Darkness Becomes Her

Page 12

He had an infectious white smile, which I returned as I climbed into the back of the creaking carriage. I hadn’t imagined my foray into New 2 would involve a tourist ride through the French Quarter, but I was glad for the distraction . . . and the company. “Jackson Square,” Sebastian told the driver as he sat down beside me.
“You hear that, Miss Praline? Jackson Square.” The driver flicked the reins over her large rump, and Miss Praline lengthened her stride.
We wouldn’t get there in record time, but I supposed that was the point; go slow and savor the sights and sounds of the French Quarter. Sebastian’s shoulder leaned into mine, so I took his cue and relaxed against him. Weird, but I liked it.
I needed a break like this, needed to forget all the dark things for a little while, so I listened to the driver point out places of interest and followed Sebastian’s finger whenever he showed me something he thought I’d like.
“And this,” the driver said as we rode slowly past a three-story house on the corner with double porches and wrought-iron railings, “was said to be the home of Alice Cromley.”
The name, the same name Jean Solomon had said, prickled my skin. I exchanged a quick glance with Sebastian, and then bent forward to ask the driver, “Who was Alice Cromley?”
The driver angled in his red padded seat, eyes alight and eager to tell a story. “Who was Alice Cromley? Now ain’t that a question? Alice Cromley was a quadroon, the greatest Creole beauty the Vieux Carré had ever seen. Why, she had a bevy of suitors, but she knew about them too, ya know? Knew things a mistress ought not know, if ya get my meanin’.” He chuckled. “You see, Alice Cromley was what they call clairvoyant. Made a fortune telling people what they wanted to know. And she was never wrong unless she meant to be. One day, she just up and vanished. Just like that. Couple weeks later, they found two bodies floatin’ in the Mississippi. Hard to identify ’cause, well, they’d been there for a while. But some say one of the poor departed souls was wearing Alice’s finest gown.” He laughed and clucked to the slow-moving mule. “One of her lovers made her a tomb in a cemetery round here. Nobody knows which one. It’s said he placed both bodies inside, figuring one of them had to be his beloved Alice.” The man shrugged. “Guess he figured one out of two ain’t bad.”
And her bones, according to Jean Solomon, could tell me the past. Yeah. Fat chance of that.
The carriage rolled by St. Louis Cathedral and into Jackson Square.
I forgot about Alice Cromley for the moment to admire the tall spire of the cathedral as Miss Praline pulled us down the length of the Pontalba Apartments. They were the oldest apartments in the United States, with long, cast-iron balconies, red brick, and ground-floor stores. The statue of Andrew Jackson atop his horse stood in the center of the square. There was energy here, energy that seeped into my soul and gave me a much-needed boost. Colorful. Vibrant. Beautiful. There were fortune-tellers, jewelry makers, artisans, musicians . . . it was an eclectic mix of everything.
Then it was toward the Riverwalk and Decatur Street, where the carriages parked.
After tipping the driver, Sebastian helped me down from the carriage and kept hold of my hand as we headed across the street to Café Du Monde. I didn’t pull my hand away; it felt good. And if he wasn’t letting go, neither was I.
The smell of freshly baked bread and coffee made my stomach grumble again as we found a seat outside under the green-and-white-striped awning.
Sebastian ordered a plate of beignets and two coffees. I was too busy people watching and admiring all the details of the square, surprised by how much green there was.
“I bet your mom brought you here.” Sebastian broke through my sightseeing.
“Why do you say that?”
He shrugged, a small smile playing at the corners of his dark lips. “If she lived in New Orleans, she would’ve come here. It’s kind of a fact of life.”
That was probably true. I wasn’t even a local, and I knew that everyone went to Café Du Monde. “You’re right,” I responded softly, looking around at the café. “She probably did bring me here.” If only I could remember. What would it have been like? Coming here with my mom, sitting at one of these tables …
“So, you want to find Alice Cromley?” Sebastian asked, changing the subject. He tried to hide his amusement, but lost that battle pretty quick.
“Yeah. No, thank you. I think I’d rather take my chances with your grandmother than rob some woman’s grave and grind up her bones.” A small shudder went through me as the waiter returned with our order.
“Scared?” He poured cream into his coffee. “You haven’t lived until you go grave robbing.”
