Saying we were going to New Orleans to find an old bar—and an even older Incubus—was one
thing. Actually finding him was something different. What stood between those two things was
talking my Uncle Macon into letting me go.
I tried my uncle at the dinner table, well after Kitchen had served up his favorite dinner, before
the plates had disappeared from the endlessly long table.
Kitchen, who was never as accommodating as you’d think a Caster kitchen might be, seemed
to know it was important and did everything I asked and more. When I walked downstairs, I found
flickering candelabras and the scent of jasmine in the air. With a flutter of my fingers, orchids and
tiger lilies bloomed across the length of the table. I fluttered them again, and my viola appeared in
the corner of the room.
I stared at it, and it began to play Paganini. A favorite of my uncle’s.
Perfect.
I looked down at my grubby jeans and Ethan’s faded sweatshirt. I closed my eyes as my hair
began to weave itself into a thick French braid. When I opened them again, I was dressed for
dinner.
A simple black cocktail dress, the one Uncle Macon bought me last summer in Rome. I
touched my neck, and the silver crescent moon necklace he gave me for the winter formal appeared
at the base of my throat.
Ready.
“Uncle M? Dinnertime—” I called out into the hall, but he was already there next to me,
appearing as swiftly as if he was still an Incubus and could rip through space and time whenever he
wanted. Old habits died hard.
“Beautiful, Lena. I find the shoes an especially nice touch.” I looked down and noticed my
raggedy black Converse still on my feet. So much for dressing for dinner.
I shrugged and followed him to the table.
Fillet of sea bass with baby fennel. Warm lobster tail. Scallops carpaccio. Grilled peaches
soaked in port. I had no appetite, especially not for food you could only find at a five-star restaurant
on the Champs-Élysées in Paris—where Uncle Macon took me at every opportunity—but he ate
happily for the better part of an hour.
One thing about former Incubuses: They really appreciate Mortal food.
“What is it?” my uncle finally said, over a forkful of lobster.
“What’s what?” I put down my fork.
“This.” He gestured at the spread of silver platters between us, pulling the shiny dome off one
overflowing with steaming, spicy oysters. “And this.” He looked pointedly at my viola, still playing
softly. “Paganini, of course. Am I really that predictable?”
I avoided his eyes. “It’s called dinner. You eat it. Which you seem to have no problem doing,
by the way.” I grabbed a ridiculous flagon of ice water—where Kitchen found some of our
tableware, I’d never know—before he could say anything else.
“This is not dinner. This is, as Mark Antony would say, a tantalizing table of treason. Or
perhaps treachery.” He swallowed another bite of lobster. “Or perhaps both, if Mark Antony were a
fan of alliteration.”
“No treason.” I smiled. He smiled back, waiting. My uncle was many things—a snob, for one
—but he wasn’t a fool. “Just a simple request.”
He set down his wineglass, heavy on the linen tablecloth. I waved a finger, and the glass filled
itself.Insurance, I thought.
“Absolutely not,” said Uncle Macon.
“I haven’t asked you anything.”
“Whatever it is, no. The wine proves it. The last straw. The final pheasant feather on the
proverbial fluffy feather bed.”
“So you’re saying Mark Antony isn’t the only fan of alliteration?” I asked.
“Out with it. Now.”
I pulled the matchbook cover out of my pocket and pushed it across the table so he could see
it.
“Abraham?”
I nodded.
“And this is in New Orleans?”
I nodded again. He handed me back the matchbook, dabbing at his mouth with his linen napkin.
“No.” He returned to the wine.
“No? You were the one who agreed with me. You were the one who said we could find him
ourselves.”
“I did. And I will find him while you remain locked safely in your room, like the nice little girl
you should be. You’re not going to New Orleans alone.”
“New Orleans is the problem?” I was stunned. “Not your ancient-but-deadly Incubus ancestor
who tried to kill us on more than one occasion?”
“That and New Orleans. Your grandmother wouldn’t hear of it, even if I said yes.”
“She wouldn’t hear of it? Or she shouldn’t hear of it?”
