by Arden, Alys
Fluffy jumped down as Theis lifted up his tight black tee to reveal simple black symbols inked across his bony ribs.
“Cool. Nordic runes?” I guessed.
“Yeah, it means protection during battle in Old Icelandic.”
“Cool,” I repeated. My mind immediately spiraled, thinking about whether or not I was going to need more protection for this battle, or feud… whatever it was?
“Leftover hurricane gruel?” he offered, pointing to the pot.
“No, thanks.”
Ren sat in the chair next to me and snuck a quick sip from his flask. Theis put his headphones back on, settled back into his previous position with his eyes shut, and appeared instantly consumed by his music.
“I want to know about ma mère,” I blurted out.
“Your mother?” He took a larger swig. “Isn’t this a conversation better suited for your daddy, bébé?”
“I’m not a child anymore, Ren. You know something, and I am not leaving until you tell me. I can’t ask my dad… a little piece of him dies every time I mention my mother’s name.”
I said nothing else and just waited.
“D’accord, d’accord. What do you want to know?”
“I want to know everything. What happened when she left? No one ever talks about it, but there has to be more to the story than her simply waking up one morning so consumed by her love for Paris that she just bailed on me and my father.”
He stroked his mustache. “I don’t know everything. I’m not sure anyone does. Certainly not your father. Anyway, I’ve already told you part of the story.”
“Quoi? Not possible. Like I could have forgotten that.”
“Oh, I did. The night of the tour. Those two students who had the bright idea of capturing our urban legends on tape? Back then, locals used to spook tourists by telling them vampires lived in the attic and came out at night to feed. Both you and I know good and well that no one’s passed through those shutters for the last three centuries.”
Not until a couple of weeks ago, I thought, looking at Theis.
“Don’t worry about him. He can’t hear anything through that racket. Anyway, as you know, those kids didn't make it through the night; they were found in front of the church, drained of most of their blood—”
“Ren, what does any of this have to do with my mother?”
“Are you sure you’re ready to hear this?”
“Oui!”
He scooped up Fluffy to use as a buffer, and the chains around my stomach tightened.
“Their cameras were still rolling when they were attacked. A friend at the precinct told me that the tapes showed an unidentifiable Caucasian woman with long, brown hair approaching the victims. But that’s pretty much it. There were screams, and the camera crashed to the ground. Blood splattered across the lens, and then the screen went black… after that, nothing but static.
“An elderly couple who lived across the street told the police they’d seen your mother talking to the documentarians. Then a group of college kids also identified your mother from a lineup. They claimed they’d seen her leaving the crime scene – covered in blood.”
“What?”
He slowly smoothed the cat’s fur. “Brigitte Dupré Le Moyne was the only suspect the police ever had. It was the most heartbreaking thing I’ve ever seen. She adamantly denied the charges, but she had no alibi, and when they came for her arrest, she simply went along with them – she was in such a state of trauma that she almost seemed indifferent to it all. Needless to say, your father was outraged. The entire French Quarter was.”
“Ma mère went to jail? Madame Perfect?”
“Oui. Well, she wasn’t incarcerated for very long. I don’t know all of the details, but the story I heard was that after they rounded up the witnesses to build the case for the bail hearing, every one of them suddenly retracted their statements. It was as if every single witness suddenly had amnesia.”
“Sounds so Mafioso.”
“I suspect there might have been Italians involved, but members of organized crime, I think not.”
My mind reeled as I read between the lines.
“But perhaps the strangest thing of all was when the cops went to release your mother, she wasn’t there. Her cell was empty. At least, that was the word on the street. The police were never going to publicly admit that a murder suspect had escaped from jail, and since she had been cleared anyway, they just swept it under the rug. She was never seen again. Her friends were told she went back to Paris, too disgraced by the scandal. It was a plausible explanation, so no one dug too deep – except, of course, your father. The file was dumped into the bin of unsolved cases, and people turned back to the drama of their own lives. It’s New Orleans, after all, so it wasn’t too long before the next scandal took center stage. C’est la vie.”
