The Romeo Catchers

by Arden, Alys

“Pretty much. Vampire boy problems.”

  Saying the words out loud helped me hear just how ridiculous it all was. I’d never spoken about Nicco to anyone. I couldn’t.

  “When we first met, I thought he was . . . my friend. Or something. Then I found out his family has been after mine for the last few centuries, and even then I stupidly thought we were on the same side. When push came to shove, he chose them and threw me out a window. Literally.” My teeth pressed into my bottom lip, holding back the tears. “I’d be dead if not for Isaac, and Dee.”

  “Sounds like this Nicco guy needs an ass-kicking. I’m available, by the way.” Her words were starting to slur, possibly explaining her nonreaction to the fact that I’d told her he was a vampire. “Where is he now?”

  “Taken care of,” I said. “But thanks.”

  I took two more swigs of moonshine and looked over to her. My next words felt like they were ripping my heart out. “We just need to let go.”

  And then there was silence, all but the ambient noise of the drunken teenagers below squealing around the fire and puking behind trees.

  “Yeah,” she said, standing, then pulling me up.

  She wiggled a ring off her finger. “Thurston gave me this for Christmas, in between the I-love-yous and the sex.” She started crying again and then hurled the ring out into the darkness.

  “Oh my God, Annabelle, that was awesome!” I pulled off Nicco’s jacket and held it out in front of me. “There were no I-love-yous and no sex—just something that felt . . . magical.”

  She cheered as I threw the jacket as far as I could. It felt blasphemous ruining such a finely crafted garment, but I was too drunk to care.

  “All I want is someone who loves me like Isaac loves you,” she said, wrapping her arm around my shoulder as we both gazed out toward the bonfire.

  “I know,” I said, taking a deep breath. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I just can’t get over Nicco’s betrayal for some reason.”

  “Oh, the old ‘I can’t believe a vampire seduced me and tried to kill me’?”

  I laughed. “Not all vampires. Just this one.”

  She kissed my cheek.

  “Annabelle, there’s something you should know about Nicco . . . and his family. Because it affects you too.”

  We sat back down, and after several more swigs of moonshine for both of us, I told her everything—everything except my mom’s secret. I told her about Nicco and the curse, and Cosette and Minette and Lisette. She cried when I told her about Gabe and what he’d done to them.

  “I want to meet Lisette,” she said, eyes glistening.

  I didn’t tell her that she already had—on Halloween night—and that she’d called Lisette a freak.

  “One day,” I vowed, both of us seconds from passing out on each other’s shoulders. “One day we’re going to open the attic. I know it.”

  “Oui, Adele, oui.”

  PART 3

  The Maleficiums

  If you don’t hunt it down and kill it, it will hunt you down and kill you.

  Flannery O’Connor

  CHAPTER 38

  Knockout

  January 21st

  If someone had slipped a one-way ticket to New York into my hand, I’d have walked off the bridge and gone directly to the airport. Anything to get out of this ceremony.

  But there was no ticket. No red pill. No escape hatch or eject button. There wasn’t even an airport. Just jerkoffs everywhere. Jerkoffs from my pop’s office, and from the mayor’s office.

  I checked my phone compulsively in between shaking people’s hands. No messages from Adele.

  Where is she?

  The powers that be had decided that the bridge—the same fucking bridge the jerkoff was standing on when he took the photo of me—was the perfect spot for the ceremony. It was the kind of bridge that opened for barges to get through, but the metal was so rusty and old looking I couldn’t imagine it groaning open. The water in the Industrial Canal was thick and brown, though the sun’s reflection gave it an almost-green tint. No matter which direction you looked out past the water, it was the same: destruction. Nothing but piles of dirty scrap wood, metal, and glass. Like the gods had played a giant game of Jenga with the houses.

  A podium was set up in the center of the bridge, with three rows of seats behind it and what appeared like a hundred on the other side for the audience. Désirée paraded with her mother on the opposite end of the bridge, which was jerkoff heavy.

