Gods of New Orleans (6 page)

Chapter 6

The street is cold under his feet. Brand shuffles in the early morning mists and tries to avoid frigid puddles of rainwater. His foot hits one, hidden by his shadow as he passes beyond the glow of a street lamp.

“Dammit!” he says, shaking the water off his bare foot. Brand hobbles to the sidewalk where he sits beside a rain barrel outside an abandoned storefront and tries to rub life back into his soles.

“What the hell do you people have against my feet?” Brand says, remembering the night Frank Nitti nearly toasted the skin from his soles in front of a furnace. Brand keeps up his hollering, waving an angry hand at the sky. “First it’s the ice box on that street. Then Nitti gives me the mob’s best remedy. Old Mother Nitti must have taught him that one, hey? And now it’s the cooler again, is that it?”

If the gods are listening, they don’t answer. But Brand isn’t surprised at their silence. They haven’t answered him yet, and he’s been hollering like a madman since he left Chicago City. He rubs his sore, cold feet now and mutters into his collar, forgetting about the gods and their plots.

“I should go back in the mud tunnels maybe. See if I can’t get a good coating on these dogs. Bake ‘em up good in the sun next chance I get. Or ask Nitti’s ghost to do the honors when I see him.”

Brand left the tunnels an hour ago. Or maybe just five minutes. He doesn’t know what time it is or why he’s suddenly free to sit on his ass and rub his dogs without worry. When he first reached the surface, Brand did worry. The street was clear and clean‌—‌too clean. He thought about turning tail, going back the other way to avoid an ambush the mud tramps had laid for him.

And then he was stepping down the deserted street in a city that he knew had to be New Orleans, or somewhere nearby. He felt the cold shock of cobblestones under his naked feet, and he was alone, entranced by the night, the smells of the city, and the quiet.

The hum of an airship motor brings him out of it. He looks up and sees the
Vigilance
soaring through the dark night, only a few blocks away. He stands, sets out at a run, and nearly falls on his face.

His legs buckle and his feet feel like slabs of lead.

“So it’s the slow dance up top, too” Brand mutters, catching himself on the rain barrel. “Fine. I know those steps.”

Now he looks at the
Vigilance
where it hangs in the sky, aiming to the west. The sun grays the dark, pushes the night aside. Brand stands. He shakes both legs, wraps his arms around himself and trudges on down the street. At a cross street he turns and spies a mooring deck in the distance. The
Vigilance
hovers in a circle around the deck and gradually begins her descent.

“Hold her steady, Emma,” Brand says, sending his hushed voice across the air with a cough. The cold seeps through his tattered clothes, and the scent of a lake comes to him on the morning breeze. He smells rot and sorrow, and remembers the trenches of No Man’s Land.

Brand walks slow, but sure. He places his feet with care, making certain to avoid any more puddles. In this moment, Brand isn’t sure he’s still himself, the newshawk who got the scoop on the Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre only to find out the story led down a hole deeper than any hole ever could.

Does he even remember the truth anymore? Does he remember anything but running through the mud, shuffling through the streets on bare feet, or the hunger that burns his gut, crying out at him to find something to drink. Brand doesn’t know, and with each breath he finds it easier to forget. But deep inside, he keeps a fire burning. A little light that hopes that someone on that airship over there still remembers him.

Chapter 7

The sky glowed with the creeping tendrils of dawn when Emma brought them over an airfield littered with junk. Around the dim landscape, she spied the shadowy hulks of wrecked or grounded airships, old trucks, wagons, and cars. To the north, the murky waters of Lake Pontchartrain lapped at the shore. Tumbled heaps of old rowboats, rafts, and barges haunted the shoreline. She would have thought they were piled for a bonfire except they all seemed to sink into the muddy earth.

A tingling shudder worked its way through Emma’s neck until the sensation forced her to whip her head aside and turn her gaze to the mooring deck below. The deck stood across the airfield from the lake, looming there in the morning mists a hundred yards from the shore. Across from where she’d berthed the
Vigilance
two smaller craft hung on their tethers, bobbing and swaying with the dawn breeze.