“C’est la vie,” I whispered. What the hell? My mother deserted me and my father twelve years ago because she was a suspect in a double homicide? I mean, I am bitter towards my mother, but do I think she’s capable of murder?
“Adele, your ma was the sweetest, most charismatic lady I’ve ever met. The whole scandal nearly killed your pa. He was never the same, understandably so.”
“He went after her.” A latent memory started to make more sense. “I was only four. He said he was going on vacation with Mommy, and that she wanted me to stay with Jeanne and Sébastien and speak only French until they got back. Then he left me with the Michels. I was young, but I knew something bad had happened. He came back alone and told me she had gone to live with ma grand-mère, because grand-mère was sick. I hated my grandmother for taking her away from us. Of course, when I got older and realized she had just been the cover, my misplaced anger moved to my mother for abandoning us. Over time, I nearly forgot what she looked like… at one point she seemed like just a figment of my imagination, buried with my earliest memories.”
“Mo chagren, bébé. I’m so, so sorry.”
My head spun.
Does that make Brigitte a fugitive? What could be so important that she risked coming back to New Orleans? And what the hell is Emilio doing with her? I always thought she had such a dominating way with her assistant, but is she actually the one under his spell? Did he kill those students and just let her take the fall? Is he the reason I grew up without a mother? Why I grew up hating her?
A wave of guilt washed over me. Then anger. Tingles carried through my shoulders as I imagined myself engulfing Emilio Medici in flames. My thoughts darkened, and the sensation intensified like fire across my back. I winced. Fluffy sprang away.
“I knew it would be too much… your pa is gonna kill me.”
“Ça va, Ren. Merci beaucoup.”
* * *
“One stop down, two to go,” I said to myself as I crossed Esplanade Avenue back into the French Quarter, not skipping a step when I felt the warble.
A couple weeks ago, Nicco had told me they moved into their own place. I hadn’t asked where, but I had only one guess. With my cold hands stuffed into my jacket pockets, I quickly retraced the path of Ren’s tour to the corner of Royal and St. Ann – the home of the infamous Carter brothers.
I took a moment in front of the three-story brick building to give myself a pep talk. My senses sharpened, and my fingers burned, telling me I was close to something, although I wasn’t sure what. Danger? Nicco? The ghosts of the poor souls he and Emilio tortured? I tried not to picture the gruesome events of decades ago, but also reminded myself not to forget them.
Despite his admission of guilt, I still had a hard time believing Nicco would do something so vile. And why was he at the Waffle House that night? Ugh. Some stupid part of me was holding out for a reasonable explanation. With a wave of my hand, the gate swung open, and then the lock released as I held the doorknob.
I am seriously beginning to doubt my ability to make good choices,I thought as I shoved open the door and stepped inside the pitch-black entrance. The door swung shut behind me, hinges squeaking in agon
y.
There I stood, frozen.
The silence invited fear.
Then a small flame sprang out of my palm.
Breathe,I told myself and tried not to look at the small ball of fire. I focused instead on the shadows it cast on the black-and-white marble floor. The once-splendid foyer was now smothered in dust so thick I left footprints behind.
Intuition guided me to a wide staircase that curved up to the second floor, over which hung a chandelier quilted so thick in cobwebs that it looked more like a giant paper lantern.
The first stair creaked loudly as I placed my weight onto it, as did every step after. Just as I was cursing myself for watching all of those eighties slasher movies—any girl who goes up a dark staircase never comes back down—a step gave way beneath my weight.
“Shit!” I fell forward, banging my knee and wrists. My blood pressure skyrocketed, but at least I had avoided a face-plant.
I pulled my leg from the rotting floorboard, now cursing the termites who had long since moved on, and then carefully edged up the stairs without further mishap.