A laugh spurted through my lips right before they touched the rim of my coffee cup. “Whatever you say.” The hot liquid was just the thing on a cool January day in the French Quarter. After a few sips, I set the cup down and picked up a beignet. It steamed as I pulled it apart.
“Suit yourself,” Sebastian went on. “Dub is one of the best robbers around. You should see some of the things he’s found.”
“Dub. Dub robs graves. Are you shitting me?” The beignet melted in my mouth. I groaned—damn, they tasted good.
“A lot of kids do it. We all have to make money somehow. Crank runs the mail. I work for the Novem. Henri clears buildings of rats and snakes. And Dub robs tombs and sells stuff to tourists and antique shops.”
“That’s pretty sick.”
His eyebrow lifted in agreement. “Well, we don’t exactly spend our time thinking about sports, hormones, or partying, either.” He made the same half bow I had earlier. “Behold, a product of New 2.” He laughed. The sound was deep and infectious, and there were those incredible dimples again. …
“So tell me about the nine, the Novem.” I took another bite, wanting to change the subject from corpses and graveyards, and definitely from my growing infatuation with my tour guide. “Why do they still act so reclusive?”
“Not reclusive. They just don’t care about the outside world like you all do.”
“What do they care about, then?”
“Preserving the city”—he spoke between bites and chewing— “the history of our people and those like us, offering refuge to like-minded individuals, a place where you’re not judged or turned into a lab experiment.”
“Lab experiment?”
He propped both elbows on the table. “New 2 is home to a lot of what the Novem call ‘gifted’ people. What do you think would happen if Violet or Dub—or I—lived beyond The Rim?”
Easy. “If they couldn’t hide their abilities, life wouldn’t be so kind,” I answered in a quiet voice, thinking of my own experiences.
“Exactly. New 2 is a place where you don’t have to hide, but if you want to, that’s okay too. No one is going to judge you because you’re different. That’s what the Novem wanted all along.”
My heart skipped a beat. “Because they’re different too.” They weren’t just old families with old money, they were different. Doué, as Dub called them. Sebastian nodded. “And the rest of your family, the Arnauds, are like you? Able to hypnotize people?”
His chewing slowed as he thought over his answer. “They’re able to do that, yes.”
I wanted to believe him, to believe that the Novem wasn’t behind the man who’d attacked me in Covington, that they were on my side and were actually a decent bunch of people. But I’d learned over the years that it was better to suspect the worst. That was a hell of a lot better than trusting someone, giving them the benefit of the doubt, and then having them stab you in the heart.
We sipped our coffee and finished the plate of beignets. Sebastian paid the bill. “So you think you’re ready to see Josephine?”
I stood and tossed my backpack over one shoulder. “I guess now is as good a time as any.”
Eight
SEBASIAN FILLED ME IN AS WE WALKED ACROSS THE SQUARE. Flanking each side of St. Louis Cathedral were two enormous historic buildings. The Presbytère, on the right, had been converted into the Novem’s swanky private school/college, which Sebastian was supposed to attend but ditched on a regular basis. And the building on the left was the Cabildo, which remained a museum as it had since pre–New 2 days, but the second and third floors had been taken over by the Novem as their official place of business. This was also where they held the Council of Nine meetings, attended only by the head of each family.
And each family had apartments and private offices in the two Pontalba apartment buildings that ran along both sides of the Square.
Apparently, Jackson Square was Novem central.
With every step across the square and toward the building, my muscles became more tense. I craned my neck to stare again at the tall spire of St. Louis Cathedral. “So how far back does your family go exactly?”
“The first Arnaud came to New Orleans in 1777. He was the third son of a noble family from the Narbonne area in France.”
A trio of musicians played near the benches in front of the cathedral. The wind picked up, and low clouds blocked the sun. The air turned damp and cold with the threat of rain. A few drops started to fall just as we ducked under one of the archways of the Cabildo building.
A hollow, hushed atmosphere greeted us on the inside. There were a few permanent exhibits, but I didn’t exactly have time to look around as Sebastian ushered me to a flight of stairs.
The second-floor landing had been retrofitted to resemble a fancy office building, complete with a central receptionist desk. Sebastian let go of my hand as the guy behind the desk glanced up, recognized him, and gave a faint nod before returning to his work.
Our footsteps echoed loudly over the polished wood floors as we made our way down the long gallery fronting the building. The stormy light from outside poured through the arched windows, illuminating the space in an eerie glow. Halfway down, a hallway intersected with the gallery.