Infatuate (20 page)

“So that was it then?” I asked finally. “They were just gone?”

“That was it.” She paused, then looked at me. “Mind if we head back now?” she asked with pleading eyes. The riverfront walkway had cleared out and the sky was a dark iridescent blue heading into night. “And maybe talk about something else? Just for a little while?”

“I’m worried about you tonight,” I blurted out. “I’m worried about this guy, and I had something like this hap—”

She put up her hand. “Please,” she barked, making me jump. Then, more controlled, but just as firm: “Later, okay?”

“Of course,” I said quietly, respectfully. She had turned off. I’d have to try again.

We gathered our things and silently walked the path back to the comfortable familiarity of the busy streets.

We were halfway home before either of us said another word. But finally Sabine slowed her pace and then stopped walking altogether. I did too.

“Hav?” She glanced at me, then down at her fingers fidgeting with the handle of her shopping bag, like she was embarrassed.

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry. I just get funny thinking about all that stuff, you know?”

“Sure, I mean, it’s intense. I get it, trust me.” I looked her right in the eye for a second, but she quickly looked away.

“I was just kind of messed up after all that.”

“I was too; we were too. I still am. And I don’t want to speak for the guys but . . . well, they still are too.” She appeared comforted by this, her posture loosening just enough. “And if it’s any consolation, you seem like you’re just rolling with it so well.”

“I’m not.”

“Then you’re faking it really well. I can’t really fake it.” It was true—swamp visit aside, she didn’t appear nearly as tortured and edgy as I felt on a daily basis.

“No, I feel like you do. I think we’re so alike. I mean, the real me.” I didn’t really know what that meant. I didn’t know Sabine well enough yet to know exactly what side of her
was
the real her. But I didn’t think we were all that alike so far. I wished we were. There were certain aspects of her personality I wished I could have seen reflected in myself. There was an ease about her that I longed to have. And certainly more confidence. I had come a long way, but that wasn’t saying a whole lot. I had miles to go.

Her voice lightened. “But all that aside”—she took a deep breath—“we gotta perk it up around here. I’ve gotta get into date mode. So, on to happier subjects. Let’s decide which dress I should wear.” And with that, the spring returned to her step, her whole being transformed into something airy, her aura and attitude matching those of the upbeat patrons now beginning to flood every bar and restaurant along our route. The cloud that had hovered over us for the past hour had fully and officially lifted.

Our room looked like it had been ransacked: two of the new dresses, a cardigan, and two wraps lay strewn across Sa- bine’s bed; heels of all heights and colors were scattered on the floor, some apparently mateless; and a pair of lipsticks, a trio of eye shadows, and a buffet of brushes littered the desk. A curling iron, still plugged in, sat on the floor, emitting a burning smell. A rotation of pop and hip-hop, Sabine’s “Going Out Mix” as she called it, thumped from her speakers.

“I’m not sure about this lipstick,” she said to her reflection. “I think it’s too red.” She shook her head, blotting it away. Curled up on my bed, I pulled out a beignet—somehow it had already become stale, but I didn’t mind. I took a bite and opened up the magazine I had hidden my photos in: camouflage. One by one, I studied every single face for any signs of change. As I paged through, they all appeared just the same as when I passed them in the hallways here. I came upon Dante’s photo from outside that bar the other night and found the slightest glow around him, as well as the faintest halo above his head. I skipped ahead, flipping through to find Lance’s—yes, it looked the same as Dante’s—and then to Sabine’s, which also had that similar light emanating, but no halo yet, as far as I could tell. I kept going through the remaining handful but didn’t get very far before stopping again.

Jimmy. He had been smiling originally when I had blown this photo up and printed it. But now one side of his mouth drooped, like a comma. His eyes had dulled and the corners looked like they were being tugged downward. A small gray splotch had sprung up on his cheek. It froze my heart to look at his picture. Evil was already seeking us out, moving in on us.

And then I arrived at the photos of the Krewe. Last time I had looked, these had been normal. Now, I compared each one against Jimmy’s, and Clio looked like she was part of the same grotesque family. Wylie and the others showed signs of disfiguration as well—a sagging bit of skin here, a lesion there; they would likely be in full bloom in another day.

