“Alright. I’ll let you talk to who you need to talk to, but I will be there the entire time.” When Archer went to object, she raised a hand. “As if I’m going to let you and your band of merry men have free reign in my kingdom when you’ve got Hell’s most wanted nipping at your heels? Shit, Archer. I’m gonna stick to you like fucking glue, you hear me? You even blink and I’m gonna fuckin’ know about it.”
“Agreed,” Archer said, standing and extending his hand to Mex, but she only laughed.
“If you think I’m entering into one of your shady crossroads deals then you’re a whole lot dumber than you look,mon ami. I’ll let you find your relic, but I’ll be there the entire time. You either take what I’m offering or you get your Yankee ass back up north where you belong. You feel me?” When no one objected, she went on. “Now, who is this mysterious person you’re so desperate to talk to?”
“His name is Jean-François Baptiste,” Archer stated plainly. “And I believe he’s right down the road, a long term resident of St. Louis Cemetery number one.”
Mex paused, staring at Archer as she processed the fact that he was asking to speak to a dead man, before she burst out laughing.
“Oh, Archer. You do keep things interesting.” Standing, Mex straightened her blouse, ran her fingers through her curls, and then said, “Well, as we say in the Quarter,Laissez les bons temps rouler.”
Chapter forty-five
Delilah
The cemetery really was just down the road.
Mex led us through the streets of the French Quarter, slowly filling with gawking tourists and tired workers, chugging down coffee as they headed to their jobs. Just as before, no one seemed to pay our rag tag group any mind, going about their business with their heads down, just trying to live their lives.
As we picked our way along the narrow road, Mex remained focused, her eyes constantly moving from side to side, then up to the iron balconies above us, as if she expected an enemy to drop out of the sky and had to be on constant alert.
It wasn’t as though Archer was any less vigilant. The second we’d stepped out ofHullabaloohe’d directed Mal to take flight, wanting to have a set of eyes on the skyhimself. Mal had shifted immediately and now soared above us, his sleek black wings nearly silent as he patrolled the skies overhead.
I felt safer just knowing he was up there. Pandora did, too, if the soft snoring coming from inside her pouch was any indication.
By the time we reached the gates of the cemetery, what had started out as a bright October morning was quickly fading to a gray, dreary afternoon. Thick, fat clouds hung low in the sky, the threat of rain obvious. We stood across from the gate, in a patch of dry, dead grass and several leafless trees, staring as a stray cat ambled past, glaring at us accusingly before carrying on around the corner, tail held high. Over head, Mal had taken up a position in one of the empty trees, his keen raven eyes watching us closely.
I stood there, my nose scrunched in impatience as my hand toyed with the pendant where it lay hidden beneath my dress. The relic had started acting strange the moment we’d set foot in the city, the smoky stone practicality buzzing against my body. At first I’d thought I was imaging it, and I’d been too overwhelmed by all the other feelings and sensations that had been bouncing around inside me, to really pay it any attention. But now that we stood here, staring at what was apparently the final resting place of a man who had once been in possession of a piece of theFallen Key, it was very clear that the piece that I currently wore around my neck was restless. I remembered the way I had felt when I’d first encountered it in Boston, the overwhelming urge to get to it, to gather it in my hands and hold it close. I had been ready to kill, the desire to lash out at anyone who I thought might try and take it from me had been frightening in its intensity. The violent, all-consuming need to keep it only for myself hadn’t abated until I’d actually laid hands on the diamond, the contact immediately stemming those urges.
Standing at the gates of the cemetery, I couldn’t help but wonder if the second piece would have the same effect on me.
Or if it would be worse?
I guessed there was only one way to find out.
“Uh, what are we waiting for?” I finally asked, my anxiety rising the longer we stood still. My feet itched to move, to do something, anything that would take my mind off the swirling vortex of chaos that seemed to have taken up permanent residence within me.
“We are waiting,cher, to pay our respects.” Mex looked at me, her dark eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You don’t walk into a cemetery in this town without getting permission. That’s bad juju, girl. These spirits don’t play.”
I stared across the street, taking in the plain, weathered brick walls that circled the entire block and the cluttered grounds ensconced within them. The tops of the crypts and vaults stood out against the dark gray sky, a stone field of narrow spires and squat crosses, all covered in a layer of moss and the heavy hand of time. Even from across the street, I could feel the weight of the lives contained within it, as though they were all still there, present and aware. It was so different from the cemetery at Trinity Church in New York. There, you could feel the history, the years and experiences, but not thesouls. Here, at this wall of brick and iron, it was as though the veil between worlds had truly thinned, letting the dead stare back at us, waiting for us to join them.
It was as beautiful as it was creepy.
“So, is this an offering kind of thing?” I asked, stroking my hand over Pandora’s pouch, knowing it was more for my sake than hers. “Or are we talking about a true blue sacrifice?”
I didn’t especially love wet work, but if you wanted a spell to be powerful, blood magic was often the only way.
“Oh!” Vine chimed in brightly. “If we’re doing sacrifices, I volunteer Corson.”
“Get fucked,” Corson grunted, not even bothering to look at Vine.
“Nothing so primitive,” Mex said, squatting down and running her hands along the ground, digging under the leaf litter until she found what she was looking for. Holding out her hand to me, I stared down at a small brown acorn, obviously dropped by one of the huge live oaks whose empty branches stretched above us. “When bargaining with the dead, the best currency is life. You’ll need to take this to the gates and offer it up.”
“Me?” I asked, shocked and more than a little hopeful.
“Yes, you,baby,” she said, mockingly. “What part oflifedidn’t you understand. They don’t typically open the gates for us demons. And I don’t exactly see any other humans with beating hearts around here, do you?”
“But, strictly speaking, she’s not really just a human,” Vine pointed out unhelpfully. “She’s a witch.”
