Arise (27 page)

Which meant I’d be spending Christmas in the company of relative strangers, learning how to control my new form. Deciding how much I did or didn’t trust the twins, especially with regard to the netherworld and its demons.

I sighed softly and then shrugged. “Okay, Gabrielle. Let’s go play dress up while you tell me more about this Risen stuff.”

“Awesome!” she squealed, her blue eyes sparkling. Then she leaned in close and whispered, “Gaby.”

“Huh?”

This time her smile actually managed to look a little shy. “Call me Gaby. Everyone who’s anyone does.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “And by ‘anyone,’ you mean Felix?”

“Well, I
am
her only friend,” he said. Gabrielle angled her entire body around me and stuck her tongue out at him.

He gave her a dismissive wave. “Don’t act offended; you know it’s true.”

A little noise chirped, and Felix fumbled in his pocket. He pulled out a cell phone, flipped it open to check something, and then glanced back up at us. “Work is texting—looks like they want everyone there bright and early to prep for the Christmas Eve banquet tonight. I’ve got to go.”

“Felix is a waiter at Antoine’s,” Gabrielle explained. “They totally use and abuse him.”

“Someone’s got to pay for those beignets,” he grumbled. “And it’s not like Marie’s been handing you a paycheck every Friday.”

Gabrielle grinned. “If she could see me, I’m sure she would.”

“She can’t?” I asked, surprised.

“Not unless I want her to. Which I don’t. I’ll show you how that works at breakfast, I promise.”

And just like that, Gabrielle was dragging me across the room, chattering happily about the actress’s well-stocked closet. I peeked over my shoulder at Felix, who still watched us with a concerned frown. Right before Gabrielle pulled me through the archway, he mouthed:

You okay?

Like someone who cared about me. Like a friend.

So I shook my head lightly—a gesture that said
I don’t honestly know
—and then ducked under the archway after Gabrielle.

Chapter

TWENTY-THREE

G
abrielle tugged me through an open doorway into what must have been the master bedroom. Once inside, I couldn’t help but breathe a soft “Wow.”

I’d expected this room to be as dark and narrow as the hallway we’d just crossed. But here the space was bright and airy, with floor-to-ceiling windows lining two of the pearl-colored walls. Although the windows were shut tight against the winter cold, all their shutters lay open, flooding the room with sunshine. It lit up the rich wooden floor, the antique vanity, the oversize bed and its gauzy white canopy.

While Gabrielle threw open the double doors leading into the master closet, I walked over to a row of windows and peered outside. On one side of the apartment I could see the gray waters of the Mississippi River moving alongside a long wharf of shops and restaurants. On the other side I saw something familiar. Past the hanging ferns and the iron balcony rail, through a thick wall of surrounding trees, I could just make out the tilt of Andrew Jackson’s bronze head.

“Jackson Square?”

“Yup,” Gabrielle called back from somewhere deep inside the closet. “This is the corner apartment of the Lower Pontalba Building. One of the oldest apartment buildings in the country. Prime view, right?”

“Sure,” I muttered. But looking out at the square, I still shivered.

However “prime” the view, I turned away from it and walked cautiously over to the closet, from which several loud clunks and more than several foul words were emanating. I grasped one of the doors—trying not to freak out about the smooth feel of painted wood against my hand—and peeked inside.

At first I couldn’t see Gabrielle for all the clothes: furs and silks and sequins and lace, hanging and draped and folded on a labyrinth of shelves and racks. The vast majority of the wardrobe, however, appeared to have landed in a knee-high pile on the floor. In the middle of the pile, almost buried in fabric, Gabrielle knelt, muttering profanity and pawing through the jumbled mess around her.

“You know your whole, ‘we’ve hardly touched the place’ philosophy?” I asked her. “Well, this closet sort of makes you a liar.”

Gabrielle simply ignored me. Then, to my horror, she pulled out two completely see-through tops and held them up for comparison. When she saw my stricken expression, she sighed heavily and threw those back into the sea of fabric, only to yank out a pair of boots and a bundle of more acceptable garments. She tossed them at me without explanation and then ducked into the adjoining bathroom with her own handful of clothing.

I waited for some further instruction; but when I realized that this bundle of fabric was the only hint I’d get, I looked for someplace more private to change. Finding none, I used the bed’s canopy as a cover while I slipped out of my robe.

Everything about this situation felt strange, invasive, so I hurriedly pulled on my new set of clothes without studying them; honestly, I couldn’t pay attention to much more than the chilly air and my ongoing feelings of nausea.

By the time I finished dressing, Gabrielle had come breezing out of the bathroom. I don’t know how she’d managed it in such a short time, but she looked even prettier than before, in skintight gray leggings, a cream-colored tunic, and purple ankle boots.

“Check it out,” she said, twirling in a circle. “It’s from a couple seasons ago, but still—it’s a Rachel Zoe. Did I break into the right house or what?”

“It’s still stealing,” I murmured.

Gabrielle scoffed, dumping the contents of a small black bag onto the bed. “We’ll put it all back before the bank auctions everything off, I promise.”

I glanced down at the items on the bed and grimaced. “Makeup? Is that really going to stay on my face, considering … you know …?”

“The clothes are staying on, aren’t they?” She shrugged and grabbed a glinting eyelash curler. “Now hold still so I can make you look less like … well, what you are.”