He lifted an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”
“What about if she just doesn’t hear of it? That way it’s not an issue.” I put my arms around
my uncle. As angry as he made me, and as annoying as it was to have him pay off the Underground
bartenders and ground me from various dangerous pursuits, I loved him, and I loved that he loved
me as much as he did.
“How about no?”
“How about she’ll be with Aunt Del and everyone in Barbados until next week, so why is this
even a problem?”
“How about still no?”
At that point, I gave up. It was hard to stay angry at Uncle Macon. Impossible, even. Knowing
how I felt about him was the only way I understood how hard it was for Ethan to live apart from
his own mother.
Lila Evers Wate. How many times had her path crossed mine?
we love what we love and who
we love who we love and why
we love why we love and find
a falling shoelace knotted and strung
between the fingers of strangers
I didn’t want to think about it, but I hoped it was true. I hoped wherever Ethan was, he was
with her now.
At least give him that.
John and I left first thing in the morning. We needed to leave early, since we were taking the long
way—the Tunnels, rather than Traveling, though if I’d let him, John could have easily gotten us
there in the blink of an eye.
I didn’t care. I wouldn’t let him. I didn’t want to be reminded of the other times I’d let John
carry me—all the way to Sarafine.
So we did it my way. I Cast a Resonantia on my viola and set it to practice in the corner while
I was gone. It would wear off eventually, but it might give me enough time.
I didn’t tell my uncle I was going. I just went. Uncle Macon still slept most of the day, old
habits being what they were. I figured I had at least six good hours before he noticed my absence.
By which I mean, before he flipped out and came after me.
One thing I’d realized in the last year was that there were some things no one could give you
permission to do. All the same, it didn’t mean you couldn’t or shouldn’t do them—particularly when
it came to the big things, like saving the world, or journeying to a supernatural seam between
realities, or bringing your boyfriend back from the dead.
Sometimes you had to take matters into your own hands. Parents—or uncles who are the
closest thing you have to them—aren’t equipped to deal with that. Because no self-respecting parent
in this world or any other is going to step aside and say, “Sure, risk your life. The world is at stake
here.” How would they possibly say it?
Be back by dinner. Hope you don’t die.
They couldn’t do it. You couldn’t blame them. But it didn’t mean that you shouldn’t go.
I had to go, no matter what Uncle Macon said. That’s what I told myself, anyway, as John and
I headed into the Tunnels far beneath Ravenwood. Where, in the darkness, it could have been any
time of day or year—any century, anywhere in the world.
The Tunnels weren’t the scary part.
Even spending time alone with John—something I hadn’t done since he’d tricked me and
dragged me into going to the Great Barrier for my Seventeenth Moon—wasn’t the problem.
The truth was, Uncle Macon was right.
I was more afraid of the Doorwell that stood before me and of what I would find on the other
side. The ancient Doorwell that brought light flooding down onto the stone steps of the Caster
Tunnel where I waited now. The one marked NEW ORLEANS. The place where Amma had basically
made a pact with the Darkest magic in the universe.
I shivered.
John looked at me, his head tilted. “Why are you stopping here?”
“No reason.”
“You scared, Lena?”
“No. Why would I be scared? It’s just a city.” I tried to put all thoughts of black magic bokors
and voodoo out of my mind. Just because Ethan had followed Amma into bad times there didn’t
mean I was going to encounter the same Darkness. At least not the same bokor.
Did it?
“If you think New Orleans is just a city, then you’ve got another thing coming.” John’s voice
was low, and I could barely see his face in the darkness of the Tunnels. He sounded as spooked as
I felt. “What are you talking about?”
“The most powerful Caster city in the country—the greatest convergence of Dark and Light
power in modern times. A place where anything can happen, at any hour of the day.”
“At a hundred-year-old bar for two-hundred-year-old Supernaturals?” How frightening could it
be? At least that’s what I tried to tell myself.
He shrugged. “Might as well start there. Knowing Abraham, it won’t be as easy to find him as
we think.”
We started up the stairs and into the bright sunlight that would take us to the Dark Side o’ the
Moon.
