Darkness Becomes Her

Three

AN ENGINE’S DEEP RUMBLE AND THE BLARE OF MUSIC CLICKED into my shocked senses. Bright lights blinded me. The whine of brakes. The smell of rubber burning on asphalt. . It all reached me too late.

I threw an arm over my face and turned to roll, realizing I was sitting in the side street, in the path of an oncoming vehicle. I’d been caught off guard, distracted by what I’d just done and seen. Blood rushed through my system so fast, my limbs were numb and my head was cloudy.

The truck swerved and came to a rocking halt, the left front bumper so close that I could reach out and touch it. A puff of exhaust breezed over me, the smell turning my stomach. A small figure leaned out of the open driver’s side. I removed my arm from over my head as the loud engine vibrated through me like a slow, continuous stream of electricity going for the ground.

“Hey, you okay?” a girl in overalls and a tweed cabbie hat asked.

I tried to respond, but couldn’t find my voice.

“You drunk or something?”

“No,” I croaked, rolling to my knees and flattening my palms on the asphalt to help push my weak body to its feet. Once I was steady, I brushed my hands on my jeans.

“’Kay. Well, you mind moving? I got mail to dump.”

I eyed the girl with her grease-stained overalls, white ribbed tank underneath, flannel shirt, and thin frame. Her brown hair was braided into two plaits, and she had shrewd green eyes, a splattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose, and a smudge of grease on her face. An old UPS logo peeked out from a thin layer of black spray paint on the truck’s side. “You’re from New 2. One of the mail runners.”

“So?”

I swallowed, knowing I was in shock and probably not in the best frame of mind to make a spur-of-the-moment decision, but I knew if I didn’t take advantage of the opportunity in front of me, I’d talk myself out of it. One day. All I needed was one day. “I’m looking for a ride into the city.”

The girl’s left eye squinted, sweeping over me from head to toe, and not shy about it either. “You one of those parrots?”

“Parrots?”

“Yeah, you know. . paranormal tourists?” She flapped her elbows. “Squawk, squawk!”

“How old are you?”

“Almost thirteen.”

My brow lifted. “They let a twelve-year-old deliver the mail?”

The girl rolled her eyes, leaning her forearms on the large steering wheel. “You ain’t been to New 2 before, have you?” I shrugged. “Things don’t run down there the way they run outside The Rim.” Her eyes turned calculating. “You can get in, but it’ll cost you.”

“How much?”

“Twenty bucks.”

“Done. Just give me a sec.” I snagged the gun and blade from the ground, then hurried to the car to grab my mother’s box. I shoved the sword into my backpack, having to angle it so it’d fit, slid the gun into my waistband, and then locked the car.

“Just gotta dump my bags at the P.O. and then I’m done,” the girl said as I got in. Her gaze went briefly to the backpack, but she said nothing about the gun and blade. Instead she stuck out a greasy hand. “I’m Crank.”

I took the small hand. “Ari.”

Crank shoved the massive stick shift into gear and released the clutch. The big truck rocked back and forth several times, making me snag the cold metal door handle as it finally lurched into motion.

No one had come out of the hotel when the gunshots were fired. Hadn’t they heard? A tingle of unease slid down my back as the sight of the hotel and back parking lot disappeared from view. Either the hotel staff or guests didn’t call the cops on purpose, or gunshots in the middle of the night were the norm near The Rim. That might also explain why Crank didn’t seem fazed by the weapons I’d brought onboard. But none of those thoughts made me feel any better.

Once Crank drove around to the back of the post office and reversed to a loading dock, she climbed into the rear of the truck, opened the door, and dumped all the mail bags into three large bins. She snagged two bags marked for New 2 from the loading zone and tossed them inside, and then we headed toward Route 190.

Part of the southbound exit was barricaded, but three faded orange barrels had been moved to make a driving space.

We drove for what I guessed was ten miles or so before officially passing over The Rim. There was nothing to mark the occasion except an aging road sign that read: UNITED STATES BORDER. DISASTER AREA AHEAD. PROCEED AT YOUR OWN RISK. And then another sign a few feet down: PROPERTY OF THE NOVEM. PLEASE RESPECT OUR LAND. WELCOME TO NEW ORLEANS.