  I adjusted my tie and shook more hands. My face hurt from smiling.

  Half the people in town seemed to be here, and they all fit into two camps: In the first were the wealthy, cultured, artistic types, the museum directors along with their biggest benefactors, deans from the art departments of the local universities—who, if I was a different person, I’d be schmoozing with—and other generally rich people who’d come to ooh and aah. In the second camp were the first responders, rebuilders, volunteers from various NGOs, and the neighborhood locals.

  What the fuck side is my father on? When we’d arrived in New Orleans, it was definitely the latter. These days, who knew? Reporters sifted through the crowds looking for “real people” to interview. Survivors.

  I wandered down the side of the bridge that led into the Lower Ninth, as far away from the crowd as I could get, and pecked out a message to Désirée.

  Isaac 13:02 If one more person tells me how brave I am, I’m gonna blow up this bridge.

  Dee 13:03 ur def not allowed to say the words bridge and blow up in the same sentence around so many feds.

  Isaac 13:03 Where the hell is Adele?

  Dee 13:04 Probably suffering from a level orange hangover. Tyrelle said she and Annabelle were so wasted last night he had to give them a lift back to the Quarter.

  I guess that would explain why she didn’t return any of my messages last night.

  Isaac 13:05 Do you think she’s coming?

  Dee 13:06 Calm down. You’re going to be fine.

  I looked up as helicopters flew overheard, getting aerial shots of the setting from the now-famous photo. All the media was here. And not just local, the big ones. CNN, MSNBC, the New York Times—no wonder my pop was stressed. He hated the media more than anyone. At least he used to. My phone buzzed again. Finally.

  Adele 13:07 I’M SO SORRY! We’re parking!! PLEASE DON’T HATE ME. xo

  Thank God. I slipped the phone back into my pocket, trying to ignore everyone pointing at me from afar.

  But then a little seven-year-old voice called my name from down the bridge and instantly made everything easier and harder at the same time. Rosalyn.

  When I looked up, she ran away from her parents. “Isaac!”

  I dropped to the ground, and she jumped straight into my arms, squeezing my neck just as tightly as she had that day the levees broke. I pressed my eyes shut as I lifted her up so they wouldn’t tear.

  “You’re here!” she yelled.

  “Of course I’m here!” I said as her grandparents approached. Neither Charmaine nor Marcus looked like they were holding it together very well. “I wouldn’t miss a chance to see my favorite munchkin.”

  Her smile turned into a pout as I set her down. “You haven’t been over to play with me.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said to her grandparents before even telling them hello. “I’ve been taking on extra work with my crew.” The truth was, I couldn’t handle the visits after we’d finished the repairs on Marcus’s brother’s house where they were all staying.

  “Baby, it’s okay,” Charmaine said, pushing my hair out of my face. “You don’t have anything to explain to us.”

  I nodded. “How’s the roof holding up?”

  “Good enough,” Marcus said, “thanks to you and Chase.”

  Rosalyn’s small voice said, “I found a cat. We rescued her like you rescued me.” She gripped two of my fingers and swung my arm back and forth. “Do you think Jade’s in heaven?” She looked up at me, waiting for a response, and I felt the
water on my chest crushing the words inside me.

  I crouched down. “Yeah, munchkin. Jade’s in heaven. Probably playing hopscotch with my mom.”

  Charmaine turned away. A lump formed in my throat.

  “Who’s that girl?” Rosalyn pointed behind me.

  Adele was standing away from the crowd with Mac, staring at us. She waved, looking like she didn’t want to interrupt.

  I stood up, the lump in my throat still so big I couldn’t form words without the risk of my voice cracking.

  “See you up there,” Marcus said, his hand on my shoulder.

  I nodded my good-byes and rubbed Rosalyn’s head without looking down.

  When I reached Adele, I pulled her into my arms, lifting her off the ground—not something I would have ever done in front of Mac before, but I felt like I was losing it.

