by Lex Chase
Taylor’s lashes fluttered as he kept his hold on Corentin’s gloved hand. They stood amid the frozen devastation of what remained of the French Quarter. Rows of nightclubs and bars, torn apart by the wind, had collapsed from the snow. They jutted up from the dirty snowbanks like jagged macabre memorials, glittering against the shimmering moonlight of the clear skies.
Ringo fluttered next to them, the beating of his wings the only sound through the groan of the wind. “Whoa,” he whispered. “It didn’t look like this before, did it?”
Taylor shivered, and he pressed his mouth shut to keep his teeth from chattering. He turned in a slow circle in the middle of the towering banks of snow. The rubble splayed out at their feet like scattered blood splatter of a livelihood lost to a senseless act of violence.
He hissed through the cold. Questions rose from the ruin. “Why here?” he asked, taking stock of the destruction. “Why not attack Maine? Why not try to kill us?” He looked skyward, and failed to make sense of anything. He didn’t know what he was looking for—maybe some answer spelled out in black and white.
“Maybe that wasn’t the point,” Corentin said, likewise scanning the surroundings. Looking for signs of life, Taylor assumed. “This wasn’t an act of pinpoint focus to take one person out of the equation. This came from a place of brutality to hurt the most people possible.”
“But the question remains, why here?” Taylor asked, confused by Corentin’s theory. “Is it because you’re native?”
Corentin shrugged. “I strongly doubt anyone targeted us.”
Taylor knitted his brows. He and Ringo exchanged questioning glances, and Ringo shook his head.
Ringo pointed upward at the gathering clouds. “I’ll take a look overhead. Get a better sense of the land and how to navigate. Maybe find some assistance.”
“Good idea,” Taylor said, and Ringo flittered into the dreary skies.
“Hey,” Corentin said softly, as if in distressed disbelief. “Happy Birthday.”
Taylor shivered in his coat and tucked his chin into his fuzzy scarf. “You remembered.” Corentin was trying to diffuse Taylor’s apprehension, and Taylor was letting it work. No, Taylor needed it to work.
“Was there a doubt?” Corentin asked, but he didn’t smile as they navigated through the slush.
Instead of responding, they fell into silence. The wind sang a shrill note, using the rubble and ruin as its instrument. In the distance, mundanes wailed with bloodcurdling howls, afflicted with pandemonium. The local authorities, or the ones who were likely Enchants and unaffected, shouted messages not to panic and corralled the mundanes together for their safety.
Taylor’s snow boots crunched over the ice and broken glass as they wandered down what had once been Royal Street. The iron-lace balconies had collapsed under the weight of the heavy snow and lay shattered like cracked sugar.
“Corentin,” Taylor whispered, and his eyes welled with icy tears. He pointed to the battered-in doors of a bar and the patrons inside. All of them were frozen at the moment of death. Their faces remained contorted with screams of their last words. It was like an eerie reprise of historical Pompeii. Taylor shook his head, backing into Corentin for protection. Zee perked, and Taylor sensed her confusion.
Corentin pulled him close, and Taylor trembled. “We’re going to see a lot of that. I’m with you,” Corentin said.
Taylor nodded at the encouragement. “Why would he do this?” he asked as he stepped away. He folded his hands to his chest, searching for the magic inside his heart. Taylor clenched his hands tighter and pressed his lips together, trying to hide his sadness. “Why would he hurt these people?”
“We don’t know that he did,” Corentin said, remaining behind Taylor. “It could have been any number of Enchants. Atticus isn’t the only one with control of ice and snow.”
Taylor looked up to the gray skies. The clouds wrapped New Orleans in a blanket of dread. The storm had passed, but the skies warned them it could come again. Corentin didn’t convince him.
“This isn’t the Tranquil Frost,” Corentin called as Taylor walked on. “Everyone would be dead. New Orleans would be buried. Someone wanted to terrorize the place, control it, for… something….” Corentin left it at that.
The wind scraped at Taylor’s face, rubbing his cheeks with stinging ice crystals and dirt. “What would someone take control of New Orleans for?” Taylor asked, turning slowly to face him.
Corentin cleared his throat with a ragged cough. He puffed into his gloved hands, trying to warm them.
Taylor furrowed his brows as Corentin avoided answering. “Do you know?”
