The Casquette Girls (39 page)

Counting on the distraction, I pulled out my copy of
The Metamorphosis
and tried to convince myself to start writing my English term paper, an essay on symbolism. I took one look at the cover and, for the first time, started to fathom how Gregor Samsa could have woken up one morning and not seen his own giant bug head in the mirror. I could hardly recognize myself anymore either.

Incessant beeping from the alarm on my phone pulled my mind from the deep bowels of a REM cycle. Even as I became semiconscious, my eyelids remained
swollen shut. Desperate for more sleep, they had encrusted themselves with a layer of gunk during my three-hour nap. I hobbled straight into the shower. While sleeping for eternity seemed like a great option, I was eager to meet Désirée at the Voodoo shop.

Black jeans. White cotton T-shirt.
Good enough for m
e
.
The
gris-gris
was damp against my chest. I hadn’t taken it or the medallion off in days.

I grabbed my Docs, but Désirée’s disapproving disposition flashed in my head
.
I really want this meeting to go well
.
I dropped them and pulled out suede booties, and then layered on a houndstooth cashmere sweater – both courtesy of
ma grand-mère.

A final glance in the mirror showed me that the steamy water hadn’t done much for the giant circles under my eyes, but at least it had pulled me out of the zombielike state of mind. I tossed a couple of books into my bag in case we needed evidence that we were studying.

With five minutes to spare, I would be right on time.

The deadbolt on the front door clicked behind me as I hopped down the stoop. My bootie sent something skidding across the pavement, and, when I lifted my fingers, a small metal object leapt into my hand – it was the feather Isaac had made during our
casting lesson. He must have dropped it during our fight. Beneath the autumn sunset, the silver version was stunning. Guilt sank my heart as I slipped it into my pocket.

I cannot feel bad for a boy who had broken into our house, attacked me, and cut my face open. A boy who could turn into a crow! Did I really just think those words?

“What the hell was he doing in our house, anyway?”

And why am I plagued with guilt? He is the one who invaded my life. And more importantly, WHY is my stomach cartwheeling?

I never saw so much as a shadow or heard a second set of footsteps until it was too late. A hand slipped over my mouth, muffling my screams, and a strong arm hooked my waist, forcing me into an alleyway. Before I could react, my hands were crushed together by inhuman strength.

“
Shh
h
…
,” a voice hushed into my ear.

My back arched, and I bucked all of my weight against the faceless person. My captor didn’t so much as wobble but simply straightened to full height. My legs began to flail when my feet left the ground, but as soon as I thrashed about, a woman’s voice whispered sweetly, “Don’t bother,
ma fifill
e
.
I can drain you dry and snap your neck in less than a minute if I like.”

A woman? A woman with a very a thick French accen
t
…

The more I struggled, the more riled up she became. Her fingers tightened around my hands, and I winced as my palms burned against each other.
Her nose pressed into my neck, and her nostrils flared in ecstasy against my skin as she sucked in my scent, before her cold, wet tongue slid from my collarbone to my ear.

Shuddering, my body went limp like a rag doll.

A second shudder rippled, and I became overwhelmed with fear when I realized it had come from her.
A shudder of restrain
t
.

“But I am not going to do zhat. Not yet. I am just ’ere to warn you, Adele, if you don’t finish breaking zha curse, bad zhings are going to happen
dans le Vieux Carré
.” Her hand slipped from my mouth to my forehead, holding my head tightly in place so I couldn’t see her. “Very bad things.”

“I can take care of myself
,
merci beaucoup
,” I grunted.

I could sense her lips spread into a smile, but she didn’t mock me. “It’s not you zhey will hurt,
ma fifille
, but every person you love. Zhey will show no mercy, for this is a very old grudge, and they play by very old rules. Zhey will destroy
your
famille
, just as zhey destroyed mine.”

“What grudge?”

“Whatever it is they want from your
famille
, you’d better give it to them, or you will regret it.
Je vous le promets
.”

Then I was in a pile on the ground. Alone.

“Give what back to them?” I yelled down the alley.

All I got in return was my own echo.

I dusted off my burning palms, cursing under my breath.
Finish breaking the curse or bad things are going to happen in the French Quarter?

“Finish? What the hell?”

I picked up my bag and walked the rest of the way
.
Is there really any point in running
?
As I approached the shop door, another figure stepped from behind the shutter, nearly sending me into cardiac arrest.

“Jesus, Ren! I almost decked you!”

“Aw,
bébé, pardon mo
i
.
My growling stomach caused me to rush.” He was carrying too many packages to sweep me up into his signature hug, so he shuffled his bags until he could remove his top hat with a couple of free fingers.

“No tour tonight?”

“Er, it’s supposed to rain later.”

I looked up at the cloud-free sky, not that that really meant anything. It was New Orleans, after all; the weather was anything but predictable. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, ya know, just makin’ groceries.”

“At Vodou Pourvoyeur?” I got the feeling he was being purposefully vague.

“And what are you doing here on this fine evening?” he deflected with a wink. “Love potion, perhaps?”

I tried not to scowl as I patted my bag – two could play at this game. “Studying for midterms with Désirée.”

As he shifted the weight of the bags around, a strong botanical whiff blew my way. I peeked into one of his sacks – it was loaded with herbs. I sneezed.

