by Dana Fredsti
Now he—it—rested just below the surface of the brackish water, blending into the greens and browns of the swamp.
The scales crusted over, then cracked open as the creature’s new form expanded, then crusted over again. The pain took a back seat to hunger, which in turn set up a gnawing agony. At first it could do nothing to assuage the ache, the only relief coming when tadpoles, water striders and bottom feeders inadvertently crossed its path, mired in the viscous jelly oozing between its scales. Once stuck, the unfortunate creatures dissolved in the acidic slime, digested even as they struggled to escape.
As the sustenance gave it strength and it continued to morph, the Thaumaturge sent out exploratory tendrils past its center mass, ensnaring insects and small fish, then moving onto frogs and the occasional baby gator. With each feeding, its bulk grew larger until it occupied nearly two thirds of the swamp. Soon even the full-sized gators stayed away, recognizing a predator more dangerous than themselves.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The concierge had kindly furnished me with a map of the French Quarter, quickly and efficiently marking the way to Café Du Monde. “Now you definitely want to go to the Café Du Monde because it’s a piece of this city’s history,” he’d said. “But tomorrow try Café Beignet instead. They’re just as good, not nearly as crowded, and right down the street.”
My stomach growled, informing me that it was running out of patience. It did not like the fact that I kept passing by restaurants and cafés with all sorts of enticing smells wafting out of their doors. As I walked, my head swiveled side to side, moving up and down like a bobble head in a moving car. I didn’t want to miss anything. I loved the architecture, the wrought-iron scrollwork on fences and balconies that looked almost delicate enough to be lacework.
I paused as I came to the Café Beignet, breathing in as wonderful smells wafted out the door right into my nostrils. I was sorely tempted to stop there and do Café Du Monde another time, but no, I was going to follow the concierge’s advice. My stomach could last another few blocks. Still, it was with a reluctant backward glance, like a woman parting from her lover, that I continued down Royal Street.
It felt familiar. It smelled familiar. The air, the odors—good, bad, and kill me now—all tapped on the shoulder of my memory, even though there was no reason for them to do so. I also found myself smiling for no reason, even though sweat pooled between my breasts and dripped down my back. The expression “it’s a dry heat,” did not apply in New Orleans. Still, I felt totally at home. How weird was that?
Hungry as I was, I took my time—the warm, humid weather provided no incentive to pick up my pace. The streets were crowded, and no one else seemed to be in much of a hurry, so I let myself go with the flow of the pedestrian traffic and checked out the boutiques along the route. My budget didn’t really run to antiques or art right now, but it was fun to pretend that someday it might. And who knew—maybe I’d be able to do more than pretend if I got more jobs like this one down the road.
I continued onward, following the concierge’s precise directions, skirting the edges of Jackson Square and the street musicians, fortune-tellers, artists, and living statues, until I found myself standing in front of the Promised Land.
The terminus of the French Market, the café sported jaunty green awning with brown trim running the length of the building, “Café Du Monde, Original French Market Coffee Stand” lettered across. A short black iron fence and railing separated café from sidewalk, stuffed with as many tables and chairs as I’d ever seen in one space. The seating was packed with what I guessed was the early afternoon lunch crowd, a line of customers waiting for a table to open up. I hadn’t expected anything less. From all accounts, it was worth the wait.
I stood there for a moment and inhaled deeply, letting the aromas of sweet fried dough and chicory coffee torment me for just a moment longer. As I was about to join the end of the line, however, a couple of young men nudged by me as a couple vacated a nearby table, snagging it without shame. My jaw dropped. Really?
“That’s how the locals do it,” a low, feminine voice said with a distinct mid-western accent. “Only tourists wait in line at Café Du Monde.”
I turned to find a sylph of a girl standing next to me, light-brown hair pulled back in a no-nonsense braid. She wore mid-calf black boots over leggings, topped by a long, plain black sleeveless T-shirt, conspicuous only in its lack of ironic quotes or band logos. A black backpack completed the ensemble. I put her in her mid-twenties, if that.
“Did I say ‘really’ out loud?” I asked.
“No, but your face kinda screamed it.” Her expression sharpened, her gaze fixed across the patio seating with the same focus as a hunting dog that’s scented its prey. “Okay, there’s a table about to clear out. Follow me if you want to eat.” She immediately dove in, weaving her way between tables, chairs, and people with practiced ease. What the hell. I gave a mental shrug, and followed her as best I could.
Sure enough, a table for two opened up as if by magic and my new friend slid into one of the chairs, shrugging out of her backpack and putting it at her feet. I sat down across the table, looking around guiltily. “Are we gonna get in trouble for cutting?”
“Nope,” she said, “at least not from the servers. I’ve gotten stink-eye from tourists before, though.” She studied me for a moment. “Is this your first time here?”
“Is it obvious?”
“Well, you do kind of have that whole dewy-eyed ‘everything is new and exciting’ expression going on.”
Oh dear.
She shrugged. “On the other hand, you seem pretty comfy in your skin here.”
“Thank goodness for small favors,” I responded drily.