The street—a row of shabby bars, sandwiched between more shabby bars—was deserted, which
made sense, considering it was still so early in the day. It looked like all the other streets we’d seen
since the Doorwell brought us up into the infamous French Quarter of New Orleans. The ornately
wrought iron railings swept across every balcony and along every building, even curving around the
street corners. In the stark morning light, the faded colors of the painted plaster were sun-bleached
and peeling. The road was lined with trash, trash piled upon more trash—the only remaining
evidence of the night before.
“I’d hate to see how it looks around here the morning after Mardi Gras,” I said, looking for a
way to pick through the mountain of garbage standing between me and the sidewalk. “Remind me
never to go to a bar.”
“I don’t know. We had some good times back at Exile. You and me and Rid, causing trouble
on the dance floor.” John smiled and I blushed, remembering.
arms around me
dancing, hurried
Ethan’s face
pale and worried
I shook my head, letting the words fall away. “An underground hole for derelict Supernaturals
isn’t what I was talking about.”
“Ah, come on. We weren’t exactly derelicts. Well, you weren’t. Rid and me, we probably
qualified.” He pushed me toward the doorway playfully.
I shoved him back, a little less playfully. “Stop it. That was a million years ago. Maybe two
million. I don’t want to think about it.”
“Come on, Lena. I’m happy. You’re—”
I shot him a look, and he cut himself off. “You will be happy again, I promise. That’s why
we’re here, isn’t it?”
I looked at him, standing there next to me in the middle of a run-down side street in the French
Quarter far too early in the morning, helping me look for the not-quite-a-man John hated more than
anyone in the universe. He had more of a reason to hate Abraham Ravenwood than I did. And he
wasn’t saying a word about what I was making him do.
Who would’ve thought John would end up being one of the best guys I’d ever met? And who
would’ve thought John would end up volunteering to risk his life to bring back the love of mine?
I smiled at him, though I felt like crying. “John?”
“Yeah?” He wasn’t paying attention. He was looking up at the bar signs, probably wondering
how he was going to get up the nerve to go inside any of them. They all looked like serial killer
hangouts.
“I’m sorry.”
“Huh?” Now he was listening. Confused, but listening.
“About this. That it has to involve you. And if you don’t want it to—I mean, if we don’t find
the Book—”
“We’ll find it.”
“I’m just saying, I won’t blame you if you don’t want to go through with it. Abraham and
everything.” I couldn’t bear to do it to him. Not him and not Liv—no matter how much had gone
down between us. No matter how much she had believed she loved Ethan.
Before.
“We’ll find the Book. Come on. Quit talking crazy.” John kicked a clearing in the trash heap,
and we made our way past the empty beer bottles, past the soggy napkins, and up to the sidewalk.
By the time we made it halfway down the block, we were looking through the open doorways
to see if anyone was inside. To my surprise, there were people hiding in the woodwork—literally.
Slumping inside the darkened doorways. Sweeping the trash from deserted, shadowy alleys. Even
silhouetted on a few of the empty balconies.
The French Quarter wasn’t that different from the Caster world, I realized. Or from Gatlin
County. There was a world within a world, all hidden in plain sight.
You just had to know where to look.
“There.” I pointed.
THE DARK SIDE O’ THE MOON
A carved wooden sign bearing the words swung back and forth, dangling by two ancient
chains. It squeaked as it moved in the wind.
Even though there was no wind.
I squinted in the bright morning light, trying to see into the shadows of the open doorway.
This Dark Side was no different from the other nearly deserted bars in the neighborhood. Even
from the street, I could hear voices echoing through the heavy door.
“People are in there this early?” John made a face.
“Maybe it’s not early. Maybe it’s late if you’re them.” I locked eyes with a scowling man who
was leaning against the doorframe and trying to light a cigarette. He muttered to himself and looked
away.
“Yeah. Way too late.”
John shook his head. “You sure this is the right place?”
For the fifth time, I handed him the book of matches. He held up the cover, comparing it to the
logo on the sign. They were identical. Even the crescent moon carved into the wooden sign was an
exact duplicate of the one printed on the matchbook in John’s hand.
“And I was so hoping the answer would be no.” He handed the matchbook back to me.
“You wish,” I said, kicking a stray piece of wet napkin off my black Chucks.
He winked at me. “Ladies first.”
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