Page 6

T he Midnight Parade lived up to its name.

Revelers caught in its snare made one pass down Ursulines Avenue at midnight, and that was that.

To put her mind at ease, I texted Josie.

You didn’t miss anything. He didn’t come back.

At least we have a time and place for tomorrow night.

We need to visit St. Louis No. 1 before the sun comes up.

Bones creaking, I rose and stretched after sitting for so long on the concrete curb.

Call a Swyft for Pedro. Send him on to the cemetery. We’ll meet him there and make the swap with Pascal.

Now that Pascal had had his fun, it was time for him to go on Matty duty and let Pedro rest.

Jean-Claude asked me to pick up a few things for him. Mind if I go do that?

Not at all. Thanks for helping out. See you soon.

Hoping to steal a smile from Kierce, I put the Swyft app on his phone and let him do the honors. He got a kick out of performing simple human tasks. Usually. Tonight proved an exception.

“That’s our ride,” he announced, frowning after checking the car against his details twice.

With the driver blasting EDM at a volume I felt in my teeth, I had trouble scrouging up enthusiasm too. Conversation was off the table, so I settled for resting my head on Kierce’s shoulder, threading my fingers through his clenched ones.

Ten minutes later, we got out at the cemetery, my ears ringing. Pedro was already there, waiting on us. I lifted a hand in greeting, and he strolled over to join us in front of the gate.

The lock was bolted for the night, but we had never let that stop us. Old pros at climbing fences, we didn’t hesitate to swing over and join in the chaotic bustle of spirits getting up to all sorts of shenanigans.

“The Fontenot mausoleum is this way.” I cut around the raucous crowd rather than through them out of politeness, not because I would jostle them. “Have you been here before, Kierce?”

“Many times.” He soaked in our surroundings. “The spirits aren’t usually this active when I visit.”

“You got Frankie, and Frankie is good people.”

The scratchy voice stopped me in my tracks, and I spun to find Jean-Claude’s grandmother and namesake, Momma Jean, wearing her favorite floral dressing gown with a pipe curling smoke in her hand.

“Momma Jean.” I bent down so the small woman could embrace me, giving me a hit of relief that I had been able to solidify her enough to make it happen after failing so spectacularly with Matty and Vi. “How are you?”

“Dead.” She rasped out a laugh. “How about you?”

Aware she could see my corona just fine, I pointed to it anyway. “I died too, but it didn’t take.”

“Bah.” She clamped her teeth over the pipe’s stem. “Some folks have all the luck.”

“I’m not sure I would call it luck.”

“Hmph.” She slid her gaze over my shoulder. “Lucky woman to have that man on your arm.”

“I’m sorry, Momma Jean, I forgot my manners.” I tugged him forward to meet her. “This is Kierce.”

“You’re Jean-Claude’s grandmother.” He inclined his head. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine.” She fluffed her short, dark curls. “What brings you all out tonight?”

“I need to pick up a friend.” I kept it vague to avoid the threat of eavesdroppers. Gossip burned through cemeteries and graveyards like wildfire. “We’ll have to catch up before I go back to Thunderbolt.”

“It’s a date.” She fluttered her fingers at Kierce. “See you later, handsome.”

An adorable flush warmed Kierce’s cheeks as we set out for the Fontenot mausoleum.

Hard to miss the towering marble structure leaning a tad to the right after the last big hurricane flooded the cemetery. That, and the Fontenots had a thing for angels. Muscly ones. Lots of abs. Thick thighs. And a clothing allergy. Most wore a scrap of fabric suggestive of a loincloth and their wings. That was it. The anatomically correct figures stood guard to either side of the door, were carved into the stone walls, and one stood watch on the roof with his legs spread wide enough to flash anyone who attempted to enter.

“The attention to detail is…” Pedro winced up at Mr. Dangly, “…impressive.”

“Wait until you see the inside. All the angels are impressive . Especially the ones painted on the ceiling.”

Swallowing once, Pedro made the sign of the cross before following me in, not that it would save him.

Pretty sure God wouldn’t step foot within a five-mile radius of this particular plot if you paid him.

Unlike the frenetic energy outside, the inside of the mausoleum had wardings etched in stone to protect its inhabitants. Easily the most peaceful spot in the cemetery, I wasn’t surprised to find it empty with the precious few minutes of moonlight left for spirits to finish their earthly business for the night.

“What now?” Kierce studied an altar at the rear of the building. “Do we wait for Pascal?”

“We don’t have much choice.” I swept a hand toward the door. “We’ll never find him out there.”

Had I been allowed to question the spirits in residence, I might have been more motivated to try.

Sadly, St. Louis No. 1 had ironclad rules I had no choice but to follow unless I wanted my access revoked. I could visit all I wanted, I could talk to anyone I pleased, but the spirits who watched over the cemetery enforced a ban on necromancers. The restriction stemmed from an incident that happened long before I was born, but spirits excelled at holding grudges. Spite was the anchor tethering plenty of souls to this world. The only reason I was allowed onto the property was Vi—and the Fontenot spirits—vouching for me. Unless I wanted the boot, I had to behave, which meant I would reserve questioning the souls here as a last resort.