The winch from the last deck had fallen off during the journey from Memphis. Thinking about their unlikely success in finally reaching New Orleans, Emma radioed to the station house down below. Soon enough, a pair of ornate automatons stepped out of their shelter on the mooring deck. They came forward and ratcheted down the lines that would hold the
Vigilance
in place.

Emma had never seen machines like these before. Instead of sleek limbs and a streamlined chassis, like the ones she knew in Chicago City, these two looked like suits of fancy armor with curling and scrolling waves of decoration on every surface.

Emma waited for radio confirmation before shutting down the airship’s engines and locking the controls. She double-checked that the fuel valves were locked as well before leaving the cockpit.

The Conroys stood at the back of the cabin, looking like any old family except for Alice Conroy’s ragged expression and her son’s glum face. Only the father, Al, had anything like a spark in him, but even that was pretty well faded.

“We should probably, uh . . . maybe you should go on ahead, Miss Farnsworth. I mean‌—‌”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” she said and stepped around them to the bunkroom corridor. In their room, Eddie and Otis were sitting up on the bunk, playing a hand of cards.

“Where’d you find the lords and ladies?” Emma asked.

“Was up on the shelf here,” Otis said, motioning to a slim strip of wood fixed to the bunkroom wall above the bed. An empty tobacco pouch and scattered cigarette papers decorated the shelf, along with a broken pencil and some crumbs. Emma noticed Otis kept his eyes on the door behind her, like he’d jump through it the first chance he got, or maybe that he worried someone else would be coming through it.

“You okay, Otis?” Emma asked.

“Huh? Oh, yeah. M’okay,” he said, and dropped his eyes back to his cards. Eddie lifted his swollen face and gave Emma a questioning look with his good eye. She lifted her brows at tilted her head in Otis’ direction. Eddie seemed to get it and went back to the card game, but Emma could tell he was watching their new pal extra careful.

Something ain’t right,
Emma thought. But whatever it was, she would have to wait until they had solid ground under their feet again to find out.

And maybe a hot meal in our stomachs.

“So we made it?” Eddie asked, with his eyes still on the cards in his hand.

“Yeah,” Emma said. “Finally. If you’re both up for it, the Conroys want us to lead the way, and I’m all out of words to argue with.”

Eddie looked her way and smiled, his good eye shining with love. She tried not to look at the swollen mess on the other side of his face, or the way he still clutched one arm around his ribs with every breath. Otis packed up the cards and stuffed them into his shirt, still half looking like a scared rabbit. He slid off the bunk and Emma backed up a step to give him space. With careful steps, Otis maneuvered around to help Eddie down and together the two men made their way out of the room and into the cabin.

The Conroys had moved to stand beside Brand’s desk. Emma nodded to them and went to the cabin door. She popped the catch and let it fall open. A cold wind blew in, rustling everyone’s hair and putting a stitch in Emma’s side. The cold went right through her, into her gut, down her legs, and up to her throat where it caught and doubled her over in a coughing fit.

Emma stood just as Eddie came up behind her and put one hand on her waist. He used the other to steady himself against the cabin wall beside the open door.

“I’m fine, Eddie. Just swallowed too much bad air I guess,” she said, turning to face him but pointing her eyes to the side at the Conroys.

“We gonna be okay, Lovebird. Just go slow, hey? We made it to New Orleans.”

Otis flinched as a gust of cold filled the cabin.

“Steady on, hey, Otis?” Eddie said. “You too, Emma. Steady on. Everything gonna be fine now.”

Wishing she could believe him, Emma worked the lever to lower the ladder from the cabin. One of the fancy gearboxes clumped its way over and fixed the ladder in place. Emma waited until the machine had stepped back a few feet to stand beside its partner. Then she climbed down.

Eddie followed and took his time about it, using his arms to support his weight whenever he moved a foot down to the next rung. Otis came close behind. The Conroys stayed in the cabin, out of sight, until Emma shouted up at them.

“If you want to stick with us, now’s the time to do it.”

Al Conroy showed his face first, and soon enough the three of them came down the ladder, with the son bringing up the rear. He closed the cabin door behind him, and Emma felt a smile curl her lips. The kid … Aiden really wasn’t half bad, and nothing as bad as his folks. But he was still their son and that meant Emma wouldn’t have to worry about him much longer. The Conroys wouldn’t be hanging around. Not if they had a chance to get away from the company she kept.

