Infatuate (21 page)

On one side, the cemetery stretched out before us, all those rows of tombs. On the other glowed the lights of Bourbon Street a few blocks away. “Nice view,” I mouthed. He smiled. I swung myself over the gate, shimmying down and landing hard on my feet, almost silently. I shook the life back into my legs as Lance leapt to join me. Perfectly still, we listened closely, locating the voices. I pointed toward the back of the cemetery.

I led the way, charting a course studded with large crypts perfect for hiding. The voices grew louder and at last we spotted a couple wandering clumsily through the grassy land near Latrobe’s grave. We sought refuge behind a towering tomb, poking out our heads to watch. We could only make out their silhouettes.

“Why do you like to come here?” the man slurred.

“Are you kidding? It’s soooo romantic,” the girl gushed. “Don’t you
love
it?” A smack echoed, a kiss somewhere in these dark corners, and then her birdlike laugh and the coltish clop of her trying not so hard to run away. She landed in a spot illuminated by moonlight. It was Clio. Her paramour reached out and grabbed her hand and she yelped playfully as he pulled her into another kiss.

“So you’re gonna make me come back here?” he barely protested.

“It’s my favorite place. There’s a party coming up. You’ll love it,” she assured him, adding matter-of-factly, “You’ll be here, all right.”

“It sounds like I don’t have much choice,” he said. I didn’t recognize him, but he had that generally familiar collegiate look, as if he could have been one of Connor’s friends, a typical French Quarter reveler. The pair tumbled to the ground entwined. It took me only an instant to realize Lance and I weren’t going to learn anything else here right now, and we were going to feel incredibly voyeuristic in another minute. A heat had risen to my skin and it was so distracting that I almost didn’t realize my scars had flared up. I gestured in the direction of the exit, Lance nodded, and we slunk away as quietly, and quickly, as possible.

We vaulted back over the gate and walked home, giving up for the night. Few were out on Royal Street and it was quiet enough for me to notice as we passed the LaLaurie mansion that a window had been left open, wind whistling through. The candle was out, but my heart stopped as I caught the outline of a hand. It held up what looked to be a bottle, then pulled it away out of sight. I thought of Marie Laveau’s grave, all those offerings, some bottles among them. Somehow I knew this was an offering for me. I wanted to run up to that window now. Beside me, Lance was lost in thought; his heavy eyes had fixed on something in the distance. He stopped walking and just stood there. I stopped too, waiting for him to say something, but he didn’t.

“You okay?”

“I think I need to get some air,” he said finally.

“Really? I mean, we’ve kind of been getting air all night,” I said gently.

“Yeah. You go on ahead. I’ll be back soon.”

“I can stay out too—”

“No. I’m just going to walk around the block, clear my head,” he said, backing up in the direction we had just come from. “See you later.” And with that he turned around, hands in his pockets, and strode off into the night.

I didn’t like it but I could tell he wanted to be alone, so I let up on him. “Well, don’t stay out long, okay?”

Back at the house, I found my room dark and empty. Connor and the others hadn’t had any luck looking through the bars and clubs. When I told him how we had found Sabine and then lost her, he said, “Get some rest,” reading the defeat in my eyes. “You did everything you could.”

I changed into my scrubs and pulled out my stack of photos. Jimmy’s had deteriorated in those few hours since I’d last looked. Now his features melted down his face, lesions covering his skin. I shoved it back into the nightstand, slamming the drawer shut. I fished around in my backpack to locate both of my Swiss Army knives—I always liked to have a spare these days. I tucked the extra one into the drawer beside the pictures, a shiver overtaking my body. As I turned off the lights, I discovered a new message on my phone:

Your eyes didn’t deceive you tonight. Go looking tomorrow. You’ll find something.

I dozed off with thoughts of Lucian running through my mind, invading my dreams.

The rapping on the door wouldn’t stop. I groaned. Why did Connor need to do this? Couldn’t he train us at normal hours of the day? It was still completely dark outside. Since the pounding showed no sign of subsiding, I crawled down the ladder. More awake now, I noticed the knocks came at slower intervals, as though someone was hurling his body against the door repeatedly. I opened it up with a yawn.

Lance practically fell on me, stumbling over the threshold. “Whoa!” I exclaimed.