“Haven!” Sabine called.

“I’m sorry?” I realized I had tuned her out.

“So what do you think? Okay?” She looked perfect in the black dress and boots and she had her hair expertly curled and fluffed, full of shampoo-commercial-worthy body. She spritzed perfume on her wrists and swiped at her neck.

“You look great,” I said, my mind turning it all over. I bit my lip, gnawing on it to stop myself from saying anything to her but I couldn’t help it.

“Thanks! You’re sweet.” She popped a mirror and lipstick into a black clutch the size of an envelope.

“But don’t go tonight. You can’t.” It just flew out, making me sound crazy. I stumbled down the ladder with the pictures in hand.

“Ha!” She actually laughed. “You’re hilarious. Gotta go. I’ll tell ya all about it.” She looked at me with those wild eyes again.

“Wait. Seriously, I know you don’t want to hear this, especially now, but it’s Wylie—all of them—they’re as dangerous as the group you ran away from in Boston. They are the same. Or they may be worse. You have to listen to me,” I insisted, grabbing her by the wrist. She furrowed her brow in disapproval. I just launched in, anyway. “I didn’t tell you enough today. There was a guy in Chicago. He was . . . incredible, everything anyone would want. And I fell for him, but it turned out he was someone who was after people like us. He wanted our souls, he collected them. I fell for him and it almost cost me everything—”

“Haven—” She tried to interrupt me, but I just kept going.

“We didn’t have it like you in Boston. We didn’t get to run away. We had to fight them, so many of them, and it almost killed us. They were either going to convert us or kill us—there was no other option. We shouldn’t have won. I shouldn’t be here now. I don’t know why I am.” I searched for any understanding or compassion in her eyes, but found them rocky.

“You’ve gotta get off my back, Haven,” she said icily.

“I just don’t have a good feeling about—”

“Look, I get it. You were traumatized by all that. I understand, trust me. But I sort of feel like I can hold my own,” she assured me. “And I’m not about to sit at home just because a gorgeous stranger asked me out and we’re worried he’s too gorgeous and too much of a stranger.”

“I just don’t think you realize what they’re capable of. He’s one of them, I know it.” Her eyes told me I hadn’t been the least bit persuasive. “Look at this picture. You have to see this.” I held it up in front of her face and she swatted it away.

“Leave me
alone,
” she said, perfectly controlled, and yet the word felt like it was studded with spikes. “I have to go. Good night.”

She stalked off. I remained rooted in my spot, bracing myself for a slamming door. Instead I heard her say in her most sugary-sweet voice, “Hi, Lance! How
are
you?” It was punctuated by the wet smack of a kiss, on the cheek or the lips, I couldn’t see from where I stood. “Saturday night concert . . . still on?” I couldn’t make out his answer. I think it was a very weak “Mmm-hmm.” I could picture him stunned by her forwardness, her clothes, her whole persona right now.

When he stepped into the room, his body was facing me, but his head was still in the direction of the doorway, as though fascinated enough to watch the air Sabine had just occupied. Finally he looked at me. “She’s in a good mood.”

I didn’t like her much at that moment, but still, I couldn’t just let this happen. I sighed. “We have to talk to Connor.”

Tucked away in the privacy of his room, Connor had looked at the pictures, all of them, with hard eyes. I had intended to keep those photos, that ability of mine, a secret, even from this group, but I couldn’t just sit on this. My mind had flashed to that text message: if Connor could really be trusted, then I would let him see. “You don’t know where she was going?” he asked gravely.

I shook my head. “They’re always at that bar, you know, the one on St. Peter?”

“I’ll go there. I’ll also see who else is home and tell them to go looking. You guys head out, but be careful.”

I called Dante, who was at Mariette’s shop, before we even walked out the door. “Purely hypothetical: Name five places you’d take Max on a date night.”

“I love your hypotheticals, Hav! Easy: Arnaud’s, Galatoire’s, Brennan’s . . .” I jotted down the names and promised to tell him everything later.

Lance and I leapt up onto the balcony railing and jumped to the ground. Ouch. I fell forward on weak ankles again. But it was getting easier. Then we shot out into the dark night, looking into every window and doorway, our eyes scanning every face we passed. I filled him in as we surveyed.