Further talk was prevented by the arrival of a server, for which I was totally unprepared.
“What can I getcha?”
“Um… beignets?”
“Two plates of beignets and two café au laits, please,” my companion said with the matter-of-fact air of someone who’d done this many times. “Or, if you don’t like coffee, you can get hot chocolate or orange juice,” she added quickly. The server paused, eyebrow raised.
“Oh no, coffee is good,” I assured both of them. The server nodded and continued on her rounds. The two of us sat there for a moment in an only mildly awkward silence.
“I’m Lee,” I said, holding out a hand.
“Tia,” she replied, giving my hand a quick shake with long, strong fingers. “You on vacation?”
I shook my head. “Work.”
“Oh? What do you do?” The question was polite, with no real interest behind it.
“I’m working on a movie that’s going to start shooting in a week.”
“Are you an actress?” Slightly more interest this time, but still unimpressed.
“No,” I replied, grateful that she didn’t immediately ask if the production was hiring. There’s something about the entertainment industry that turns some people into clueless morons with no boundaries. “I’m a stuntwoman.”
“That’s so cool!” she exclaimed, sudden enthusiasm cutting through her world-weary “I’ve seen it all and done it all” expression and making me revise my first impression of her age—if she was over eighteen, I’d be surprised. “Have you ever been set on fire?”
I was in the middle of telling her about my fire gig on Dragon Druid Mages when the server returned with our order. The aroma of fried dough and powdered sugar was almost intoxicating, and I could smell chicory rising from the café au lait.
I took a bite of beignet, hissing as the still-steaming dough threatened to burn my mouth until the powdered sugar cooled things off. “Omigod, that’s amazing,” I mumbled.
Tia gave a delicate snort of laughter, the kind that sounds cute instead of like a pig at a trough. “I know, right?”
I finished the first beignet in record time and then started in on the second at a more leisurely pace. “So,” I said after a few minutes of contented eating, “are you local?”<
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Shaking her head, Tia swallowed her own bite and replied, “Nah. Originally from Michigan. But I figured that traveling around was the best way to do what I wanted to do.”
“What is it you want to do?”
“I ink,” she said. Off my blank look she continued, “Tattooing. I’ve always been fascinated by skin art, and one of the best ways to learn is apprenticing and studying under different masters.”
She only had two tattoos, at least that I could see—a beautifully rendered hummingbird on the left side of her neck, the colors iridescent blues and greens, and a delicate faux bracelet that wrapped around her right wrist. She gave a rueful smile at my surprised expression and said, “I guess I’m not anyone’s first idea of a tattoo artist.”
“Well, most of the ones I’ve met or seen or imagined all have—” I gave a little wave with one hand “—more tattoos, I guess. Like ones that cover an entire arm. What are they called… sleeves?”
“That’s right,” she said with a nod, “and one of these days I’ll probably go there, but I’m taking my time. I want to make sure every line, every brushstroke of ink I have put on my body is exactly what I want it to be and where I want it to be. I don’t want to have any regrets down the line. If I’m gonna be an eighty-year-old covered in ink, I wanna own every single inch of it. It may sag someday, but it’ll still have meaning for me, you know?”
I thought I did know, and I really liked her for it. “So how did your family take this, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Her mouth twisted into something between a wry grin and a pained grimace. “They didn’t. I haven’t been back home since I left three years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” She ripped a piece of beignet off with what seemed like unnecessary force. “It was never great with my family. And before I left, it got really bad.” I didn’t ask what she meant by “really bad” and she didn’t offer the information. I changed the subject back to her tattoos.
“What do these two mean? And you can totally tell me if I’m being too nosy.” Even as I said that, I hoped she wouldn’t. I was fascinated by the artistry of both tattoos, and also by what I suspected was the old soul of my new friend. There was a lot of past pain there, but she’d somehow managed to keep a core of herself protected and… well, “pure” seemed a little dramatic, but it somehow fit.
“I don’t mind. This one—” she lightly touched the hummingbird “—symbolizes freedom, at least to me. It reminds me to always look for the bright spots in life, no matter how shitty things get. To keep trying for my dreams even when I want to stop. Did you know their wings move in an infinity pattern?”
I shook my head. “I did not.”
“They do,” she asserted. “I love all birds, even the ugly ones, but hummingbirds… If there’s such a thing as a totem animal, that would be mine.”
“What about this one?” I pointed to the unbelievably delicate jewel-toned art around her wrist.
Tia gave a small smile. It was not a happy one. “My sister used to steal from me. If it was mine, she wanted it. I had a bracelet I’d inherited from our mom, and Dee wanted it. She’d gotten a necklace, but it wasn’t enough.” She paused briefly, shaking her head before adding, “Sometimes family can really suck, y’know?”
“I do,” I said, adding silently, even when they think they’re doing something for all the right reasons.
She touched her wrist as if playing with the bracelet that was no longer there. “Anyway, Mom’s bracelet disappeared and there wasn’t anything I could do about it. Dad either didn’t believe me or didn’t care. I got this so I could have a piece of jewelry no one could take away from me.”
