Ghost Train to New Orleans

by Mur Lafferty

  Granny Good Mae had never taught her how to fight a god. Zoë forced herself to relax, and smiled. “I understand, sir, but please understand my position. I am only now learning about my heritage, but one thing I am learning is that secrecy and self-preservation seem to be the priority these days. My kind seems to have been hunted almost to extinction. I don’t advertise what I am any more than coterie tell humans what they are.” She looked around the room at the masked dancers. “Well, in most places besides New Orleans, anyway.”

  Her joke amused the god, and he chuckled and released his iron grip. “I forget that sometimes the hunters are hunted. I have so long viewed your kind as the ones to fear, not the ones who hide. Times change. We all have changed.”

  “We have?” Zoë asked. They reached the bar, and the old god stepped to the front of the line. Everyone in line stepped aside in deference.

  The zombie bartender waited for him, her back straight and her suit immaculate, despite the fact that her right ear was only half-attached, which gave her an odd doglike look, drooping forward.

  “Give me something from the old days, Greta,” he said. “I’m feeling nostalgic.” The zombie nodded once and turned to the bottles behind her. Instead of the usual liquor and beer and wine, the bar featured bottles of water—both salt and fresh—what looked like jars of salt, thick bottles of blood, clear plastic bladders of colored gases, and multiple bottles Zoë didn’t recognize.

  Greta opened the refrigerator; it had a glass door showing brains and other organs, on obvious display for the patrons to choose. A blender was beside the fridge, and Zoë realized what the zombies had been drinking. Her stomach tried to clench, but she firmly told it that she’d been involved with this world for too long to get squicky about it now.

  Greta pulled a small circular plastic container off the bottom shelf of the fridge and passed it to the host. It was a Petri dish with a web of bacteria inside. Zoë felt simultaneously more curious about who this god was, and certain that she didn’t want to know. He accepted the dish with a nod and looked at Zoë.

  “Oh, right, something in the plain old red wine variety, if you have it. If not, then just water. Plain water, that is,” she amended, remembering that some coterie ordered water from different lakes, oceans, and time periods as their intoxicating drinks.

  The zombie pushed a glass of red wine over to her across the bar, and she smiled. “Thanks.” She rooted in her purse for a hell note, but her host put his hand on her. “The bar is free, my dear.”

  “Can I tip her at least?”

  “Be my guest,” he said, removing his hand. She put a hell note on the bar, and the zombie accepted it without changing her facial features.

  Zoë still wasn’t used to zombies and their lack of body language, but she managed to remind herself that the cues were not the same as with humans.

  They retreated to the table she had seen him at earlier. The fat vampire was gone, his seat vacant. They sat down and watched the dancers, Zoë sipping her wine, the host dipping his finger into the Petri dish and swirling it around absently.

  The band changed to a faster number, and the coterie who preferred slow dances left the floor for the more energetic dancers—Zoë was interested to see that a lot more demons took the floor at this point, including the blue fire sprite and his tentacled date.

  Her wine was surprisingly good. It was a dry Shiraz, an excellent vintage, if she wasn’t mistaken. She had figured the coterie would choose crappy wine for the stray humans who were invited.

  She took a deep breath and met her host’s amused eyes. “So you know who and what I am, I understand to not ask who you are, but the question still stands of what you want with me.”

  “Who says I want anything? I think you’re interesting, and I’m delighted to be able to host one of the last of your kind at my party. Although the social worth of it is somewhat lessened by my being the only one to know that secret.” Zoë frowned, and he patted her hand. “Don’t worry, dear. I will keep the secret. In fact, you were told to bring a gift. That secret will suffice.”

  Before Zoë could feel the crushing embarrassment of not having brought a gift to the old god, someone spoke behind her. “The One Who Kills and Is Thanked for It,” said a familiar voice speaking in a very formal tone. Zoë gasped and turned around.

  Her host raised his head and looked at the newcomer as well. “Ah, Mr. Anthony. I was expecting you. Please join us.”

  Arthur stood there looking none too pleased to see Zoë.

