The Casquette Girls

by Arden, Alys

  Breathe.

  “Are you okay?” Isaac asked.

  I nodded, sucking in a big breath through my nose.

  “Are you sure?”

  I opened my eyes to find him standing right in front of me. All the chaos stopped.

  “I locked the front door,” said Désirée, walking back to us. “We all good over here?”

  “Oui. Tout va bien. All good.”

  I smiled at Isaac, and his hand went to my face. “Just don’t go opening any more shutters, okay?”

  “Oui.” I knew he was only half-joking. I glanced back at the attic, and for an instant Emilio flashed in my head—

  “Il ne faut rien laisser au hasard!” I yelled, and with a flick of my wrist, the old nails rose from the rusty pail and hammered themselves back into the wooden shutters.

  They were both staring at me.

  “Why leave anything to chance?” I asked, looking straight at Isaac.

  He smiled at me without worry for the first time since we parted in the street, and then fell in beside me as I walked by. I knew he would always be there. Beside me.

  * * *

  In a subdued state, the three of us crossed the railroad tracks to the Moonwalk and kept going to the river’s edge, where we sat under the star-swept sky. With everything along the riverfront obliterated by the Storm, I wondered if our view was closer to how the landscape had looked for Adeline three centuries ago. I wondered if she ever left La Nouvelle-Orléans? Did her father ever make it to the city? The number of unanswered questions was maddening, but the one that bothered me the most was about my mother: Was she just a casualty in the Le Moyne’s insanely magical lineage? Had I been wrong about her my entire life? She was the only person who could answer those questions, and I had locked her up for eternity.

  Désirée finally broke the silence.

  “I’m glad we didn’t torch them,” she paused, rolling her eyes. “I kinda miss Gabriel.”

  Isaac groaned and leaned back on a small tuft of weeds.

  I tried my best to contain my giggles as I lay back next to him. “I miss ice cream.”

  “Mmm… pralines and cream,” she agreed, lying back.

  “These other two descendants better be dudes,” Isaac said, and we all burst into delirious laughter.

  “All right.” Désirée leaned towards me, propped on her elbow. “Time to spill it, sister. What the hell happened in the attic?”

  “Yeah.” Isaac mirrored her elbow-prop on my other side. He fiddled with the silver feather resting on my stomach.

  I took a deep breath and thought about where to begin. “Well, in essence, le Comte de Saint Germain saved me.”

  “Your dead great-great-great-something-grandfathersaved you?” Isaac asked.

  “Yeah… although, now, I’m not so sure that he’s dead.”

  “Oh, lord.” Désirée sighed.

  After I finished telling my version of the night, Désirée told hers and then Isaac his. And when all was done and all was said, we sat silently staring at the moon’s reflection on the rippling river, soaking it all in – the differences between people, cultures and times.

  The monsters. The myths.

  The heroes.

  The victims.

  The love and loss. Loss and love.

  Epilogue La Toussaint

  November 1st

  “Well, Dad… your wife is locked in an enchanted attic a few blocks away on the property of the Catholic archdiocese, forever or until further notice,” I explained to my jabbering reflection in the toaster. “Last night, I nearly killed her by way of fireballs exploding from the palms of my hands. Also, she now has a strange familial relationship with this total psychopath from the seventeenth century, who I used to have a massive schoolgirl crush on. That was before he tried to kill me, by the way. Oh, and those murders that Mom was accused of twelve years ago? Totally guilty. So, in a nutshell, you sent me away to Paris to live with a bloodsucking vampire. At least Mom had enough sense to send me away to boarding school.”

  The toast popped, startling me.

  “You’re right,” I told the toaster. “That’s not going to work.”

  Too bad Hallmark doesn’t make a card that says, Sorry, your wife is undead.

  I sipped my lukewarm café sans au lait, wishing I could magically turn toasted stale bread into beignets, when I heard the front door heave open. I quickly buried the idea of ever telling my father any of this nonsense.

  “Adele?”

  “Kitchen!”

  His boots clacked quickly on the wooden floor, and a few seconds later, he threw his keys on the table, hurrying to the chair next to me. His hair was messy, a blue and red lightning bolt was painted down the right side of his face, and his eyes were slightly bloodshot.

  “Why didn’t you call me? Are you okay?”

  My heart skipped. How does he know? “Call you about what?”

  “Ren just came by the bar and told me about a cat attack knocking you off the King’s float and you nearly getting run over by a drunk on a mule?” he said with a smidgen of disbelief.

  “Wha? Oh, yeah, um. I’m kinda banged up.” I stretched the collar of my black turtleneck to show him the bandage.

  “Do you need a doctor?”