Besides the bumps and noise of the engine, the ride was long and full of silence — the kind of silence you see, not hear. A silence that stretched across the flat landscapes to the black silhouettes of ruined towns, abandoned fast-food restaurants, gas stations, and vehicles. The road became worse as we progressed, the cracked asphalt riddled with holes and large, random patches of weeds.

“Nothing much out there anymore,” Crank said, glancing over at me and following the direction of my gaze. “Most folks live in or around New 2.”

“Why would anyone stay?” I asked under my breath. The government had washed its hands of the city and the surrounding land after the devastation, declared it a disaster area, and moved everyone out who wanted to go. The entire city, state, and federal infrastructure in New Orleans collapsed along with its economy. If anyone stayed, it was with the knowledge that America didn’t exist there anymore.

Nine of the oldest families in New Orleans had formed an alliance, the Novem, and they bought the ruined city and surrounding counties in a landmark deal that seemed a win-win situation for everyone. The government didn’t have to deal with New Orleans. Some of the $8.2 billion the United States earned from the sale went to all the displaced and affected people. And the Novem got something they obviously wanted — a city to call their own.

For a while, the media had been all over the Novem, lured by the intense speculation behind the group’s unexplained purchase of a wasteland, and attracted by their wealth and the power that came with owning and running an entire city. There was even a book written about the families and their long history in New Orleans. They gained a kind of celebrity status that grew into something of a legend. The odd characters dotting their family trees only added to the mystery — tales of witches and vampires and voodoo queens.

The Novem never confirmed or denied any rumors. They never gave interviews, never stepped into the spotlight except to make the purchase. And then they retreated into their ruined city, leaving the rest of the country to wonder. It wasn’t long before they joined the ranks of Area 51, Roswell, the Loch Ness monster, and all the other conspiracy theories and paranormal speculations out there. The undercover reporters and truth seekers who’d come out of the city later on with grainy photographs and accounts of monsters and murders only added to the speculation. And now, thirteen years later, a large percentage of the country believed New 2 was a sanctuary, a hot spot, for the paranormal.

Crank shrugged, her cheeks jiggling as the truck’s tires hit a succession of potholes. “New 2 is home,” she answered my quiet question. The springy seat bounced her entire body, drawing my attention to her feet, which rested on wooden blocks attached to the pedals so she could reach. “Some people didn’t have anywhere else to go, some were too dang stubborn to leave.”

“Which one are you?”

Crank let out a small laugh. “Both, I guess. My dad died in the flood. My uncle hid my brother and mom, like a lot of people did when the troops came through and ordered the city evacuated. I wasn’t born until after, though. Why are you going?”

I hugged the box a little tighter. “Trying to find out about my parents. I was born at Charity Hospital a few years before the hurricanes struck.”

“No shit, really?”

A small laugh bubbled in my throat. Crank was like a little adult trapped in a prepubescent body. “Really.”

“Well, maybe my brother can help you with that. He’s pretty good at finding things. You have a place to stay yet?”

Yeah. . I hadn’t actually thought that far ahead when I decided to jump into the mail truck. “No, not yet.” All I needed was one day. One day to find the hospital and access my records. I wasn’t going to turn back now.

“Good. You can stay with us. Those tourist hotels, the ones in the French Quarter, they are high dollar.”

The offer was the last thing I expected. But then, I never expected to be driven to New 2 by a twelve-year-old, either. “I don’t know. …”

“Trust me, we have tons of rooms. Forty bucks will get you one for the night.” When I didn’t answer right away, she said, “You in?”

“Sure,” I said on a sigh, settling in for the ride and rolling my eyes at nothing. “Why not?”

The truck sped through the tattered remains of Mandeville and then passed what used to be the toll area for the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway. There was a dim light inside one of the booths along with a dark, shadowed figure. Crank slowed the truck. The man, at least that’s what I guessed by the size of him, waved us through.

I squeezed the oh shit handle tightly as the truck rolled over one side of the double-span bridge; the other side was impassable, missing huge chunks of pavement, leaving only the massive concrete pillars standing, most of which were topped with bird nests.