  Zoë tried desperately not to fidget at the table as Arthur, dressed in a very sharp white tuxedo and a simple domino mask, carried a cane in one hand and a wooden box in the shape of a cube in his other. He gave her a curt nod as he sat down with them, and otherwise did not look at her.

  “You have been quite persistent in requesting this meeting. I admire that,” their host said. He licked his finger with a white tongue and closed his Petri dish.

  “I didn’t expect to get invited to the party, honestly. Thanks for that.” Arthur looked around, a frown creasing his face. His eyes still didn’t land on Zoë’s.

  “I was kind of hoping for something a little more intimate,” he finished. “My topic is rather”—he pursed his lips—“uncomfortable and personal.”

  “Oh, I know all about your little problem, Mr. Anthony. There’s not a lot that happens here that I don’t know about, including what goes on in the swamps. Most of what goes on in the swamps, anyway. Did you find the Doyenne?”

  Arthur’s jaw clenched. “I couldn’t find her.”

  “That’s a pity, but few can find her. That is because she doesn’t want to be found. You were silly not to accept Ms. Norris’s help.” He indicated Zoë, politely.

  “I wanted to fight that battle myself,” Arthur said, looking at the table. “I didn’t want her hurt.”

  “Noble, and ridiculous. Also, are you speaking metaphorically or literally?”

  “Pick one.”

  The host laughed. “Frankly, Mr. Anthony, I would love to help you. You’re more special than you know, and the world is a better place with you in it. However, your affliction is not something I can fix. You’re already half dead, you see, and bringing folks back from that threshold isn’t my purview. I can help you in the other direction if you like, but you don’t want that.” He paused and smiled slyly at Arthur. “Despite what you may think. Also you don’t necessarily need help finishing the job the zombie started.”

  Arthur’s long, scarred fingers fiddled with the box he had brought. “And how can you tell that?”

  “I know everyone who longs for release. You don’t. You long for a cure, and you’re fighting every step of the way. You need the Doyenne, but the price she demands will be high. And that’s if you can find her. Are you prepared to pay her price?” He settled back in his seat, hands wrapped around his cane.

  Now Arthur glanced at Zoë, then back at their host. “I normally would say yes. But I’ve dealt with enough coterie to know that if you’re smart, you don’t make blind promises, no matter how much you want something. I’m prepared to hear what she needs from me as payment for whatever herbs or magic she does, but I can’t promise I’ll give it.”

  “You’re wiser than I thought, then,” their host said. He held out his hand, and Arthur looked at it, mutely. The host raised his eyebrows. “Your offering?”

  “Oh, yeah, right,” Arthur mumbled, and put the box into his waiting hand.

  Zoë watched the exchange with interest, wondering what was in it. The host opened the box and pulled out a little specimen cup that looked to be half filled with blood.

  Do you consider a cup of blood half empty or half full? Or do you just go into why is my sort-of-maybe-probably-not-boyfriend passing around his blood to ancient gods whose names we’re not allowed to say?

  The city’s voice was stern. Ain’t you figured it out yet? He’s a god of disease, you damn fool. Giving him diseased blood is considered an offering.

  Zoë pur
sed her lips. I liked you better when you couldn’t speak directly to me.

  “Is that your blood?” Zoë asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “That and an anticoagulant, anyway. Couldn’t have it clot before I got here.”

  “Weird. It’s apparently currency at a little shop north of here. Lot of people want blood, I guess.” Her tone was light, but Arthur didn’t relax.

  “Fascinating,” the host said, shaking the cup a bit to mix the blood back together. “You truly are caught between living and death. While it’s not my usual offering, it’s unique, and I appreciate it. I’ll give you this, then. When you find the Doyenne, you do not tell her I asked about her. To find her, you must look in the dark areas, the areas you wouldn’t normally look. It’s possible your death goddess friend can find her with her unique abilities. I would ask her, but she owes me nothing. She may do it if you ask her. Tell her that you and the Doyenne have something in common. The Doyenne will offer you the herbs when you find her, but the price will be too high for you. You may choose to die instead, or find a way to pay it and then live with your choices. Even though I know what you will choose, what makes humans glorious is their free will. And their lovely diseases, but mostly the free will. You go to her. Hear your options. Make your choice. If you choose to become a zombie and stay in New Orleans, I have a place in my court for someone like you.”