On the second story, I crept from room to room, holding out my lit palm. Each room was different, but all had the same heavy brocade drapes covering the long windows, cutting off the outside world and the current year. It was easy to imagine lines of corset-clad ladies dancing with wigged gentlemen in the ballroom, or the ghosts of flappers in fringed dresses dancing the Charleston around the piano in the old parlor.
A warm glow shone from a door left ajar further down the hallway. My pulse thumped as I extinguished my light source and quietly approached.
Flames blazed in an opulent marble fireplace, and on a sofa, soaking in the warmth, was the back of a bright blonde head.
“Your boyfriend iz not here,” she said without moving.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I stammered, my cheeks flushing. I instantly recognized the voice of the woman who had accosted me in the alleyway. The girl Nicco had called Liz. “Besides, I’m not here to see him. I’m here to see you.”
Her head turned, and she nodded permissively to admit me. As I approached her, my rational inner voice screamed, Abort! so loud I was worried she could hear it as I sat nervously next to her on the tufted couch.
“Je m’applle Adele Le Moyne.”
“Je suis Lise.”
“Enchanté, Lise.” As her name rolled off my tongue with a French accent, I realized who she was. “Lise? You are Lisette Monvoisin?”
A smile spread across her pale lips.
“Finally, someone who can pronounce my name correctly.”
Dumbfounded, I tried to comprehend the fact that I was talking to someone from the early eighteenth century. I knew Nicco was even older, but this somehow felt different. Meeting a figure I’d come to know so well from Adeline’s diary was like meeting a character from a fairytale.
Lisette rose from the couch and walked to an antique cart. “Would you like somezing to drink? We have bourbon or bl— or I could make you some tea.”
“Thé, s'il vous plaît.”
She removed a small kettle from a hook on the fireplace, not seeming to care when the iron handle singed her skin as she poured the water over the tea strainer. I tried not to gawk as she splashed a generous amount of dark liquid into a brandy snifter for herself. Just as I heard the sugar cubes click against the saucer, she was back on the couch next to me, placing the dainty cup into my shaky hands. I blew the water as the tea steeped, and then, with no patience, took a small sip, welcoming the warmth.
“You’re just like her,” she said flatly. “Adeline was never able to eat a lump of sugar after zhat stopover in Saint-Domingue.”
I desperately wanted to hear more about Adeline, but my attention was fixed on the snifter she was swirling under her nose. The thick, sticky liquid coated the inside of the glass red as she swished it, enjoying the rising notes. My stomach churned.
“Could you not drink that in front of me?”
“Would you prefer for me to drink from you?” she purred and rose slightly from the sofa cushion.
“Where are the boys?” I asked, remembering what Nicco had said about her being volatile on a good day.
“Out.”
“Out where?”
“Don’t ask a question if you don’t really want za answer.” She smiled.
I pulled the rolled canvas from my bag. Lisette didn’t look exactly the same. On one hand, she was somehow more beautiful, more perfect than in the picture, but the sparkle was gone from her golden eyes. I don’t know if it was her innocence, or her pulse, or her soul, but she looked different now. She had an edge – she seemed consumed by bitterness. Pain.
“Shouldn’t you be… dead?”
“Someone has explained za whole vampire zhing to you, right?”
“I mean—”
“I did die zhat night.”
“What night?”
“The night the coven cursed the convent attic—”
“What?”
“So did my sister. Zhen I evolved and went to sleep for a very long time, and she went to sleep forever.”
I pulled the rolled canvas from my bag and handed it to Lise.
She had to set the glass down while she studied the image. “I thought I’d never see them again.” Her finger lingered next to Minette. “It waz all my fault.” She paused and closed her eyes for a minute to compose herself before she began again in French, forcing my brain into overdrive to understand her old dialect.
“The plan was going perfectly. Minette and I had just finished bewitching the attic door when Cosette ran through with Gabriel, Lorenzo, Giovanna, and Martine chasing behind her like puppies. Minette dashed out the exit, and I was right behind her. I can still remember my sigh of elation when I stepped through the doorway.