“I’m so sorry, just me,” he slurred his words, whispering. It sounded like he’d been drinking. Or what I imagined he would sound like drunk. I’d never actually seen him show much interest in alcohol. He tripped, toppling over Sabine’s night table and landing on the floor along with it. “Can I lie down here? Few minutes? D’you mind?”

“Are you okay? Where have you been? Did you find Sabine and Wylie?”

“I’m fiiiine, I think. I dunno,” he said woozily. “Just need to sleep.”

“Maybe you need some water or something? You look like you’re gonna be sick.” I stood over him, a pile of bones crumpled on the floor in the dark.

“No, just sleep, just need sleep,” he said, not moving, eyes closed, moonlight bouncing off his glasses. I crouched down. He lay on his back, which seemed like a bad idea if he was going to get sick, so I rolled him over onto his side. Then I noticed it: his right bicep was slashed, right through his shirt and down to the flesh. A dark claret ribbon of hardened blood had dried there.

“What happened to you?” I said loudly, waking him.

“Huh?” he mumbled, going back to sleep.

I bolted to the closet, rummaging through my first-aid kit to find a bandage and some ointment. I yanked up his sleeve. It was certainly ugly: ragged and raw. As I smoothed the bandage over the top of the wound, the antiseptic bubbled, a popping sensation, beneath it. If the room hadn’t been so silent I wouldn’t have heard or believed it, but a hiss rose, sizzling like an egg on a hot frying pan. Still asleep, Lance shook his arm as though trying to flick a bug away. I grabbed his hand to settle him and eventually he stopped. I dragged the trash can over beside him and trekked out to the kitchen to get him a bottle of water.

Before heading back up to my own bed, I leaned into his chest listening to his breathing. It sounded okay, maybe a little jagged, but he was very much alive. It all worried me, though, in a way it wouldn’t have concerned me to see pretty much anyone else in this house stumble back in this state. Lance just didn’t do stuff like this. He liked to be in control; he prided himself on it. He made fun of the kids at school who got wasted on the weekends. I climbed back up to my bed and glanced at my clock. It would be time to get up soon.

I didn’t hear Sabine come in, but when I woke in the morning, she was tucked neatly into her bed and Lance had left. I checked and found him in his room getting ready for work, seemingly back to normal. I didn’t have time to ask him what had happened last night before we all had to rush out to our jobs. On the walk to our work sites, Sabine regaled Dante and me with tales of her date.

“And then after dinner, and the music and everything, he said he wanted to walk for a little while, so it could be just us. Isn’t that amazing?”

“Yeah, amazing,” I said sarcastically. “Sabine, what aren’t you understanding?” Dante sighed, an angry sigh.

“We went to Jackson Square. It’s
so
beautiful at night, and we just found a little secluded bench and . . .” She gave us both a mischievous look. I shook my head. “I don’t know why I have to believe your photography project,” she spat at me. She was getting frustrated with us now. “Anyone with Photoshop can do that.
I
can do that with Photoshop. Dante, back me up.” I whipped my head toward him.

“Sorry, Sabine. I’m Team Haven on this one—”

Thank you,
I mouthed to him.

“Even if I told you Max was
just
talking to me about you?” Sabine said, in her most persuasive tone.

Dante lit up. “Oh? And what did he say?” He did his best to play it cool, but I could tell he was jumping up and down on the inside.

“Just that you guys grabbed dinner since you were both working late,” she said, very nonchalant. Dante hung on her words as though secretly dissecting them for subtext.

“True,” he said, sounding a little disappointed.

“And . . .” She drew it out, as if about to bestow a great gift. “He didn’t
say
this, but I totally know he’s into you. Just in case you were curious.”

“I suppose I might be,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

I tuned them out, my mind wandering. I couldn’t stop thinking about looking for whatever Lucian might have left. But something in the distance intruded on my thoughts. At the end of the block, police tape boxed off the tattoo parlor. A few gawkers stood by, watching, as two cops, lights flashing on their parked police car, called for backup.