  Arthur stood up from the table, his eyes wide. “No, I’m not going to choose to be a zombie. I’ll die first, or pay whatever price she wants.”

  Some nearby coterie looked over to them with curiosity, and Zoë was pretty sure a zombie who looked like an old Southern gentleman looked shocked and offended at Arthur’s comment.

  The host did not respond to Arthur’s rudeness. “As I said, you have a choice. I’m not telling you what you have to choose. I just know what you will choose. Oh yes,” he added as if just remembering. “And Zoë must go, too. She is rather important here.”

  A cool, thin hand touched Zoë’s bare shoulder, and she jumped. Gwen stood behind her, smiling. “I thought I heard someone mention me. Also, your life expectancy just dropped drastically. What’s going on?”

  CHAPTER 16

  Festivals

  JAZZ FEST

  The coterie don’t like to admit it, but jazz was created entirely by humans. However, several of the jazz greats were then turned to be vampires or zombies, but they prefer their privacy. That said, if you go to Jazz Fest, you can likely find them on the coterie stages, late at night.

  Since the creation of jazz and the forming of New Orleans’s second biggest party, certain coterie have taken a shine to it, and make yearly visits. At previous Jazz Fests, performing coterie have included Kokopelli, the god of fertility, agriculture, and music, and every year since 2000, Euterpe of the Greek Muses has made an appearance. (There was a notable concert in 2006 where she brought all eight of her sisters for an epic performance.)

  All coterie concerts begin after dark, and some are invite-only. Several innkeepers in town have the connections for tickets.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The zombie band took a break, bringing on an air sprite DJ, who clearly hadn’t moved beyond the late 1980s in his musical education. The song was “Penny Lover” by Lionel Richie.

  The host had demanded Zoë and Arthur dance once before Arthur stormed out. His stiff arms held Zoë awkwardly as if they had never touched before, never been intimate. With the music and the swaying dancing, Zoë realized the only thing different between this and her first middle school dance was the fact that she could have a big glass of wine when she was done with this travesty.

  Arthur reminded her of Matthew Wise, the object of twelve-year-old Zoë’s affections. He wouldn’t meet her eyes, his steps were stumbling, and his hands on her waist were sweaty. He kept glancing back at their host, who watched them with a grin on his face.

  “Is there anything you want to talk about before you go on your suicide mission?” she asked finally.

  He glanced at her eyes and then back down at their feet. “Dammit, Zoë, I’m sorry. This is so big, I can’t control it. I can’t endanger anyone else.”

  Zoë narrowed her eyes. “You need people to rely on. And by ‘you’ I mean everyone. No one can deal with something like this alone.”

  He shook his head. “The problem is, people like us shouldn’t date each other. We both need someone like Orson.”

  He was referring to Ben’s husband, a man who knew about the existence of coterie, but had no association with them, and frankly hated Ben’s association with them. Zoë had suspected Ben’s MIA status was due entirely to Orson’s wanting him to be unreachable during their vacation.

  Arthur’s eyes met hers, and they held nothing but despair and certainty. He opened his mouth to speak, but she spoke first. “You’ve already quit, haven’t you? Not only us, but quit fighting. You’re just wanting to go out on your terms.” She swallowed; her throat felt constricted.

  He nodded at last. “I feel like I’m at the end, and despite what the old man said, I don’t see any choices.”

  Zoë’s voice was flat, devoid of emotion. “This is the part where you’re supposed to say now that you’re close to death, you can see everything clearly and you need me more than ever.”

  He looked away. “It’s not a movie.”

  “This is why rom-coms are depressing,” she said. “All right, fine. Do what you want. We’re done here. But I’m not letting you go to the swamp alone. You’ll stumble around and get eaten by a gator or something.”

