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Authors: Kelly Keaton
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take a genius to see he was pissed as hell. Just about as pissed as I was.
“Some,” he said. “Why?”
The letters went through my mind. My ancestors, all cursed to die at twenty-one. And though I wanted to, I couldn’t deny the truth. I knew it was real; I
felt
it. The dead guy, my hair, the letters. It was all real. “Because my family is cursed.
I’m
cursed. Not ‘cursed’ as in my life sucks or I’m different, but seriously cursed.” Yes, it was real, but it sure sounded like a bunch of baloney when said out loud. “Look, all I need is to be pointed in the right direction. I want this ‘thing’ gone, off me, whatever it is I need to do.”
The anger of before gave way to defeat and a whole lot of pessimism. My shoulders slumped, and I grew as cold as the corpses in the morgue.
“How about this?” Sebastian said. “I know a person who canlift curses. I’ll show you the way to the most powerful voodoo priest in New 2. And after that, you let me show you around the Vieux Carré. Then we’ll go together to quiz Josephine about your mother.”
I was pretty sure I knew what I looked like: a cartoon hamster in the headlights. Totally not what I expected him to say, especially after I’d just implied he was one of the bad guys. “Uh …” What the hell was I supposed to say to that? “Okay?”
A grin split Sebastian’s face, slicing two dimples into his cheeks.
Holy Mary Mother of God. I actually stopped breathing for a second.
“Good,” he said, still smiling. “Let’s get out of here. It’s freezing.”
Six
C RANK WAS RIGHT. T HE N OVEM HAD CONCENTRATED MUCH, IF not all, of their effort and money on rebuilding the French Quarter, or the Vieux Carré, as Sebastian called it. As we ambled down Bourbon Street, every building had been restored, every windowpane, shutter, and iron railing refurbished. Even the sidewalks, which Sebastian told me were known as banquettes, ad been repaired. Like every postcard image I’d ever seen of the French Quarter, they left nothing out. The area thrived, too. This was their moneymaker. This was where the tourists came, where Mardi Gras still drew enormous crowds.
And Mardi Gras was in full swing, having begun on January 6. In a few weeks, it would end with the biggest parades and balls on the night before Fat Tuesday in February. In the meantime, there were balls every weekend, local parades, and vendors selling masks and costumes like crazy.
The Quarter teemed with activity, a vibrant place with doors thrown open to bars, antique shops, restaurants, clubs, and bed-and-breakfasts. Mules plodded by pulling carriages. Musicians played on busy corners. And the only traffic was the occasional delivery truck—no personal vehicles allowed in the Quarter. “To preserve the ambiance and history,” Sebastian explained.
“Voodoo Alley,” he said as we turned onto Dumaine Street.
The street was a colorful mix of homes and businesses, mostly voodoo related. “The ones like those”—he pointed to a ground-floor shop filled with small pouches, spell packs, relics, statues, scarves, and handmade dolls—“those are tourist traps.”
As we went by, a small walking tour exited the shop, the tour guide dressed like the old Voodoo Queen, Marie Laveau.
“Where are the real shops?” I stepped off the sidewalk and onto the street to go around the tour.
Sebastian shoved his hands into his pockets. “Back rooms, courtyards, private homes, the swamps …”
We angled back onto the sidewalk, passing a long strip of houses on both sides of the street. The area became quieter, but no less colorful—the houses painted in the bright colors of the Caribbean. Long wooden shutters framed open windows, which allowed the breeze in from the river.
But even here in the residential space, voodoo was everywhere. Adorning every door, railing, and gate were beads, flowers, votive candles, gris-gris pouches, handmade dolls, beautiful scarves, trinkets, and effigies of
“Some,” he said. “Why?”
The letters went through my mind. My ancestors, all cursed to die at twenty-one. And though I wanted to, I couldn’t deny the truth. I knew it was real; I
felt
it. The dead guy, my hair, the letters. It was all real. “Because my family is cursed.
I’m
cursed. Not ‘cursed’ as in my life sucks or I’m different, but seriously cursed.” Yes, it was real, but it sure sounded like a bunch of baloney when said out loud. “Look, all I need is to be pointed in the right direction. I want this ‘thing’ gone, off me, whatever it is I need to do.”
The anger of before gave way to defeat and a whole lot of pessimism. My shoulders slumped, and I grew as cold as the corpses in the morgue.
“How about this?” Sebastian said. “I know a person who canlift curses. I’ll show you the way to the most powerful voodoo priest in New 2. And after that, you let me show you around the Vieux Carré. Then we’ll go together to quiz Josephine about your mother.”
I was pretty sure I knew what I looked like: a cartoon hamster in the headlights. Totally not what I expected him to say, especially after I’d just implied he was one of the bad guys. “Uh …” What the hell was I supposed to say to that? “Okay?”
A grin split Sebastian’s face, slicing two dimples into his cheeks.
Holy Mary Mother of God. I actually stopped breathing for a second.
“Good,” he said, still smiling. “Let’s get out of here. It’s freezing.”
Six
C RANK WAS RIGHT. T HE N OVEM HAD CONCENTRATED MUCH, IF not all, of their effort and money on rebuilding the French Quarter, or the Vieux Carré, as Sebastian called it. As we ambled down Bourbon Street, every building had been restored, every windowpane, shutter, and iron railing refurbished. Even the sidewalks, which Sebastian told me were known as banquettes, ad been repaired. Like every postcard image I’d ever seen of the French Quarter, they left nothing out. The area thrived, too. This was their moneymaker. This was where the tourists came, where Mardi Gras still drew enormous crowds.
And Mardi Gras was in full swing, having begun on January 6. In a few weeks, it would end with the biggest parades and balls on the night before Fat Tuesday in February. In the meantime, there were balls every weekend, local parades, and vendors selling masks and costumes like crazy.
The Quarter teemed with activity, a vibrant place with doors thrown open to bars, antique shops, restaurants, clubs, and bed-and-breakfasts. Mules plodded by pulling carriages. Musicians played on busy corners. And the only traffic was the occasional delivery truck—no personal vehicles allowed in the Quarter. “To preserve the ambiance and history,” Sebastian explained.
“Voodoo Alley,” he said as we turned onto Dumaine Street.
The street was a colorful mix of homes and businesses, mostly voodoo related. “The ones like those”—he pointed to a ground-floor shop filled with small pouches, spell packs, relics, statues, scarves, and handmade dolls—“those are tourist traps.”
As we went by, a small walking tour exited the shop, the tour guide dressed like the old Voodoo Queen, Marie Laveau.
“Where are the real shops?” I stepped off the sidewalk and onto the street to go around the tour.
Sebastian shoved his hands into his pockets. “Back rooms, courtyards, private homes, the swamps …”
We angled back onto the sidewalk, passing a long strip of houses on both sides of the street. The area became quieter, but no less colorful—the houses painted in the bright colors of the Caribbean. Long wooden shutters framed open windows, which allowed the breeze in from the river.
But even here in the residential space, voodoo was everywhere. Adorning every door, railing, and gate were beads, flowers, votive candles, gris-gris pouches, handmade dolls, beautiful scarves, trinkets, and effigies of
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