Crank slid a sideways glance at me, a knowing smile on her lips. She gave the truck a little more gas. “Twenty-four miles to go,” she sang under her breath, enjoying my anxiety a little too much. She leaned over, reaching for the radio, her eyes barely seeing over the dashboard. The truck began to veer dangerously close to the guardrail.

My hand tightened around the door handle, the other holding the box tightly. “Um, Crank?”

The radio blared to life and Crank straightened, taking the steering wheel with her and veering to the left side of the road, where a chunk of the guardrail had vanished. Without missing a beat, she settled back into her driving stance and slowly guided the vehicle into the center of the road.

Twenty-four miles of bridge, minus the last hair-raising few, stretched out low and mostly flat over the calm waters of the lake. Twenty-four miles of zydeco music as every one of my stomach muscles grew sore and my fingers began to stiffen around the door handle. By the time we reached land, I felt like I’d done a hundred sit-ups and heard enough zydeco to last a lifetime.

Crank navigated through the suburb of Metairie, which was dark and quiet this time of night, only a few random lights where there should’ve been thousands, then onto Route 61, which led to Washington Avenue. The street changed names a few times before it intersected with St. Charles Avenue in the Garden District. Crank didn’t slow down to check for traffic, just shot out into the intersection, veering left onto the street. Not that it mattered; there wasn’t anyone else on the road. There were a few streetlamps working, and I could see the double tracks of the St. Charles Avenue trolley running parallel with the road.

The Garden District had become a semi ghost town, a beautiful lost place where once-manicured gardens surged over their cast-iron fences and spread across the community in a tangle of vines and weeds.

Crank turned down First Street, and it was like we’d gone a hundred years back in time. Despite the chipped paint, rotted boards, busted railings, and cracked, broken, or boarded-up windows, the houses stood like dignified street sentinels surrounded by ancient live oaks draped in the gray, ragged shawls of Spanish moss.

The truck turned onto Coliseum Street and then stopped suddenly, brakes whining, sending me flying forward until my seat belt clicked and stopped me from going through the windshield. I flew back against the seat, heart pounding as Crank shoved the gear into neutral, pressed the parking brake, and turned off the engine.

Leftover vibrations from the rumbling truck continued through me, and my ears felt like they were encased in muffs.

“Home sweet home,” Crank said loudly. “Come on.”

I hopped out with the box and slung my backpack over my shoulder. My feet hit solid ground. The impulse to drop to my knees and thank God I’d made it out alive went through me, but I stayed still, taking a second to regain my equilibrium.

“This way,” Crank’s voice echoed in the darkness.

I stepped onto the broken sidewalk and craned my head back at the tall shadow looming above us. Wow.

The house on the corner of First and Coliseum was set in a jungle of trees and overgrown lawn, surrounded by a black iron fence. It was tall and rectangular, two stories high with faded mauve paint, lacy wrought-iron railings and scrollwork along the double porches, and black plantation shutters framing the large windows. A few dim lights shone through the panes, muted by dark curtains, dirt, and grime.

I loved it immediately — beauty shadowed by time and decay, but still standing proud. Yeah, this was my kind of place.

Feeling a little better about my spontaneous decision to come to New 2, I followed Crank through the main gate, which supported a thick, climbing tangle of small, fragrant white flowers— the same kind that wound up the side of the house and twined through the second-floor railing. A black lantern hung suspended from the roof of the second-story porch above us.

“Cool, huh?” Crank said over her shoulder as she opened the front door.

“You live here?”

“Yup. Well, we don’t technically own it, but no one ever came back to claim it, so now it’s ours. There’s a bunch of empty ones in the GD — that’s what we call the Garden District. The better ones have all been snagged by squatters, but this one ain’t half bad. Some rooms are worse than others, but otherwise it’s good.” She held out her hand. “Twenty for the ride and forty for the room.”

“Oh, right.” I set my backpack on the porch and fished for my wallet, pulling out three twenties and placing them in Crank’s open hand.

We entered into a large hardwood foyer with a wide staircase along one wall, the bottom half of it curving gently toward the front door. The base fanned out like honey spilled from a jar. Hanging on a long chain attached to the second-floor ceiling was a large wrought-iron chandelier, so fine and detailed it looked like it had been spun from some magical metalworking spider. The walls on either side of the foyer had wide openings leading to other rooms.