“I’m not sure,” Corentin said, and his breath frosted in the air. “So, can you do it?”
Their eyes met, and Taylor noticed Corentin’s expectant expression. Corentin had dodged the question, but Taylor decided to leave it for now. Corentin was right—dealing with the mundanes was the pressing issue.
Taylor curled his hands to his chest, pressing his sternum through this coat. “I’ve only done the Blooming Lullaby once,” he said as he flexed his fingers. “I’m sure I can go for round two.”
The Blooming Lullaby was Taylor’s gift as Sleeping Dragon to grant restful healing slumber upon those wounded in battle. He could heal anyone who had fallen victim to Atticus’s Tranquil Frost.
He shook his head. He just wanted Atticus to be the culprit. He longed for the closure.
Taylor closed his eyes and retreated into a state between being awake and asleep. He fanned his fingers, and the pink sparks drifted from his chest into his palms. His magic coalesced into a twinkling magenta ball, and Taylor cradled it like a delicate baby bird. With a nod, he tossed out his arms in a wide arc, and his magic burst from his fingertips in a scattering shot.
His magic fizzled like an insignificant firecracker at his feet.
Taylor buckled at the middle as if hit with a baseball bat to the gut. He dropped to his knees in the slush, and Corentin was at his side in seconds. Taylor coughed for breath as Corentin scooped him up from the ground.
“You okay?” Corentin asked and smoothed away Taylor’s hair. “Hey. Talk to me.”
Taylor’s teeth chattered, and he fought for air. His lungs moved, but no breath came in, nor did he exhale any of it.
“Taylor?” Corentin asked. Panic rose in his tone, and he shook Taylor. “Talk to me. Hey. Hey. Stay with me. I’m here. Stay here.”
“I… c-c-can’t…,” Taylor whispered in a choking gurgle. His world blurred from black to white to green to red to gray.
“Shh, shh, shh,” Corentin said as he hurried down the street with Taylor in his arms. “We’ll get back to Ringo, yeah? We’ll figure it out from there.”
Corentin muttered to him, but Taylor’s consciousness hazed at the edges. He was awake, but not quite aware. The cold scraped at his nose and cheeks as Corentin ran with him, his heavy footfalls crunching with the fury of a wolf chasing prey. The rhythmic pounding made Taylor come back to the present. He blinked blearily as Corentin turned a corner of what had once been the green lushness of Pirate Alley. The trees and bushes had been flash-frozen, still brilliant and bright from their summer days, now encased in thick ice, turning them into art.
The green steeples of St. Louis Cathedral came into view. Taylor’s breath returned to him, and he wrapped his arms around Corentin’s neck.
“You okay?” Corentin asked breathlessly as he jogged onward.
“Yeah, I’m okay now, just didn’t expect that,” Taylor said, then yawned wide.
“Was it Zee?” Corentin set Taylor on his feet.
Taylor wobbled, and Corentin reached out to steady him. But Taylor waved him off as he found his footing. He blinked again, trying to get his bearings. “I don’t think so. Zee is for defense. I don’t think she’d interfere with the Blooming Lullaby.”
He pointed ahead, and Corentin followed his gesture. They both nodded at the sight of a FEMA station in Jackson Square. The snow had been pushed away to form
a perimeter, and a line of storm victims wound through the maze of snow.
Corentin and Taylor hung back, observing as volunteers led survivors inside the cathedral and others to tables filled with hot soups and coffee. Drum fires crackled throughout the encampment, and volunteers as well as survivors warmed their hands.
Corentin squinted and tapped Taylor’s forearm. “Hey,” he muttered, then swept a finger indicating the volunteers. “What do you see?”
Taylor startled. “Huh?”
“Their eyes. All of them.”
Violet, gold, ruby, cerulean, jade, black. Taylor recognized the peculiar eye colors of their people. It was an Enchant’s telling trait, and with a subtle power of suggestion, easily overlooked by mundanes. But once mundanes had been exposed to their magic, they saw them for what they were. Only instead of considering them kind princesses and brave princes, they saw all of them as monsters. Taylor could never shake the vision of the man he’d seen in Margate City, of his contorted, terrified expression when he recognized Taylor for what he was, and how the last fibers of his human sanity snapped.
As the storm victims wound through the line and the volunteers carried out their assigned tasks, something else caught Taylor’s attention.