  “Hey,” she said softly, hugging me back. “I didn’t mean to pull you away.”

  I held on to her tighter.

  “I’m sorry we’re late.”

  “Can we get out of here?” I whispered. “Anywhere but here.”

  A male throat cleared loudly, and in an instant, my shit was pulled together.

  “Dad,” I said, setting her down, “this is Adele.”

  She tried to hide her surprise as she told him hello.

  “And her father, Macalister Le Moyne.”

  My father shook Mac’s hand and greeted him with his usual style—the least amount of words possible—and then he gripped my shoulder as if I wasn’t going to come otherwise. “We’re needed on stage.”

  “I’ll just sit with the Le Moynes until they call my name or whatever.”

  “Isaac. Stage, with the other people being honored. Now.”

  I nodded.

  And with nothing but a stiff smile to Mac and Adele, my father turned and walked back up the slope.

  Mac turned to me. “We’ll sit in the front row, okay? We’ll practically all be together. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  “I’m fine. Really.”

  Adele reached for my hand as I walked away, her fingertips scraping mine.

  I mentally cursed my pop for treating me like a kid in front of her—and in front of Mac. Norwood Thompson had never been a warm person, but he’d become completely callous over the last couple months.

  He stopped to join Lieutenant General DuPont and the mayor, who were being interviewed by a newscaster. Her cameraman hovered over her shoulder with a boom.

  I took a seat on the front row “on stage,” choosing the one farthest from the podium, keeping my focus squarely on the ground. I didn’t want to see the crowd. Or the helicopters circling above. I didn’t want to see the front row, where Charmaine and Marcus were sitting with Rosalyn, who looked so much like Jade.

  My father took the seat next to me, and I gazed straight out. No “Nice to meet your girlfriend” or “Sorry to make you do this, son.” Just silence. Dee and her mom filed in behind us, and more people filled the rest of the seats. The award recipient took his place on the opposite end of our row. Not being able to see him brought a slight respite.

  Mac and Adele sat in the front row as promised. Behind them, people filled all the chairs, and behind them, more people stood, another ten rows deep. My fingers tapped my knee. I thought it’d be easier if I focused on Adele.

  It wasn’t.

  Click. Click. Click.

  It was all I heard from the cameras of the photographers now crouching between us. In the distance, out of everything that had been destroyed, there was still a red-and-yellow ADULT VIDEO sign standing strong; that’s what I focused on.

  My phone buzzed, but I didn’t move.

  Everyone quieted as Morgan Borges took the spotlight at the podium. He had to yell his speech over the chopper blades pounding above—I fantasized about a ladder dropping down and lifting me away.

  The mayor spoke about the courage of first responders and how many lives we’d saved, and it wasn’t long before people in the audience were crying. When he finished, a representative from the Pulitzer Prize committee, a woman who looked like she left New York only for moments like this, stood up and talked about the need for disaster photography and its important role in investigatory journalism. When she introduced the photographer, everyone clapped like sheep—everyone but me. And Adele, who was staring at me with her hands frozen midclap, stuck between me and decorum.

  The photographer spoke about his journey down to the South and his time spent waiting out the Storm.

  Oh, the horror it must have been from his Canal Street hotel.

  My foot tapped in time with my fingers against my knee.

  He spoke about paying someone $500 to get a ride in their boat out to the Ninth Ward, and how the guy had abandoned him once the water started to rise, despite payment.

  The speech, which seemed like it had been generically written for a national speaking tour, went on and on about how bad the sights were, describing houses and landmarks in great detail. As if these people don’t fucking know?

  “I held my camera over my head and waded through the water to this bridge, which would become my sanctuary.”

  He talked about how his entire career was about being fearless and brave.

  Wind swirled over the crowd, blowing ladies’ hair and making guys hold on to their fedoras. Désirée discreetly kicked the back of my chair, but I didn’t care to temper my powers. The wind made the masturbatory speech harder to hear.