To the right was a massive dining room with a long, stately table and ten high-backed chairs. There was a faded mural on the ceiling, and burgundy-and-gold wallpaper that was faded and peeling in places. Black sconces burned, minus the two that didn’t work, in spaced intervals around the room, and two tall windows were framed with cornices and heavy old burgundy curtains.

“Neat, huh?” Crank stood beside me. “We call it The Crypt ’cause it looks like something from a vampire movie.”

“Nice,” I murmured.

Some of the floorboards were rotting. I avoided those as we headed for the stairs. The wallpaper in the foyer was missing or peeling in places just like in the dining room, but, like Crank said, it wasn’t half bad. In fact, I thought it was just as beautiful on the inside as it was on the outside.

“I’ll show you your room first.”

Across the foyer from the dining room was the living room. It ran the entire left-side length of the house. Tall ceilings. Two dusty chandeliers. And two fireplaces along the far wall, with gilded mirrors over each mantel. Like the dining room, and probably every other room in the house, the room was framed with serious crown moldings and plasterwork. One of the windows had been boarded up with random pieces of lumber and nails.

“You can stay in the room across from mine,” Crank said, already on the stairs. “Oh, and be careful on the sixteenth step.”

I counted, making sure to skip number sixteen, and then followed Crank down a wide hallway. She stopped at the first door on the left and then stood back to let me through first. “Here you go.”

The bedroom was dark and smelled of damp wood. Crank hit a light switch and a small chandelier glowed above us, hanging from a plaster medallion on the ceiling. The floors were wide, planked hardwood, and there were two tall windows. I entered with careful steps. The floor creaked but held.

“Yours overlooks the side garden. The mattress was growing mold, so we threw that out a long time ago, but I can bring you my old sleeping bag. We’ve got running water, but I wouldn’t drink it if I were you. Just use it for showering and the toilet and you should be fine. Toilet is through that door; every room has its own. The Novem put all their money into fixing the French Quarter first, but eventually we’ll get things back to the way they should be out here. I’ll tell my brother you’re here.”

Crank was gone before I could turn around and say thanks, so I stood there in the middle of the old room, taking in the iron bed frame with no mattress, the faded oval rug on the floor, the marble fireplace, and the mantel, which held a bunch of candles, all in different stages of use.

An oil painting of a mother and two children hung over the bed, and on either side of the painting were gilded sconces that didn’t seem to be working.

There was a tall bureau in the corner, and a long matching dresser and mirror on the same wall as the fireplace. I walked over, drawn by a human skull snuggled in a bed of colorful Mardi Gras beads, a black top hat on its head. It looked — I gulped— real. An old cigar was wedged between its teeth. There were other things on the dresser too — a silver hand mirror and brush, a small jewelry box, and an empty wine bottle with a candle shoved into the neck.

The mirror above the dresser was hazy and cracked in the right-hand corner. The reflection that stared back at me looked quiet and lost. Couldn’t argue with that. Never in a million years had I thought I’d go beyond The Rim. Yeah, people did— Mardi Gras revelers, tourists, or scientists wanting to study stories of paranormal occurrences — but otherwise most people just didn’t come here.

I stepped to the window and gazed down at the jungle garden. A fat live oak occupied the left-hand corner, but it was buried under vines and long gray tendrils of moss. The lawn had been taken over by a carpet of dead leaves and small purple flowers. A statue of an angel with face and hands lifted to the sky, one wing broken, was partly covered in green lichen. A shiver crawled down my spine. Something was moving under the carpet of leaves.

“I got goodies!” a voice shouted from downstairs. Footsteps and voices echoed beyond the bedroom walls.

Crank’s head appeared in the open doorway. “Henri’s back.”

I set my backpack and the box on the floor near the dresser and then followed Crank down the stairs, but I stopped midway and stared at the group in the foyer, using the iron railing to steady myself.

The one I guessed was Henri held up a large bag of oranges. Crank and two other kids gathered around him. Henri must’ve been my age or a little older, because he had thin red stubble growing along his jaw and chin. His hair was dark red, uncut, and tied back behind his head. But it was his eyes that made me gasp. Like mine, they weren’t normal. The irises bordered on hazel, but they were too light, too yellow, to be normal. Weren’t they?