“Not all of them are Enchants,” Taylor said. “And the ones who aren’t haven’t lost their sanity.”
“Curious.” Corentin nodded in agreement.
“Psst! Guys!”
Taylor turned at the familiar sound of Ringo’s voice.
“Up here,” Ringo said as he waved from the top of a snowbank.
As Taylor looked up, the world went off-kilter for him. He staggered, and his lashes fluttered as the cold sweat of nausea broke out on his forehead.
“Taylor?” Corentin asked in a cautious tone. “Taylor!”
His eyes rolled into the back of his head and his world went dark.
“HEY….” CORENTIN’S voice called to Taylor, pulling him from the darkness. “Hey…. Come on, baby. Come back.”
Taylor blinked, bleary-eyed, as Corentin came into focus over him. He grunted with a half squeak. “You never call me baby,” he said, offended and confused.
“Taking it for a test drive,” Corentin said and eased Taylor into sitting up. “You like it?”
Taylor rubbed the back of his head and smacked his lips. He was in the St. Louis Cathedral and had been laid out in a pew. Corentin brushed Taylor’s hair away from his face, and Taylor scowled at the contact.
“No,” Taylor groaned and tried to focus. “Where’s Ringo?” He hissed from the stabbing pain between his eyes.
“Getting donuts,” Corentin said, then smiled. It was a genuine smile and a welcome bit of encouragement since they’d arrived. “You know how he is, stress-eating.”
“Ah, he lives,” an elderly man said as he slipped into Taylor’s peripheral vision.
Corentin pulled away, and the man held out a cup of steaming broth to Taylor. There was kindness in his jade-green eyes, a striking contrast to his deep mahogany skin.
Taylor smiled shyly as he accepted the hot cup of chicken broth. “Thank you.” He raised the Styrofoam cup in a slight toast and then sipped.
“I never thought I’d see you down here.” The old man’s voice was a rumbling growl from a life of cigarettes, but warm like a scratching record. “Always a welcome sight to meet another princess.”
Taylor shot a glance to Corentin, and Corentin gave a small nod in confirmation. Taylor pointed to himself and then discreetly pointed to the man. Corentin smirked.
The man laughed under his breath. He pulled off his wool cap and rubbed his bald head. “Yeah. I got it. Mother Storyteller found the irony in a bald Rapunzel.”
Taylor choked on his chicken broth and it went up his nose. He swallowed and then smiled. “You?” He coughed again. “Rapunzel?”
The man nodded. “Name’s Raymond. Raymond Valentine. Call me Ray.” He reached into his pockets and plucked out hand-warming chemical packets. “I run a barbershop over in Crescent City.”
Taylor extended a hand toward Ray. “Nice to meet you. I’m—”
“Taylor Hatfield. Sleeping Dragon. You slayed Idi a few years back. I know all about you.”
Bashfulness made Taylor’s face heat. He hooked a thumb toward Corentin. “It wasn’t just me. I had help. This is—”
“Yeah. I know him.” Ray interjected again. His displeasure made Taylor reconsider if the meeting was a good idea after all.
“Corentin?” Taylor asked, uncertain yet trying to stay positive. “He’s my true love.”
Ray arched a heavy brow at Corentin. “Oh. Really?”
“Taylor,” Corentin said tersely. “There will be time for this later.”
Ray glared at Corentin, and the instant animosity between them filled Taylor with dread.
Taylor took it upon himself to advocate for Corentin. He put on his best smile. “I know he’s a huntsman—”
“Oh, I know all about that,” Ray said, his acidic glare remaining on Corentin.
“This isn’t going to be a problem. Is it?” Corentin asked in irritation and a subtle hint of a threat.
“As long as you don’t become a problem,” Ray warned, refusing to compromise.
Taylor waved a hand, trying to ease the tension. “Guys. Please. Stop. We can sort this out.”
Corentin nodded briefly to Taylor, then returned his attention to Ray. “What can you tell us about the storm?” he asked, taking charge.
“Let’s take a walk,” Ray said, and they followed him out to the cathedral’s porch. A drum fire blazed a few feet away. Ray offered the chemical packets to Taylor and then hesitantly to Corentin. “Shake ’em until hot and stick them in your gloves.”
Taylor set down his broth and quietly shook the packets. He glanced at Corentin as he likewise obeyed Ray’s instructions.