  “No, Désirée’s mom patched me up and gave me some kind of herbal tea for the bruising on my back.” It was a little more than herbal tea, but whatever, it was more than a little bruising.

  “Well, let me know if anything gets worse,” he said, not thrilled with my choice of treatment.

  If he bought that load of bull from Ren, he must think I’m an even bigger spaz than I realized.

  “What’s with the lightning bolt over half your face?” I asked, a flash of Emilio’s scorched skin whipping through my memory.

  “Oh, sweetheart, we still have so much David Bowie immersion to do.” He kissed my cheek. “One of the bartenders attacked me with makeup since I wasn’t wearing a costume.” He reached for my coffee mug and took a sip. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  I nodded.

  “No school today?”

  “Nope. It’s a Catholic holiday. All Saint’s Day, not to be confused with All Soul’s Day, which is tomorrow.” I took back my mug.

  “Well, speaking of miracles, I have more good news.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Once this semester is complete, you won’t have to return to Sacred Heart in the spring.”

  “What!” I shrieked, sloshing coffee onto the table. “NOSA is reopening?”

  “Not exactly.” He extracted a newspaper from his interior jacket pocket. “This, by the way, is the first post-Storm issue of the Times Picayune.”

  “Well, things are looking up.”

  I unfolded the thin newsprint and found a photo of Morgan Borges standing in front of the convent. I read the headline and quickly set down the mug so I wouldn’t drop it on the floor.

  OLD URSULINE ACADEMY

  TO REOPEN HISTORIC FRENCH QUARTER CAMPUS

  Mayor Morgan Borges and Ursuline Prioress Sister Angela Rouen are pleased to announce the reopening of the Ursuline Academy’s historic French Quarter location, which miraculously received little damage from the Storm.

  “I am so proud to make this announcement. The Ursuline Academy is almost as old as New Orleans herself. I look forward to the Ursuline sisters carrying on the traditions of the school and its mission to provide education for students of all walks of life in the French Quarter area,” says the Mayor.

  “What the…”

  My pulse started to crawl back towards the danger zone as I thought about attending class inside a vampire catacomb. I dropped the paper on the table.

  A loud noise erupted and all the lights flickered. We both jumped from the table, clutching our chests.

  “Damn, we’re back on the grid!” He smashed a kiss against my cheek. “See, sweetheart? I told you things were gonna be all right.”

  A small laugh escaped my throat as I realized the noise was just
the air conditioner revving up after being dormant for so long. A gentle rap at the door interrupted the celebration. My stomach tightened when I saw Isaac’s silhouette through the thin white curtain.

  “I hope he doesn’t think we’re working on the day after Halloween,” my father said, going to the door. “Morning, Isaac.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Le Moyne.”

  The switch in formality made my father immediately suspicious. He looked at me, then back to Isaac, and stood his ground, barricading the entrance. “Just remember that I have a gun, okay, son?”

  “Dad!” I cringed.

  “I’m just putting it out there, that’s all.”

  He grabbed the paper, my mug of coffee, and exited the kitchen.

  “Does your dad really have a gun?” Isaac asked as I took my father’s place in the doorway.

  “Yeah, I know. It’s surprising.”

  “I also have half the Parish Precinct on speed dial!” my father yelled from the other room.

  “Dad!”

  “And don’t forget that everyone in this town owes me a favor. Or ten. I’ve got dirt on everyone!”

  Isaac’s confidence was wavering, so I stepped outside, shutting the door behind me.

  He hopped down the stairs, but I leaned against the door, suddenly nervous.

  “Hey,” was all I managed to get out.

  He repeated the greeting back, but then just stood there.

  “What are you doing up so early?” I asked.

  “Early? I’m used to rising before the sun. What are you doing up? I just dropped you off a few hours ago.”

  “I don’t know. Couldn’t sleep. I guess it was the excitement, or the elixir.” I left out the part about the severe anxiety brought on from locking Nicco and my mother in an attic to rot for eternity. Then there was, of course, our mini makeout sesh.

  “Yeah, I know what you mean.” He nervously spun something in the front pocket of his jeans.

  “So… what’s up?” I asked with the feeling we were teetering on ano-going-back moment.

  “Oh, I just wanted to see if you were okay… and, uh, tell you something.”

  “Well, if by ‘okay’ you mean ‘feel like I got hit by a truck,’— A truck called Niccolò Medici—then yes, I’m okay.”

  He frowned.

  Nicco let go of your hands, Adele… Nicco let go of you.

  My feet moved out of the doorway, as if they knew my mind was about to downward spiral, and stopped on the last step to make up the gap in our heights. I was surprised to feel my best ingénue eyes peering at him in admiration.

  All I got back was awkward silence. It felt, strangely, as if it was the first time we’d ever been alone.