Good riddance to ‘em.

Turning to Eddie and Otis, Emma nodded her head to say they should move down the deck to the station house. At the far end, a small shack waited with the door cracked open and a light inside, which cast warmth into the chilly air. For a station house, it wasn’t much, but the deck was as sturdy as any she’d seen in Chicago City.

As a team, she and her two companions trudged down the worn planking, their feet finding ruts where carts had been rolled time and time again. New Orleans was supposed to be the biggest port city in the South, and Emma figured that had to be true enough.

But what gives with the junkyard down below?

Emma put her mind back on what was important. Getting settled in. Finding some digs, and fast. She and Eddie kept up their pace toward the station house. Otis limped along a few steps behind, casting his eyes in all directions, while the Conroys trailed at the back. Emma sniffed at their timidness, but she worried about Otis for a moment.

Why was he acting so cagey? He’d taken a few shots to the legs, but still . . .

A dark-skinned man pulled open the door of the shack when Emma and Eddie were a couple yards away. The man wore a dark rumpled suit, and had long ropes of black hair framing his round face. He laughed long and deep and waved with his hands, beckoning, as if he could pull Emma and her crew faster down the deck.

“It’s a cold day and the fire like to be growin’ colder,” the man called. “You berthin’ with Mistah Celestin Hardy. So come an’ pay your due.”

The man laughed some more and clapped his hands before stepping outside the shack. He walked to meet them and Emma could make out the lines of his face now. His lips were thick and full, his cheeks narrow, and his eyes set deep beneath a wide brow. He smiled big when his eyes met hers, but in an instant his face slackened and went sour with anger. Before Emma or Eddie could move out of the way, Celestin Hardy brought the muzzle of a heavy revolver to bear on them, and they both froze mid-step, hands raised.

“You bring dat one with you as a friend?” he said, motioning behind them at Otis. Eddie turned first, looking back at their companion. Emma echoed the gesture and what she saw put a chill right through her.

The Conroys had stayed back and weren’t up to speed on things yet. But Otis had a look on his face that said he knew all too well what was going down. And why.

“Didn’t do nothin’,” he said, backing away a step with his hands out. He still limped a little, but he made a showing of getting his strength back. “Didn’t do nothin’,” he said again.

Emma risked a look back at the man with the gat in his hand. Celestin Hardy’s eyes burned bright red with rage, and something else, too. Emma’d seen enough to know the world held secrets she’d never guessed were there, but what she saw now made her feet put down roots. She and Eddie both stood stock-still as Celestin Hardy approached and passed between them, his arm outstretched and the gun still leveled at Otis.

“You comin’ back now, boy? You comin’ back and sayin’ it wasn’t
nothin
’?”

The man roared his words, and as he did a crimson halo of images swirled around his shaggy, dark mane. Emma flinched back in terror as miniature scenes of murder and torture swam in the air around Celestin Hardy’s head. Bodies flung themselves to and fro, jerking against the impact of bullets or flopping down to lie prone on floorboards, sidewalks, and streets. The images kept coming, a steady litany of proof that Celestin Hardy was someone few dared to cross.

A red mist condensed around the man, surrounding him and protecting him. Emma felt a boundary form between them, further freezing her and Eddie where they stood. And still Celestin Hardy continued to march forward until his gun was pressed against Otis’ chest.

Behind Otis, the Conroys had moved back by the ladder leading up to the airship. They cowered together like a flock of lost lambs. The mother looked ready to faint and the father kept eyeing the ladder. The kid had different ideas, though. He tried to muscle his way out of his father’s grip, like he wanted to run off or find help. Or‌—‌

Emma didn’t get a chance to think about what else the Conroy kid wanted to do. A gunshot split the cold air of dawn, just as the sun crept up high enough to cast a band of yellow-silver across the
Vigilance
and the other ships tethered to the deck.

Otis fell away from the end of Hardy’s revolver and landed flat on his back. A dark stain spread out from the hole in his chest. Eddie swayed on his feet and Emma rushed to support him. The Conroy dame screamed her fool head off while the husband did his best to keep her hush. The kid went rigid, no longer held fast by his father. He just stood there, staring at Celestin Hardy like he would any man he’d met on the street.