“Jesus, Ren, did you leave anything in the shop? Whatcha got in there?”

“Oh, ya know, a little bit of this, a little bit of that: juniper berries, bay leaves, green cardamom, fennel, rosemary, coriander, lavender, and a pinch of black peppercorn for a little zing!”

“Please, don’t tell me that y’all are so desperate for food that you’ve taken to eating herbs?”

“Oh, no, no. Theis unfortunately has a stockpile of fermented fish in a can. His family sends it from Iceland. Tours are slow, so I’m tryin’ to class up the ol’ bathtub gin. People in New Orleans will drink just about anything, but, to quote your Pa, ‘Why put hair on people’s chests if we don’t have to?’”

I nodded as if I knew what he was talking about.
So, Ren is making that god-awful liquor the clown was sampling at the bar?

“Plus
, if we can get the ’shine to taste more like the store-bought stuff, there’s less chance of the law finding out, right?”

“Speaking of the law, has there been any news about the Wolfman’s murder?”

“The wind in the willows says that more than eighty percent of his blood was gone.”

“There wasn’t
tha
t
much blood at the crime scene.”

“No, there wasn’t,
bébé
,” he paused, as if trying to subliminally lead me on. “I hate to say it, but it kind of reminds me of the story from my tour. The one where the two documentarians were found in front of the chapel at the Ursuline Convent with all of their blood missing.”

I tried to recall the details of the double homicide. “When did that happen?”

“About twelve years ago.”

“All of your other stories are so much older.”

“
Ou
i
, centuries of unsolved crimes in this city.”

“So they never found the person who killed those students?”

“No.”

The first time we
’d met, Nicco said they’d been to New Orleans before
. I wonder when—? Wait, did I really just consider him a suspect just because of missing blood? That’s horrible, Adele.

But the question lingered.
Would Nicco do something so barbaric? Even if he needed blood to survive?
I wanted to think
n
o
—

“All right, darlin’, I need to get moving. Theis and I are cooking up a batch of hurricane gruel tonight.”

“What’s that?” I was scared to know.

“It’s when you break out the biggest gumbo pot ya got, close your eyes, and dump in about a dozen random canned goods.
Laissez les bon temps roule
r
!
”

“Ew!” I choked out a giggle. As gross as it sounded, the very mention of food made me purr. The only thing that had entered my stomach today was anxiety.

“Eh, it all tastes the same after you add enough cayenne.” He took a swig from his pocket flask and bent forward to kiss the top of my head. “Get some sleep
,
béb
é
, and go easy on your papa about the distillery. He was really torn up about hiding the hurricane hootchin’ from ya.”

“Distillery?” The question flew out so quickly I was unable to hide my surprise.

“Oh, er? I thought you… oh, don’t listen to anything I say. You know it’s all hogwash.
Bonne nuit, ma chérie!”

He quickly walked away, cursing himself under his breath, “
Dammit, Ren
, tuat t’en grosse bueche.”

“
Non, merci beaucoup
for your big mouth, Ren.” My voice faded into the night, and again I was alone.

* * *

Inside, the smell of wood, lilacs, and cinnamon permeated the air.
I can’t believe I am here looking for answers,
I thought as I walked past the Voodoo dolls, tourist thrills, and alligator skulls. I found Désirée at the counter, doing what I assumed was homework. I would turn out to be wrong; at least, it wasn’t homework in the traditional sense.

She nodded to acknowledge my presence and shut an oversized, leather-bound book with a loud thud. The atmosphere became awkward. It wasn’t like we were really even friends, but something about the meeting felt natural, and that’s what really felt weird.

“So…”

“I want to show you something. Wait right here,” she said and disappeared behind a thick fuchsia curtain on the far wall.

Voices murmured, and then she returned with a rolled canvas. “Have you ever seen this painting before?” She leaned across the counter and slid it to me.

I rolled it open, and she secured the corners while I examined it.

“No. Never.” Although… I felt like I had. I fell instantly in love with the picture of seven young women. “Is that the courtyard at the Ursuline Convent?” The garden was sparse, as if it had recently been planted, but the building was the same.

“Mm hmm.”

It was hard to guess the year based on the style of clothing. Each woman’s dress was so different looking from the other, it was almost like they were in costume. The color of their skin and the fanciness of their clothes varied, but it was obvious they were kindred spirits. Even through the stoic expressions, you could tell they were all close. Like they all shared a secret.

I did a double-take. Some of girls bore more than an uncanny resemblance. In fact, three of them looked exactly alike: stunning beauties with white-blonde hair that practically glowed.

“What the… could it be?”

“What?” Désirée asked.

The Ursulines
. La Nouvelle-Orléans
. Triplets. They had to be
Les Sœurs d'or
. Based on the description from Adeline’s diary, I easily identified Cosette. Lisette had been right: the eldest triplet radiated a sexuality that shone through the painting even three hundred years later. Next, my eyes fixated on the brunette next to Cosette. My pulse began to race. This wasn’t the first time I’d seen her face staring back at me – Isaac had captured her expression perfectly in his drawings
.
But how could h
e
…?

“Have you ever hung out with Isaac Thompson?”

“Ugh,
no
,” she answered with a quick lift of her eyebrow.

“How do you have this painting?”