Ten cringe-worthy minutes later, Gabrielle backed away and gave me an appraising look. Her blue eyes flashed with approval, and she nodded.

“Better. Much.” She nodded in the direction of a full-length mirror standing in the other corner of the room. “Go look at yourself. I bet you’re just
dying
to. Pun intended.”

So slowly I thought Gabrielle might just give up and push me to it, I stood and walked over to the mirror. Other than a few glimpses of my senior yearbook photo, I hadn’t seen myself in a very long time. I knew I wouldn’t look like a corpse; besides that, I had no idea what to expect.

I certainly didn’t expect to catch a glimpse of the pretty girl staring back at me in the mirror.

Her long brown hair fell in thick waves down her back—almost to the waistband of her skinny-jeans, which were tucked into caramel-colored, over-the-knee boots. As I watched her, she fidgeted nervously with one thin strap of her flowing beaded white tank.

Despite her obvious unease, the girl in the mirror looked stylish. Sexy, even. Her cheeks flushed, and her green eyes sparkled with fire. With life.

At that moment I had a fleeting thought:

What would Joshua think of me now?

Even when I’d repressed the question—and the unbidden, accompanying image of his eyes—I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t tell Gabrielle what I thought of this transformation.

Until, finally, I asked, “White? Again?”

Gabrielle’s laughter filled the room. “That is Dolce&Gabbana—you should be hugging me right now. Besides, after much deliberation I decided you really can rock the white.”

Still chuckling, she turned away from me and wandered back into the closet. While I listened to her rummage around in there, I studied the reflection some more.

I really
did
look alive. Uncannily so.

Yet there were a few telltale signs that I wasn’t quite the picture of health. For starters, I was way too thin. Gaunt, actually, which meant breakfast was probably a good idea after all. Then there was the color of my skin: a uniform, chalky white, improved only by Gabrielle’s blush and the sprinkling of freckles across my nose.

In the mirror, my reflection bit her bottom lip and tugged at the ends of her long waves. She looked confused, worried, and
very
out of her element.

My reflection kept that wary look even when Gabrielle walked over with another armload of goodies from the closet.

“Here,” she said, handing me a cropped leather jacket and a pair of celebrity-sized sunglasses. “I can’t let you out of this house without accessorizing you. It just goes against my nature.”

With an indulgent sigh, I slipped my arms into the jacket sleeves, shivering a bit when my bare skin hit the cool silk of the lining. Then I put on the glasses and turned back to the mirror to assess Gabrielle’s final touches.

Thus disguised, I really
did
look like a different person: not an anguished, heartbroken ghost, but just some pretty, living girl in designer jeans.

Gabrielle nodded at my reflection, obviously pleased with her work. Then she slung on a black, three-quarter-length cape and her own pair of sunglasses. With a wide grin—and absolutely no warning—she grabbed my arm and dragged me out of the bedroom.

“We’re going to start easy,” she said, pulling me down the hallway, out another door, and toward a dark flight of stairs. “Since we’re not supposed to be in this building, it’s useful to be invisible when we leave it. Once we get to the café, though, the real work begins.”

By the time we reached the bottom of the curving stairwell, everything had gone pitch-black. So when Gabrielle opened the door to one of the interior courtyards of the Pontalba, the high-priced sunglasses couldn’t keep me from squinting painfully against the sudden flood of daylight. Nor did my stylish coat protect me from the continuous rush of cold air; the sensation sort of made me grateful that the chills Eli always incited were so short-lived.

Shivering, I followed Gabrielle blindly across the uneven ground. I slowed down only when my eyes adjusted and I saw just how crowded the tiny courtyard was. People milled everywhere: sipping coffee at small iron tables, smoking under canvas overhangs, scurrying to pick fresh fruit out of crates and take it inside to the first-floor restaurants.

Not a single person glanced up at Gabrielle or me.

Granted, everyone looked incredibly busy. But considering the fact that most of them appeared to work—not live—in these buildings, you’d think they’d at least
notice
a pair of young, glamorously dressed girls wandering in their midst. As far as I could tell, though, it was as if we weren’t even there.

“Can they see us?” I hissed, following Gabrielle through an alley that led out of the courtyard.

“Not unless they’re Seers, or we want them to. Basically, we don’t have to
work
to stay invisible. To make ourselves apparent … now, that’s a different story. That takes intent.”

Her last few words came out muffled, buried beneath the cacophony of the street onto which we stepped.

“Welcome to Decatur,” she yelled over the noise.

A sea of honking cars separated us from the other sidewalk, where people ducked into shops and cafés along their way. To our right, on the corner where Decatur Street met Jackson Square, a troop of artists and street performers were already setting up shop for the day. There, a lone trumpeter warmed up, adding his own notes to the noise of the street.

Although I could have stayed to gawk for a while, Gabrielle pulled me onward, dragging me to a crosswalk and practically throwing me into oncoming traffic.

“If these drivers can’t see us,” I shouted at her as we dashed across the street, “doesn’t that make them more likely to hit us?”

Gabrielle simply flashed me a mischievous grin, leaping with me onto the curb in time to avoid a speeding taxi. Once she’d steadied herself, she brushed the road dust from her leggings and then twitched her head toward a huge outdoor café, where patrons crowded under a green-and-white striped awning.