Someone stuck a knife into the bag and a few oranges fell out, bumping the floor. Laughter erupted. Crank and the two others dropped down to corral the loose fruit.

The smallest one hunched over, snatched an orange, and then swung her head around to meet my stare. She was small and slight, almost gaunt, with huge black eyes cradled by dark shadows. Her face was tiny, oval, and white, save for the faint pink of her lips. Her shaggy black bob curled under her chin. Resting against her chest, and held there by a small string around her neck, was a gold Mardi Gras mask.

The girl grinned slowly, revealing a small row of white teeth and two very distinct, very tiny. . fangs.

My pulse leaped. I jerked my gaze off the little girl.

Get a grip, Ari.

The group below me became quiet. All staring. At me. My heart pounded. Slowly my hand released the railing and I turned, going woodenly back up the stairs.

What the hell was I doing here?

New 2 was a weird-ass place. I knew that going in, but …

It wasn’t until I was inside the room, walking toward my things, that I heard them talking in whispers, followed a moment later by their footsteps on the stairs.

“Crank said you’re looking for information,” Henri said, leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest.

I picked up my backpack. “Not anymore.”

He entered the room, shaking his head. “What, you were expecting a five-star hotel? A bunch of teens with cell phones and iPods and the latest clothes from Abercrombie and Fitch?”

I bit my tongue rather than tell him that iPods were ancient history and Abercrombie & Fitch went out of business ages ago. I bent down for the box.

“What’s with the gun?”

Shit. I straightened, realizing the 9mm was sticking out of my waistband for the entire world to see. “It’s legal.” But I wasn’t.

“That’s not what I meant.”

I really didn’t want to get into a play-by-play of what I was doing here and why I was armed. Actually, it was becoming pretty obvious I’d made a huge mistake.

Henri blocked my path. Beyond his shoulder Crank and the others stood in the doorway, eyes wide and listening. I backed up and glared at Henri. “Do you mind?”

After a short, tense silence, he threw up his hands and moved aside. “Fine, be my guest. I don’t know how you’re going to get back to The Rim without a ride. Good luck finding a taxi or a Greyhound bus.” The others laughed.

I gave him a twisted smile. “Thanks.” And then stormed around him as the other three scattered from the exit. I was being dramatic and stupid, I knew, but the little girl’s teeth. . Henri’s eyes. . It hit too close to home, made me think of my own weirdness, and it made me want to run like I always did.

My boots slapped hard against each step as I jogged down the stairs, careful to miss the broken one, and wondered why the hell I’d thought this was a good idea. All I wanted was to find out about my mother, and by coming to New 2 and accessing the hospital records, maybe my father’s name. That was all, just a name. An actual family history would be great, but I was smart enough to know that was like reaching for the stars.

And I should have been smart enough to avoid New 2 and wait, like I’d promised, until Bruce and Casey could go with me. But then, I didn’t expect to get that freaky-ass letter from my mother or be attacked by a foreign, disappearing weirdo, either.

I was halfway across the foyer when the front door opened and another guy stepped through.

His head was down, a lock of raven hair shielding his face. One hand held the strap to an old backpack as the other one pushed the door closed behind him. Tall. Six-one, maybe. He had on ratty jeans, black boots, and an old Iron Maiden T-shirt faded to a soft gray. Around his left wrist was a dark leather bracelet with a silver inlaid band.

I froze. Like a total moron.

His head came up, and I was met with the most startling gray eyes I’d ever seen. In my peripheral vision, I saw his backpack slowly slide out of his hand and hit the floor.

My mouth went paper dry, too dry to swallow. Heat engulfed my face and the small of my back. His black eyebrows were drawn into a scowl that gave him a slightly sinister appearance, but they were in definite contrast to the soulful eyes framed with thick, inky black lashes. He had a nice face, one that I’d bet could go from poet to tough guy depending on his mood. His lips were naturally darker than most, and they tightened as his eyes continued to narrow. His jaw flexed. I stepped back, feeling odd, like he could see inside of me, like he knew what I was.

“They’re already looking for you, you know.”