“And the Jimmy photo?” He shook his head. “That’s a really bad sign. He seemed fine at work today, but now that I think about it, he hasn’t been around the house in the evenings much.”

We trekked quietly for a few blocks, taking in the music and good times on every sidewalk, all these people with no cares. We stopped at an intersection, waiting for the cars to go by, some honking their horns spiritedly. I glanced at the corner restaurant beside us. It was one Dante had mentioned. Inside, flower-dotted tables sparkled with crystal as well-dressed diners nibbled fancy versions of Cajun delicacies. Through the honey glow of the long windows, I could see a grand swath of the place. Some patrons leaned against the bar, waiting for their tables with drinks and smiles. I noticed one couple standing so close to each other, sharing a laugh about something, the woman with her hand on her date’s arm. It was Sabine and Wylie. I grabbed Lance, pointing.

“Speak of the devil,” he whispered. We crept to the side of the window, to watch from the shadows in the hopes of going undetected. Luckily, Sabine seemed too engrossed to notice. I knew that look: she was smitten. I had given that look to someone myself on several occasions.

We watched them silently their entire date. It could not have looked less suspicious: a beautiful couple sipping drinks, eating from each other’s plates, gazing into each other’s eyes. It occurred to me that Lance and I had never quite had this. Our union had been born of such life-altering events that we had fast-forwarded past this stage. For us, it seemed romance came from the adrenaline surge of defying death. I supposed that every relationship was different.

At last, they rose to leave and as he pulled out her chair, Wylie glanced in our direction for the briefest of seconds. My breath stilled. Lance and I lunged out of sight.

“Do you think . . .” Lance was about to ask.

“Hope not,” I said as we crept away from the door and prepared to follow them to their next destination. We waited and waited, the combined force of our gaze enough to burn holes in the sidewalk. It felt like they were taking too long. We watched a few couples emerge from the restaurant into the energy of the street. The sidewalk outside the restaurant wasn’t so crowded that we should have lost Sabine and Wiley. Could they have been swallowed up by that group of drunken college boys here, or that bachelorette party there? Could we have missed them amid the bustle of that trumpeter packing up after a day of playing for change? Or did the novelty of that grungy-looking artsy man walking arm in arm with a statuesque trophy of a woman distract us? Lance left me to stand watch as he took a lap inside the restaurant, but found nothing. They had vanished.

I couldn’t bear the failure of going home so soon, so we wandered down every dark street, barely paying attention to where we were going, just searching madly. Before long we found our way to quiet Rampart Street. There were empty sidewalks and darkened storefronts for blocks and blocks. But then I heard in the distance a woman’s laugh, high-pitched, birdlike, carefree. Then the hushed tone of a man whispering. And footsteps getting softer as they walked away from us. Lance looked at me, catching it too.

We tried to follow and the voices led us to the cemetery.

16. I’ve Seen That Guy

Lance flicked his head toward the gates. I had never seen the cemetery closed, its black metal bars theoretically keeping potential trespassers at bay. But he was right—it sounded like the voices were inside. We heard a thump that could have been someone finding his or her way over that wall. There was a rustling and then I heard the woman’s giggling.

I thought of Sister Catherine’s warning—not that I needed to be told that a cemetery at night probably wasn’t the coziest hangout even under the best of circumstances—and then I nodded to Lance with a shrug and roll of the eyes that said,
Sure, let’s break into the cemetery. That’s a great idea.
He just smiled.

I grabbed two of the bars and tugged, careful not to rattle them. This gate was solid—it wouldn’t be pried open. A few chips of paint peeled off beneath my fingers. On the other side of the barrier, security lights bathed the whole city of the dead in an eerie glow.

We looked up. The gate wasn’t really all that high, maybe ten feet. We had done our share of climbing. I gripped two bars, planting my right foot flat against another bar, then pushed off, managing to swoop up, pulling with my arms and landing my left foot firmly on a horizontal bar situated across the gate halfway up. From there, I jumped, yanking myself up onto the top of the gate, another horizontal bar. I sat there for a moment, waiting as Lance followed. He was so tall, it seemed easy for him with those long, muscular limbs to swing up so gracefully.