“Hey,” I interrupted Sabine and Dante, who had been too locked in conversation to notice. “What’s going on there?” I pointed, slowing my pace. Sabine crinkled her eyebrows and walked ahead of us to where Kip stood, his back to us. She tapped his shoulder and he put his hand on her back protectively, saying something. Standing on her tiptoes, she looked past the few people in front of her and then snapped her head away, covering her eyes.

As soon as we got closer, we understood why: a man lay on his back soaked in a pool of blood. He looked like he’d been torn open. I grabbed Dante’s hand, on reflex, squeezing hard. Sirens shattered the still morning air and an emergency vehicle pulled up. Two uniformed men dashed out, throwing a sheet over the body. But I had already seen enough: it was the guy I’d spied in the cemetery last night with Clio.

“I’ve seen that guy—” I started to say to Dante, but Sabine was on her way back over to us, the shock clear on her face.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Kip said he just found him there when he got in.” She shook her head. “No one knows who he is,” she said to the ground, arms folded. “I’m gonna hang out here for a while and then go home. I can’t handle work today.” Her face had gone ashen, her spirit paralyzed, not unlike the day in the swamp.

“You sure?” I asked. She just nodded, turning to go back to Kip, but she quickly spun around again.

“What was he like? That guy? You know, in Chicago?” she asked me in a heavy tone.

I took a deep breath. “Perfect, in every way. And in an unreal way,” I said finally. “And also completely, dangerously wrong. All at the same time.” In my head I added:
And now he has resurfaced, in that way that boys seem to when you have moved on.

I waited until Dante and I were alone and then it flew out of me. “I saw that guy at the cemetery last night,” I blurted out. “He was with that Clio person. It’s them; it’s definitely them. Her group. The Krewe. I know it.”

“Are you serious? What were they doing? Did she kill him?” he whispered.

I didn’t know. I didn’t even want to think about it. But I feared that I could guess the answer.

17. Meet Me at Midnight

Dante and I spent the first part of our workday in the kitchen at the food bank, me as his sous-chef, chopping vegetables, heating meals and packaging them for the drivers to take later that day. River had beat us there, missing the crime scene, and demanded to hear all the gory details. When she was outside loading up the van, Dante and I resumed the debate we’d begun on the walk over: deciding whether to go to the police about Clio. Since I didn’t really want to have to tell them that Lance and I had been trespassing in the cemetery, we thought it might be best for me to call in an anonymous tip, even though I had so little information: I had a first name and I could tell them where she liked to drink her hurricanes, and that was all I could really provide them on the mysterious Clio. The cop, who called me “sweetie,” took down those few details and promised to look into it.

Since Dante wanted to update Mariette, I went ahead to catch the streetcar to the library by myself, but first I had a bit of business to tend to. The afternoon sun did its best to clear my darkened mind, but certain sights I would never quite shake. I wound my way back home, standing before the house next door long enough that passersby probably wondered about me.

Unable to wait any longer, I let myself in. The buzz of saws and whir of machines performing their various tasks, lifting and slicing and hammering, greeted me. The Habitat for Humanity home construction now complete, the guys had returned to their work here today, so I braced myself, hoping I could find whatever it was I was in search of before any of them—Lance especially—made an appearance.

Even in daylight, the foyer was dim, full of shadows, making my job more difficult. Last night the object had looked like a bottle from my vantage point: dark, with a long neck that he had grasped in those slim fingers. I looked all around the window where the candle had been. I sorted through piles of discarded, chopped wooden beams. I even pawed around a heap of full black garbage bags, and there I found it. I didn’t recognize the label, but something caught my eye on the back: in the block of text listing the ingredients, five letters had been circled in the first line:
H, A, V, E,
and
N.
And in the second line, eight more letters, this time spelling:
PLEASE READ.

No one was around, so I decided I would just go for it. I intended to pop the top with the bottle opener of my Swiss Army knife, but then I realized there wasn’t a top. This bottle had been sealed shut as though someone had melted the nearly opaque glass to close it off. I shook it, trying to see what lay inside, and thought I could make out something attached to the bottom: a folded slip of paper. I had to get it. With the construction equipment roaring, I wound up my arm and thrust the bottle to the floor, shattering it. My scars tingled, perhaps at being so close to this vessel that had been brought from the underworld. I crouched to the ground, carefully picking through the shards to find that scrap of paper.