Kierce and I stood around another five minutes before the first spirit slid through the door and me.

“Pardon.” He tipped his hat, its long feather tickling the ceiling. “Didn’t see you there.”

“No problem.” I stepped aside to give the next several spirits room to enter. “Pascal is pushing his luck.”

Careful to avoid making eye contact with the murals, Pedro stared at his feet. “Have you met my brother?”

Laughing under my breath, I checked the time then joined Kierce at the altar dappled with candles in various states of melting. “What do you think?”

“I’ve never seen a Virgin Mary depicted in the nude,” he mused, “or with breasts quite so large.”

Rumor had it the model was none other than Momma Jean, whose family had long ties with the Fontenots. But I figured I would keep that tidbit to myself, since Kierce was the blushing type.

“She’s not nude.” I pointed to the moldering gauze at her feet. “She just needs new robes.”

“That doesn’t explain why she’s anatomically correct.” Pedro shielded his eyes. “Where is Pascal?”

Poor Pedro looked ready to go stand in a darkened corner to hide from the art within the mausoleum, but he must have realized there was nowhere to rest his forehead except on angel junk, most of it in bas-relief.

Even Kierce couldn’t resist a smile at Pedro’s horror, and I nudged him with my elbow. “Hi.”

“Hello.” He rested his hand on my shoulder then slid it until he cupped my nape. “I’m sorry I?—”

“Booya,” Pascal crowed as he raced another spirit to tag the wall above our heads. “I win.”

The woman, because of course it was a woman around his age, chortled at his glee.

“You made it by the skin of your teeth.” I quirked my lips. “Made a new friend too, I see.”

“Oh. Frankie. Hey.” The woman scooped her wild curls away from her face. “I didn’t notice you there.”

“Anita.” I smiled up at her drifting form. “Good to see you.”

As best as I could recall, she died back in the thirties from lead poisoning in her home, but it wasn’t like I was going to ask to check if I was recalling the grisly details correctly.

“What brings you to the cemetery?” She leaned cozily into Pascal. “Anything I can help with?”

“I’m here to pick him up, I’m afraid.” I lifted my brows, waiting on him to chime in. “Right, Pascal?”

“Francita,” he pleaded, staring down at Anita. “Can I get a pass? Just for today? Please?”

“I’m afraid not, manito .” Pedro shook his head. “I’m too tired to pull double duty again so soon.”

Guilt tumbled through me when the exhaustion in his voice, his expression, registered with me.

The effect was instantaneous on Pascal, who cut out the whiny-little-brother act fast. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Anita folded her arms across her chest, boosting her cleavage. “Are you serious?”

“I’ll be back tonight,” he promised, eyes full of desperation. And boobs. “Wait for me?”

“All I got is time, right?” She flounced into a vault. “Later, Pascal.”

“Later,” Pedro reassured his little brother.

No further prompting was required to get Pascal to fall in line as Pedro lay on the floor.

Hand to Matty’s forehead, I released Pedro, who vanished through the marble wall seconds later.

Twining my fingers through Pascal’s chilly blue ones, I murmured a soft hymn as I guided him down into Matty’s body, his brief solidity confirming it had only been the lost souls in the parade I couldn’t touch.

“That’s a neat trick,” a man said from behind me. “You need volunteers, you ask for Bosco.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” I grinned at him over my shoulder then pulled Pascal onto his feet. “You good?”

“Momma always said no man has yet to die from blue balls,” he lamented. “God rest her soul.”

“Blue…?” A furrow gathering across his brow, Kierce struggled to read between the lines. “Balls?”

“She had three sons, three teenage sons at one point, and she wanted to make sure we grew up knowing how to treat girls right. No means no. Even if it felt like we would die if we got ourselves all worked up, and then our date changed her mind later, Momma assured us we wouldn’t die from it.” He rolled a shoulder. “Then she followed it up by saying she was too young to be a grandmother and made us go to the store and buy our own condoms while she watched from the counter with Ms. Nelly, who was our former bible school teacher.”

“That’s positively evil,” I spluttered, unable to hold in my laugh.

“But effective.” He held up a finger. “I died with zero offspring and the same box of condoms.”

“That’s not something to brag about,” Bosco said from the depths of the marble vault.

Smothering a laugh as Pascal flushed, I added, “And emotional scars that lasted a lifetime and beyond.”

“That too.” His lips twitched at the memory. “Damn, I miss her.”

Unfortunately for the Suarez brothers, she had elected to move on rather than linger. They wouldn’t see her, or their father again, until they crossed over.

“Can you take this reunion outside?” a grumpy voice mumbled. “We’re trying to sleep here.”

Wincing at the commiserating grumbles from the other vaults, I shuffled the guys out then closed up behind us.

The cemetery wouldn’t be open for a while, so we climbed the fence and started down Basin Street. The walk to get breakfast would cost us twenty minutes, but after spending so much time sitting on concrete and waiting for the parade to come again, I was happy for the excuse to stretch my legs.

Halfway to Café du Monde, I spied Badb circling overhead, her beak cracked open in a cackle.

