carré, but we were no closer to coven members, and no closer to helping Brigitte. And I was certainly no further along finding anything about the Count.

  To top it all off, school started back tomorrow, and with the completion of my Sacred Heart exams, my records had transferred from the Academy to Ursuline Academy. The only person more nervous than me about it was Isaac.

  Not that he’d said anything, but I could tell.

  “Is it actually possible that the crime in the city is worse post-Storm than pre-Storm?” the DJ ranted. “Where does the buck stop when it comes to protecting your family after the establishment fails? If you have electricity and if you have telephone service, give ole Bobby a buzz . . . My question to you listeners is this: Is this city making monsters?”

  CHAPTER 16

  Morning Star

  I came straight from the café, the first to arrive at the brothel, and was curled onto the couch, lost in a chapter on Jelly Roll Morton getting his start playing piano in the Storyville bordellos.

  A hell of a job for a teenage boy.

  While I was gaining an affection for nineteenth-century prostitutes, I wasn’t getting any clues that would bring me closer to Cosette’s descendant. There wasn’t a single, solitary mention of our brothel, as either a business or a residence, in any of the books over the years. It was as if this magnifique manoir that had miraculously been spared by every major fire just didn’t exist. I wondered if its off-book status had been achieved with bribes or by magic. I’d say in New Orleans there was a fifty-fifty chance. “You are good, Cosette. You are good.”

  “You know what they say about people who talk to themselves?” Désirée asked, walking in, Isaac in tow.

  “That they’re geniuses?” I replied, not looking up.

  Isaac plopped down next to me, and Désirée went straight to the floor at the coffee table, where her cauldron rested on a portable hearth Isaac had built her.

  He pulled the book from my hands. “Still obsessed with hooker fashion?”

  “I’m obsessed with these tights,” I said, pointing to a picture of a girl who probably wasn’t much older than me. She was tawdrily looking at a glass of rye, wearing nothing but a shawl tied toga-style at her right shoulder and black-and-white, vertical-striped tights.

  “Très carnaval,” he said.

  “I know. I love the stripes.”

  Désirée cleared her throat. “Have you found anything of actual use? Remember? Coven members?”

  “She’s in a mood,” Isaac said. “Try not to act too excited when she tells you her news.”

  “What news?” I looked at Dee.

  She ripped apart a bunch of dandelion stalks.

  “Hey, what did those herbs do to you?”

  She ripped more flowers apart.

  “Stop torturing those plants! Wasn’t it you who said that all of our intention goes into a spell?” When she still didn’t respond, I looked at Isaac.

  “Daddy Mayor is in a lot of heat right now with the press, and his publicity team thinks
some changes should be made to the Borges household, so the family seems more relatable. You know: Morgan spending free time with Habitat, rebuilding poor people’s houses. Ana Marie hosting blood drives.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And Dee . . . gets to change schools.”

  “Pfft. Join the club,” I said as she continued to throw things into her pot. “Ursuline will be my fourth school this year, and it’s only January. What uptown prepfest was lucky enough to be added to the press release?”

  When Dee didn’t answer, Isaac said, “Your downtown prepfest.”

  “What?” I sprang up from the couch. “This is amazing!”

  “This is not amazing,” Dee said. “It’s not the plan. The plan is Sacred Heart Preparatory Academy, Oxford, Yale Law, Congress, the Whi—”

  “You’re coming to school with me?” I dropped to the floor and flung my arms around her shoulders. Her back stiffened. “We’ll be just like Adeline and Marassa. I mean, only with no-more-slavery-everyone-has-equal-rights.”

  “Give me your gris-gris.” She held out her hand.

  “You can’t take back my gris-gris just because I hugged you.”

  “Both of you.”

  I slapped my chest, but it was too late. The ribbon untied itself behind my neck and floated into her hand.

  “Dee. What comes after Congress?” asked Isaac, willingly handing over his gris-gris.

  “The White House, obviously. First female black president.”

  “You’re not going to become the first female black president,” I said. She scowled at me, and I slid my arm around her shoulders. “You’re going to be the first female black witch president.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I can’t believe this is actually happening,” I said as she untied the little pouches. “You’re really coming with me to the Vampire Catacomb Academy?”

  She added a pebble-size stone and sprig of rosemary to each. “Could you try not to be so happy about the dismantling of my future?” She paused, whispered a few words as she retied the bags, and then handed them back to each of us. “Now they should shield your location, should any witches get any magical ideas.”

  “Dee, it’s an offshoot of Ursuline Academy uptown—not exactly slumming it.” I slipped the gris-gris back around my neck and tucked it underneath my fuzzy peach sweater.

  “It’s not part of the plan.”

  “I’ll hold your hand tomorrow.”

  “I’m glad you’re transferring,” Isaac said, his eyes on his foot, which was anxiously tapping the floor.

  “Why do you care where my education is cultivated?” she asked.

  “Because someone will be there with Adele . . .”

  “Hey, I’m a pro at transferring schools.”

  His foot stopped tapping, and he looked up at us. “In case she gets any ideas about breaking the seals.”

  “What?” I whispered.

  “That’s a pretty dickish thing to say,” Désirée said.

  “If Dee’s going to spend Monday through Friday there, she deserves to know that you’re a possible risk.”

  My heart felt like it was actually ripped from my chest.

  She turned to me. “What is he talking about?”

  I barely heard the question as my chest cavity—an open, gaping hole—bled out onto the floor.

  “The day of the funeral . . . Adele went to the convent. I found her right outside the attic door.”

  I looked at Isaac. “You. Asshole.”