“But Gabriel must have heard it, too. That’s when he screamed, 'Cosette!'
“I hesitated for a second. A lethal second. I knew Cosette wasn’t still in the attic – she was supposed to have jumped straight out of the window before Adeline slammed it shut – but then again it was exactly the sort of thing she would have done: stayed there in the attic to martyr herself for our sakes. I realized immediately he had tricked me and that I would die for my hesitation. That little fraction of time was enough for Gabriel to grab me.”
Lisette’s eyes dropped to the ground. I wanted to hold her hand, but my own survival instinct drove me to take another sip of tea and wait patiently instead.
She drained her glass. “It all happened so fast. I screamed. When Minette turned around, I begged for help instead of telling her to run. I was weak. She leapt back for me, and the door slammed shut. We had cast the spell perfectly, but had ended up on the wrong side of the door.”
It was strange: when I heard the word “we,” I realized I was suddenly thinking of her as one of us instead of one of them. She was no longer the unpredictable blonde stalker, but Lisette Monvoisin.
“Minette pulled me down to the ground, wrapped both of her arms around me, and screamed incantations at them. But it was Cosette who had always possessed our real strength. She was the only one of us who could really control people.
“Gabriel jerked me away. My arm snapped, and then he plunged his fangs into my neck. With each suck, I could feel his fury. My pulse slowed. I knew my life was ending. Blood spurted from the bites faster than Gabriel could drink it in his state of rage. It drove Martine DuFrense so mad, Lorenzo had to hold her back. Gabriel finally detached himself, but only to ask me if I wanted to die.
“When I pathetically whispered no,he growled, ‘That’s what I thought,’ and bit into his own wrist like a madman.
“I didn’t think about the consequences of that one little word, like Minette or Cosette would have.
“Gabriel forced my head back and rammed his wrist against my pinched lips. Soon, my sister’s screams became faint, everything became bright, and I gave into the numbness brought on by the venom coursing through my veins. I can remember that fir
st drip as if it was yesterday…”
At a loss for words, I continued to sip my tea, trying to imagine Gabe doing something so barbaric.
“When the first drop of maker-blood melts onto your tongue, it tastes repulsive, like some kind of noxious rust. It courses through your system, mixing with your human essence, suffocating and mutating your old blood. Then, as you drink, each drop becomes sweeter, like candy. You want more. The evolutionary process is immediate, as is the addiction. The craving flips from desire to dire – the blood no longer like candy but like opium. Your existence depends on it. Your new life. A life that feels stronger, sexier, superior to anything you have ever known.
“The venom seduces you until you are totally unable to make decisions with logic and reason, as you once could. Lingering in this demonic purgatory – no longer a human but not yet a vampire – your body defaults into survival mode, and your instincts take over. Of course, the only way to complete the transition is to drink. Drink the blood of another human.” Lisette paused and became so still that it was difficult to tell if she was even alive until she began to speak again.
“I clawed at the door, but I was trapped inside my own spell, my own curse. I knew there was no chance of escaping. I was dying, and not just my human death: the clock was ticking on my evolution. Every hour after that, my hunger became more excruciating.
“Gabriel wouldn’t let anyone near my sister. He was saving her… I wanted to bite her. Taste her. I wanted to rip my own triplet limb from limb and feed. I wanted to kill her. And he was saving her… for me.
“Afterward… knowing I had caused my sister’s death, I only wanted to die. Ironic, the way things turn out. Now I will have to live with it forever.”
“What?” I asked, understanding as soon as the question came out.
“Minette was cowering in the corner, watching me in horror. Gabriel asked her if she still wanted to save me. Without fear, she stood and said, ‘Oui,’ then reached for a jagged nail on the floor. When I realized what she was going to do, I screamed out for her to stop, but I was so weak. Dying. She sliced open her own wrists—”
A gasp squeezed through my lips, but Lisette continued, looking straight ahead.