A thud on the crown of my head pushed a hiss from between my teeth as I rubbed the sore spot.

“Really?” I reached up to untangle the beads from my hair. “Where did you find these?”

Please don’t say somewhere gross.

“They were looped over a power line,” Kierce told me. “She thought you might like the mirror charm.”

Yeah. Uh-huh. Because, between the two of us, I was the one obsessed with my own reflection.

Mardi Gras beads came in all sizes, shapes, and colors. Most necklaces tossed from the floats were plain beads in green, purple, and gold. But every now and again, the krewe flung deluxe beads. The battle for those often resulted in scuffles in the street. This particular strand—with its chunky golden beads and the ornate gold brocade trimming out a hazy mirror—fell squarely into that category.

Oh, how the paradegoers must have cried out when it got stuck on the power line. I bet folks had thrown their shoes at the necklace for days, probably losing them too, but it had taken a vain crow to liberate the prize.

As Kierce and Badb conferred ahead of us, I fell in step with Pascal, whose expression pinched my heart.

“Don’t tell me you fell in love with Anita that fast.” I bumped shoulders with him. “If you’re worried she’ll write you off for ditching her once, don’t be. As long as you make it up to her, she’ll forgive you.”

“It’s not that.” He cracked a smile, but it faded as he admitted, “I’m worried about Pedro. He takes more shifts with Matty than Paco or I do, and it’s wearing on him. And you know Pedro. He’s like you. He would do anything for his family, and you Marys are the next best thing to Suarezes.”

Fear trickled in over Pedro hiding his strain from me, but I would have to take that up with him.

“What he said before was the first I’ve heard about it. I wish he had told me sooner.” I leaned my head against his shoulder, already thinking out my talk with his brother. “I’ll talk to him, okay?”

“Fingers crossed Matty is back with us soon.” He rested his cheek against mine. “Then it won’t matter.”

The comforting warmth of my brother’s skin on mine threatened to bring tears to my eyes. And I felt like a bad friend for cashing in on Pascal’s pain to get closer to Matty, to take the comfort I ought to be giving.

“Looks like there’s already a line,” he murmured, pulling away from me. “That’s dedication.”

There was always a line at Café du Monde, which led to many locals, Vi included, labeling it a tourist trap instead of regarding it as a local institution. But Jean-Claude was obsessed with their beignets and considered anything less than a five-star review of them to be blasphemous.

While Pascal went to join the other early birds waiting for the café to open, I sought out Kierce and Badb where they stood watching artists arranging their canvases, easels, and crafts in nearby Jackson Square. I smiled when I noticed the reason for his interest and watched as a young man hung a stained glass suncatcher shaped like a crow in flight next to what was clearly part of a series.

“Are you sure I can’t tempt you into trying a beignet?” I made a mental note of the artist’s name for later. Christmas would be here before we knew it. “They’re mighty tasty.”

“There’s an oyster bar down the street. I’m going to pick up a dozen for later.” He stroked Badb’s head. “She swears they’re the best in the Quarter.”

“Be careful going through the trash,” I cautioned her. “Oysters turn quick in the heat.”

A mocking laugh moved through her feathered breast, and I waited for the punch line.

“She helped herself to the plates of diners who couldn’t finish their meals.”

“So, she stole from them.” I should have known Badb wouldn’t dumpster dive. “Gotcha.”

“I’ve been thinking.”

“Good thoughts, I hope.”

“What Rollo said about gods being responsible.” He rolled a thumb over one of the beads on the necklace Badb salvaged. “There are gods of revelry.”

The peculiar manifestation of the Midnight Parade wasn’t exactly a party, but gods were multifaceted beings. Most of them, anyway. At least on paper. Gods in the flesh, I was learning, were a whole different kettle of fish.

“Dionysus, Bast, Shiva, Bacchus.” I ticked them off on my fingers. “That’s all I’ve got. I’m not up on party gods.” Pretty sure that Dionysus and Bacchus were the same guy, so that cut me down to three total. “What are you thinking?”

“Bacchus is celebrated widely in New Orleans, but he’s more than a symbol of excess.”

The Krewe of Bacchus was a big deal in The Big Easy, and plenty of celebs had portrayed the goodtime god over the years, but I had trouble imagining him cavorting with the dead. “Oh?”

“Bacchus can be called a dying-and-rising god.” Kierce squinted against the glare as the sun rose higher. “His female followers are called maenads, and they feed the dead with their blood. Maenads can also be called the thiasus, his revelers.”

“The party boy image threw me.” I tugged on my left ear in thought. “I never paid much attention to him in my studies.” I could see now that had been an oversight. “What makes him a dying-and-rising god?”

“Hera was jealous of Bacchus. Of his relationship with Zeus. To punish him, she had Bacchus torn apart by Titans. They devoured everything but his heart. Zeus took the heart and placed it in a mortal’s womb. Semele was her name. She gave birth to Bacchus. Some consider his rebirth as him rising from the dead.”

“That actually makes a tiny bit of sense, so there’s probably a wackier version that’s the real story.”

Kierce cracked a smile, and I soaked it up greedily, happy to have banished his grim mood.

For now at least.