  “I don’t want you hurt,” he began.

  She raised a finger, shushing him. “No, you don’t want me distracting you. If today is your last day as a human, having me with you for that last day is worse than being alone, apparently. But I don’t have to respect your wishes anymore. You’re not my boyfriend, you’re just a dude with a death wish.”

  He let her go. “I have to go tonight, my time is running out.”

  She was glad for the mask that hid half her face. She wished it could hide the whole thing. “Take Gwen, she’s better with this stuff than I am. I haven’t had much sleep lately, and I’m not thinking clearly.” She rubbed the nonexistent bump on the back of her head.

  She turned from him and left the dance floor, Lionel Richie still crooning over the speakers. She snatched her wineglass from the table where the host still sat. “Thank you for the invite, sir, and the conversation. It was a true pleasure, and please forgive my rudeness. I have to go now.”

  He nodded once as if he had expected this. “Don’t forget your weapons as you go to the swamp tonight, Ms. Norris. And if you find what I’m looking for, let me know.”

  “I’m not going to any fucking swamp,” she snapped. “And I still don’t know what you’re looking for.” Walking to the bar, she drained her wineglass, and cut in front of three vampires and a horned demon. She put a hell note on the counter and pointed to one of the bottles of Shiraz behind the counter. “I’ll take the bottle,” she said.

  The zombie’s eyes flicked up behind Zoë, and she realized the bartender was checking with the host. She unconsciously slipped into the city for a wider look at the room, and saw him give a nod. Arthur was exiting the dance floor, heading for Gwen, who stood along the wall in deep conversation with Eir.

  She snapped back to herself, shocked that the transition had been so easy. The bottle was in front of her, and the vampires and demon glared at her.

  “I just broke up with a dude who’s going to die tomorrow. Cut me some slack,” she said to them. One of the vampires, a short Latina woman, looked sympathetic, but the others waited impatiently for her to stop blocking the line.

  Something tugged at her attention, and she skirted the room with her bottle, sidestepping demons and vampires, and nearly stepping on what looked to be a leprechaun. She left the ballroom and stepped through the door to the little office area. Now that she was in a safer, quieter area, she expanded her awareness again. Christian the incubus had
arrived alongside Reynard the citytalker. They were talking with the host. Reynard looked strange through the city’s eyes, almost transparent as if he were a ghost as well. He would shift in and out of Zoë’s awareness, but Christian and the host didn’t respond to this.

  Zoë stuck her head back into the ballroom—Reynard looked solid and normal as he shook the host’s hand. So it was true. Ghosts and citytalkers together were not only deadly to demons, but harder for the city to notice.

  He had probably found a ghost to help keep him safe from demons. Smart. Zoë probably should have made some kind of deal with Anna to stick closer to her.

  Zoë ducked into the office again and slid down the wall, her bottle clutched in her hands. She tried to look as much like a depressed drunk as she could to keep people from wondering why she didn’t respond if they called to her, and then expanded her awareness again and eavesdropped on the table.

  The host knew she was there immediately. He smiled and looked right at her vantage point, but returned his gaze to Christian.

  “I didn’t know the Grey Cabal was sending an ambassador. I also didn’t realize it was sending a human,” the host was saying. “Still, it’s delightful to meet you. How can I aid the Grey Cabal?”

  Silence. Reynard looked to be talking, but Zoë couldn’t hear more than some kind of odd static. She really wished she knew why a ghost/human combination was invisible to the cities, but at least she understood why the citytalkers had been so easy to hunt—all the assassins had to do was have a ghost riding with them. So it was true, he was working with the Grey Cabal.

  Were citytalkers assassinating again? Zoë felt cold, and very much an outsider. Already something had tried to kill her, but she was fairly sure that the one person who truly hated her, the zoëtist Lucy, was dead.

  Well, there was Kevin, but he was dead, too.

  “I am aiding Mr. Reynard by providing census numbers of the city, but he needs information on where to find the more independent coterie living in the bayou,” Christian said.