  “Adeeeele?” Dee asked, but my gaze didn’t break from his.

  A wave of heat rushed through me so strong, it lifted me up.

  He crossed his arms. “I’m sorry, I’m doing this for your own good. For the coven’s protection.”

  “No, Isaac,” I said, my gaze still unwavering, sparks squeezing from my fists. “You’re not doing it for me; you’re doing it for you. For your own protection.”

  Désirée turned to me. “It’s true? Have you forgotten that the Medici murdered Bertrand and Sabine?”

  The words felt like daggers lodging between my ribs.

  Isaac started to backpedal. “Adele, I’m sorry—”

  I turned and walked away, muttering what I really thought about him in French. There was an explosion behind me. Metal hitting glass.

  “Shit!” Désirée yelled. “Go stop her before she burns the house down!”

  But he didn’t. Even Isaac knew better than to come near me.

  I’m going to kill him, I thought, walking around and around the endless loops of bricked paths in the backyard, shedding my sweater and fanning out my T-shirt—exposing as much skin as possible to the damp January air. Emotions sizzled out of my pores in waves of steam.

  I can’t believe Isaac sold me out! I can’t believe Désirée knows.

  I’d suspected that Isaac was nervous about me going to the school at the convent, but this was low. Low.

  I circled the triplets’ fountain, squeezing my fists. And then turned around and circled it again. If the water wasn’t so putrid, I’d have jumped in, anything to cool down my magic-induced body heat.

  Breathe, Adele.

  I sat on the ledge, the chill from the bricks seeping through my jeans as I stared at the water, focusing on pulling the damp air into my lungs.

  This surpasses Isaac’s New York abrasiveness.

  A small fish broke the surface of the water and dove back through the algae. How is it surviving in that muck? Maybe the water had magical properties, like everything else here seemed to have? Maybe our last coven member would be a Water witch? Maybe she’d be able to fix the fountain.

  A wave of chills swept over me, and I broke into a sweat, breaking the magic fever.

  My chest continued to shake. Relax, Adele. Then I realized it wasn’t me shaking. It was the gentle hum of the medallion. I cupped the talisman in my palm.

  It was warm, and it vibrated, kind of like that day in the Tremé when it led me to Brooke’s star. Adeline’s star. Morning . . . Star.

  I jumped up, flipping the necklace over.

  The eight-pointed star that nearly covered Adeline’s initials had been a gift from Morning Star, the final witch in Adeline’s coven. I hovered my right hand over the medallion, and the star slowly turned counterclockwise. And just as easy as it had attached that day I’d found it in the Tremé, it twisted off.

  I ran back up to the house.

  Even though I’d rather have died than go back into the blue room, I lifted my chin and walked into the parlor.

  Isaac looked up, hopeful.

  I ignored him, grabbed the framed map from the wall, and set it on the rug in front of the fireplace. “I have a lead on the next coven member.”

  “Give it up,” Désirée said. “I’m not doing the locator spell again.”

  “Fine, don’t.”

  “Cosette’s objects always point to the convent. It’s a dead end.”

  “I’m not looking for Cosette.”

  She turned to me.

  “What do you mean?” Isaac asked.

  I held out the star with two fingers, keeping my focus squarely on Dee. “It used to belong to Morning Star’s family. Maybe the connection is still there? Maybe we can get to her descendant through it?”

  “Nice,” said Isaac. “Let’s do it.”

  I knew he was attempting the path to reconciliation, but I refused to look at him.

  Désirée joined the circle, only looking at Isaac.

  “Well, this energy should make for a great spell,” I muttered.

  They both ignored me but opened their palms, and we linked hands. When Isaac squeezed, I didn’t squeeze back.

  This time I was the one who started the chant, altering the words to suit Morning Star.

  On the third line, the feather slowly lifted onto its point, standing in the center of Jackson Square, just like it always did. The air in the room, which had felt heavy when we started, now felt weightless, and we continued the chant as if we all might rise from
the floor. The map began to vibrate. So did the mirror above the fireplace, and then Désirée’s cauldron on the table. The chant turned over twice more, and this time, instead of turning down Chartres, the feather zipped straight through the cathedral, through St. Anthony’s Garden and onto Royal Street, sending a rip of energy up my spine. It paused at the corner of Orleans, right in front of the café. We all leaned in. I reflexively squeezed their hands as we chanted the verse, over and over. Come on.

  In one swooping jerk it skidded a couple inches toward the Marigny and stopped. The energy halted; the room stilled. The spell was over.

  Désirée and I leaned closer. “The Rodrigue Studio is on that corner,” she said. “And next to that is . . . ?”

  My voice was soft. “The Bottom of the Cup Tearoom.”

  The Daures? One of their customers, maybe? There was always a mélange of mystical types in and out of their doors.

  “The place that offered you a job?” Isaac asked.

  I nodded. “Yeah, old family friends.”

  “Looks like someone has a new job,” Désirée said, making it sound more like a command than a suggestion, which I didn’t like. “Congratulations.” She smirked her uptown smirk and turned her back to me, returning to her herbs, now with a gentler, more poised touch. Good ole Dee, cool as an ice cube.

  “Do you . . . Do you want to go over there with me?” I asked her.

  She plugged in her earbuds. Even though she wanted nothing more than to put the rest of this coven together, it seemed her peevishness at me superseded that.

  “I’ll go with you,” Isaac said.

  A disgusted huff expelled from my throat.

  CHAPTER 17

  Broken Moons

  Adele’s feet moved down the sidewalk faster than her usual southern tortoise, which still wasn’t as quick as my usual New York hare.