  “I still really think you should see a doctor,” he finally said.

  I groaned internally. Maybe everything between us last night had just been due to the elixir-adrenaline cocktail?

  “I’m fine.” I am an idiot.

  Just as I began to feel self-conscious about my aggressive rooftop behavior, his two index fingers hooked the front belt-loops of my black jeans.

  My head stopped spinning.

  “Did you just come here to lecture me?”

  He tugged the denim near my hips, making it difficult to balance on the edge of the step. My eyelashes batted nervously as I looked into his golden-brown eyes.

  “Oh, I am never kissing you again, if that’s what you are wondering,” he said.

  I bit my lip to keep the shock from sprawling all over my face.

  He did his best not to crack a smile. “Do you realize that, after the first time I kissed you, you started crying, and then after the second time I kissed you, you blacked out?”

  “Third time’s a charm. Maybe I’ll burst into flames next?”

  “Oh, so this is funny to you?” He struggled to keep his serious demeanor, but didn’t budge on his vow.

  “Fine,” I said and leaned closer to his face. I lightly swept my fingers over his cheekbone. “Glitter.”

  “No matter how long I stayed in the shower, I couldn’t get it all off.”

  “So, what were you going to tell me?”

  “Nothing…,” he whispered nervously. He repeated the word again with more authority. “Nothing.”

  I pulled back. “If you have something to say, you’d better just spit it out.”

  “It’s nothing,” he reassured me, gripping my hips.

  I didn’t totally buy it.

  “It’s just that…” His fingers crawled together at the small of my back, and he pulled me close again. “It’s just that I can’t believe after everything we’ve been through, you ended up with me.”

  “Oh, did I?”

  His head bobbed as it came closer to mine.

  “Oui, you definitely did.”

  It became difficult to hide my smile.

  “Isaac…”

  “Hmm?”

  “Merci beaucoup for catching me.”

  “I will always catch you, Adele, I promise.” His lips gently touched mine, breaking his short-lived vow.

  No wind. No fire. Nor magic. Nor elixir. Just the warmth of his hot-blooded heart. When he pulled a tiny bit away, he took my breath with him.

  “I can’t believe it either,” I said, trying to contain a giggle.

  “Oh, really? Is this still funny to you?”

  “Mm… hmm,” I said angelically, which he returned with devilish eyes that could only mean one thing.

  “No. No!” I tried to leap back to the kitchen door, but there was no chance of escape. He easily pulled me back and attacked my ribs first. “No, stop, please!”

  I deserved it, but still, I hated being tickled. Although, it was impossible to really hate his touch. Buckled over, I did my best to wriggle away, but the attempts were futile because I was laughing so hard I could barely breathe.

  “Isaac, stop it!” I screamed between gasps.

  A scream that brought on another kiss. And a scream that resonated for six blocks and slipped into the slumbering subconscious of the Knight, whose trust in the Heroine trumped all.

  La Fin.

  Acknowledgments

  In particular, I want to thank my bestie, Jennifer, who always listened attentively as I explained complicated threads about French triplets as we ran along the Hudson day after day. My editor Marissa van Uden, who has reset my bar for creative collaborators. Lucas Stoffel for working through ten thousand graphic revisions with me and for running around New Orleans with my manuscript to read all of the scenes “on location.” Liza and Ana for giving me such detailed feedback early on. ALL of my beta readers, but especially Sarah and Zee. Caitlyn and Zoe for convincing me to write a book. Hellvis for her amazing map! Merci, Coralie! All of my writing circles – Lisa, Alex, Charlotte and Jen. <3

  I want to thank the tens of thousands of people who read THE CASQUETTE GIRLS while I wrote it in real-time online, both the conspiracy theorists and the silent readers.

  I want to thank all the people who believe in magic. Most of all I want to thank the people who believe in New Orleans – the people who’ve had to eat Hurricane gruel for months, who’ve suffered the smell of Bourbon Street on a late July afternoon. To the coffee slingers, beignet friers and omelet beaters. To the street artists, jazz boys, and coke-bottle-tap-shoed dancers. To the Cajuns, to the Creoles, to all those who have dreamed and suffered on our stone “streets.” I want to thank the drag queens who raised me to think wearing costumes is a nightly affair. To the tarot card readers, and Nosferatu-ring-wearing-blood drinkers. I want to thank every person who has cleaned mold, bailed water, or seen a Nutria on the neutral ground. I want to thank the people who have rebuilt after every fire and every flood.

  Love,

  Alys

  Author Info

  ALYS ARDEN grew up in the Vieux Carré, cut her teeth on the streets of New York, and has worked all around the world since. She still plans to run away with the circus one day.

  Merci beaucoup for reading!

&n
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