  “I can’t believe you’re making me do this,” I said to my father under my breath.

  “Life isn’t always about the things we want to do.”

  “Uh, no shit. Look around. Do you even spend time in neighborhoods like this anymore? The Norwood Thompson I know would never be at a celebration for a man who stood by and took photos while people were dying.”

  “Sometimes you have to pick and choose your battles, son. Showing face is an easy win.”

  “At my expense.”

  “You need to check your attitude.”

  “You need to check your priorities.”

  “I know you’ve been through a lot, Isaac. Please don’t make me regret letting you stay in New Orleans.”

  “Letting me? Oh, now you’re a parent? When’s the last time you’ve seen me?”

  “Isaac, this will be over in ten minutes, tops. Please just do this for me.”

  Mayor Borges called my name, welcoming me up to the podium.

  I looked at my pop. “You’re right. This is me . . . picking and choosing. Jade, not you.”

  The crowd clapped politely as I moved up to the podium, where the photographer stood smiling, so proud of himself. Smug piece of shit. The woman from the Pulitzer Prize committee beamed at me, holding his framed prize.

  My hand curled into a fist. “Isaac!” my pop called. But it was too late. My two front knuckles cracked the photographer’s jaw, causing instant pandemonium.

  “Isaac!” Désirée screamed.

  Yelling and cheering rose from parts of the crowd. I didn’t have to look up to know which parts.

  A cop came after me, but I pushed him out of the way and hustled down the bridge until I was close enough to the street below to jump off and run underneath.

  As soon as I was out of sight, I dove into the air and took crow form. It was stupidly risky, but in that moment I didn’t give a shit. All I wanted to do was fly away. And I did.

  CHAPTER 39

  The SS Hope

  “Holy shit,” I said, holding my skirt down as the wind kicked up. People around us were all aflutter. A few appalled, most cheering and hooting. The photographer was bent back, his assistant simultaneously trying to tend to his bloody nose and get a cell phone call to go through.

  “I love that kid,” my dad said, staring at the stage where Isaac had been.

  “So do I . . .” My heart kicked up with the wind, realizing how much I really did. Sometimes his hotheadedness was brash and stupid, but other times it was just hot.

  Not that I
advocated punching people, but knocking out that jerk here and now took guts.

  “I think he just earned himself a lifetime seat at any bar in the city. I mean, when he’s of age.”

  Please. Like my dad didn’t already let Isaac have a beer after work with the rest of his crew.

  He looked at me. “You want me to go distract his father while you get a head start?”

  “I love you, Dad,” I said, wrapping my arms around his neck.

  “I love you too, almost enough to give you my car keys, despite you not having your license yet. But I think you should run off that hangover.”

  Shit.

  “We’ll talk about it later . . . Just go.”

  The hangover-induced nausea passed by the time I hit Elysian Fields. At least I thought it did—it came in waves, so it was hard to tell. As I ran, I kept imagining the trouble Isaac would be in after the stunt. Would his dad send him back to New York?

  The thought made my stomach turn again.

  I hit the call button on my phone for the tenth time. Pick up.

  When I got to Esplanade, I stopped on the neutral ground to catch my breath, wishing for teleportation powers. I leaned one-handed on an oak tree, sucking in air, trying to guess where he’d go. I called him again. It immediately clicked to voice mail.

  Thank God I’d worn flats.

  As I turned onto the brothel’s block, I recognized Annabelle’s Porsche parked on the curb.

  Why would she be here?

  Even though we’d made huge strides last night, I’d never thought about her just coming and going from the brothel as she pleased. Even though I’d told her so many things.

  “Isaac!” I yelled, opening the front door.

  I was sure he’d be there, but the house was totally silent.

  “Annabelle?” I couldn’t imagine her even being awake right now, let alone a functioning person, after how much she drank at the party.

  I went through the parlors, and just as I stepped into the blue room, one of the pocket doors on the opposite side wavered, like someone had knocked into it. I froze.