“Storm came on so fast, the only footage is on traffic cameras or smartphones. A few news crews got footage,” Ray said as he returned his hands to his pockets. “But of course, every mundane in New Orleans lost their damned minds in the process.” He looked over his shoulder at the relief station. “The local volunteers are like us. The volunteers from outside the city were never exposed. They’re still sane, and local Enchants are keeping the true nature of the storm quiet.”
“Good call not to risk it,” Corentin said as he slipped the heat packets into his gloves.
Ray watched Corentin with a stoic expression. “Yeah. Good call,” he repeated, unamused.
Taylor adjusted his packets in the palms of his gloves and then folded his hands together. His fingers soaked up the radiating heat. He nodded for Ray to continue.
Ray sighed, and his breath coiled around his mouth like a fog. “She came on so fast, the storm never got a name. Of course, kids want to call it something silly like Snowpocalypse Now.”
“Seriously?” Taylor asked, arching a dubious brow.
“There goes my faith in humanity,” Corentin added with a frustrated sigh.
“No one was prepared for this kind of weather,” Ray said. “There’s no infrastructure in New Orleans—or Louisiana, for that matter—to deal with snow. The power grid is fried. The city took a licking with Katrina, but against a blizzard? That’s something else.” He toed the slush. “We don’t have to worry about the levees breaking this time. But the Mississippi is frozen solid. Lake Pontchartrain too. But then you got this.” He swept out an arm, gesturing to the surrounding snowbanks. “Ten feet in some places, more in other places. Lots more. In the city limits. And—”
“Where’s it going to go when it melts?” Corentin filled in the rest.
“Ain’t you a smart one?” Ray asked, narrowing his eyes.
Corentin clenched his jaw. “Just trying to help,” he said curtly.
Taylor frowned at the slow-brewing dislike Corentin and Ray shared for each other.
“And then what are we going to do with the bodies?” Ray asked. “You’ve seen them. Most of ’em are frozen ove
r in glaciers of ice. Retrieving them, identifying them, and putting them to rest will be another challenge with the limited resources we have. What do we do? Take blowtorches to the ice to get them loose?”
Taylor pressed his warm hands to his cheeks. “Especially if the next of kin are mundane survivors.” He sighed.
Ray wouldn’t look away from Corentin. Taylor nibbled at his lip as he watched the two of them refuse to back down. Corentin’s clenched fists at his sides were his only tell, informing Taylor he was plenty pissed.
“No need to tell you guys this has the Witchking all over it.” Ray looked Corentin in the eye. “Of course, you’d know, right?”
Corentin lunged for Ray with a snarl, and Taylor sprang into action, blocking Corentin from tackling Ray.
“Hey!” Taylor snapped as Corentin pushed against him. He pounded against Corentin’s chest and shoved him back. “Knock it off!”
Corentin relented and slipped back, but Ray didn’t flinch. Corentin’s irritation bloomed into clear hatred. He spit into the snow in agitation.
“Are you okay?” Taylor growled as Corentin stalked away. “I’m talking to you!”
Corentin shot up his hands in surrender. “I’m fine. I’m fine,” he said when he obviously wasn’t.
Ray crossed his arms. “New Orleans has the highest concentration of Enchants in the Southern US. Predominantly witches,” he said, as if nothing had happened.
Taylor blinked and Corentin ran a hand over his face, watching Ray through his fingers.
“New Orleans is a wellspring of magic. It’s a strategic point in the US for all Enchants. For someone like Idi to waltz in and eliminate the nonessential mundanes and then subjugate the witches, it’ll all go to hell,” Ray said.
Taylor knitted his brows and shook his head. “Idi’s dead.”
“For now.” Ray nodded. “You know you can’t kill him. Only slow him down.”
Corentin took a long breath and then puffed in exasperation. “Say hypothetically Idi’s behind this, the important question is, why?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Ray held out his hands, indicating the ruined city. “Raising an army. Launching a large-scale attack on the US and her neighbors. Anyone not an Enchant exposed to magic of that magnitude? Yeah. No fixing that. So much widespread pandemonium, not all the Prozac in the world could cure it.” He nodded to Taylor. “And if you can’t do your Blooming Lullaby here right now, you sure as hell can’t do it on that scale.”