“It’s beautiful,” I said simply.
“There’s a tattoo artist called Dr. Woo,” she said, “who does these incredibly detailed, delicate pieces—jewelry, constellations, and stuff like that. I’d kill to apprentice with him,” she added wistfully, “but that’s about as long a shot as a shot can be.”
“He did the bracelet?”
“I could never afford him,” Tia said bluntly. “Meghan, the gal I went to for this one, was totally inspired by Dr. Woo’s work. I got lucky because she’s really talented but still working her way up to becoming a name. She gave me a fantastic deal because this was a relatively new style for her. The design is supposed to offer the wearer protection. Meghan figured I could use it.” She looked down with a small smile. “She also let me apprentice under her for a while and that was amazing.”
I got a feeling there was more to that story, but an insistent beeping forestalled any further confidences.
“Oops. That’s my alarm.” Pulling an iPhone out of her purse, Tia glanced at the time. “I’m due at the shop in ten,” she said, getting to her feet almost reluctantly and gathering her things. “I’d better get going.” She gave me a shy smile. “Thanks for keeping me company.”
I smiled back. “Well, thanks for sharing your table with me.” She reached back into her purse and extracted a ten-dollar bill, tucking it under the edge of her plate. “Here. This’ll cover my part of the check and tip.”
“Thanks. How far away is the tattoo parlor?”
“Hah!” She actually said “hah” wrapped up in an explosive little laugh. “Tattoo parlor. That sounds so sleazy.”
“Isn’t that what they call them?”
“Most of the places I’ve worked just call it a shop or a studio, but I guess it’s still a thing. It just makes me think of some not very clean hole-in-the-wall in Shanghai or somewhere sailors go to get anchors on their arms and the inker is some dude drinking whiskey and using dirty needles.”
My turn to laugh. “You may have seen too many movies, but ‘studio’ does sound more modern. Next thing you know tattoo spas will be a thing.”
“Don’t laugh,” Tia said darkly. “I can see it happening.”
“At any rate, how far do you have to walk?”
She grinned and replied, “Just to the other side of Jackson Square near the old prison and the Cabildo. It’s off an alley that’s off another alley. A real hole in the wall that’s hard to find unless you know it’s there.”
“How do you get any walk-in business?”
“Word of mouth.” Tia shrugged. “LeRoy—he’s the owner—is crazy talented. He’s also crazy serious when it comes to the art, which means being on time, which means I’d better take off.”
She stopped to pull a card out of her purse. “Here,” she said, handing it to me. “If you decide you want to get inked while you’re in town, let me know. I’ll give you an extra special discount for people who share their tables.” She smiled again, the expression lightening those solemn features.
“I might just do that.” I waved as she hurried off, weaving her way through the crowded foot traffic like a ninja.
The server came back. “You want anything else, hon?”
I didn’t even have to think about my answer. “Another order of beignets and another café au lait, please.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Being a tourist is exhausting work, although it’s no doubt easier in a more temperate climate. Sure, it was only eighty degrees, which isn’t so bad unless paired with semi-tropical humidity.
I had a few hours to kill before meeting Cayden at Onc Cochon, so I decided to wander around the French Market to start. The air was sultry, redolent with a heady, rich floral smell mixed with all the culinary scents, and a hint of ozone. People moved at a leisurely pace, and were more inclined to smile at random passersby than the LA crowd. I found myself smiling back more often than not.
There were also a lot more plus-size people without any of the almost furtive shame I’d seen in Southern California. Health concerns aside, it was a welcome change from skinny-obsessed Hollywood. I could eat beignets and po-boys to my stomach’s content and no one would think twice about it. I felt lazy and happy, although if the temperature had been much higher, “lazy” would have to be upgraded to “comatose.”
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br /> I strolled around the open-air flea market and bought a blood-red rayon sundress for a fraction of the price I’d have paid back home. I sampled pralines from Aunt Sally’s, buying a box to eat at my leisure. Finally, I followed a pedestrian walkway along the Mississippi for a little while before sitting on a bench and staring at the mighty river. It didn’t look particularly turbulent on first glance, but below the surface strong currents were detectable. I continued my stroll, soaking in the sights and sounds, stopping in shops as the whim took me.
When my iPhone’s alarm went off at five, I reluctantly decided to head back to the hotel for a quick freshen-up before making my way to meet Cayden for dinner. I followed Esplanade Avenue back up to Royal, figuring that would be the quickest route back to Hotel Monteleone.
About two blocks down, I stopped in my tracks to stare at a large mansion hunkered down on a corner lot, the structure stretching down the block on each side. Three stories of gray stone mellowed by age, with ornate scrollwork galleries running the length of the building on either side between the first and second stories. It was beautiful.
Why, then, was it giving me chills up my spine?
Something tugged at the corners of my memory, but I couldn’t quite pull it into the light of day. Right now, the only thing I knew was that the place, as gorgeous an example of antebellum architecture as it was, gave me an uncomfortable sense of déjà vu.