The Veil
Page 83
“Where are we going?”
“Garden District. That’s the last point of contact for the wraiths. I want to see if we can find them again.”
I nodded, rolled the window down, letting in the breeze. Liam rounded through the Quarter to get back to Canal, and I watched the sun set behind burned-out buildings and palm trees. There were no people in sight.
Starving, I pulled out my granola bar, peeled down the wrapper. I broke off a chunk, held it out to Liam. “You want some?”
He glanced down at it, then me. “You sure?”
“Positive. But don’t get too excited.”
He accepted the chunk, popped it into his mouth, grimaced. “Damn. This is not good,” he said over a mouthful of stale crumbs.
“No, it isn’t,” I said, chewing my half. “Probably old,” I added, but I didn’t dare check the expiration date. We were a little looser with expiration and “best by” dates these days. Most of the time, that was fine. Other times, you ate a granola bar that tasted like glued-together dust.
“Speaking of not good, I think your seat’s just about out of cushion.” I squirmed, trying to find a comfortable position. It was like sitting on a concrete block covered in marbles.
The truck backfired, bouncing us in our seats and sending a cloud of blue-gray smoke behind us.
“And she’s easily offended,” I said, then patted the dashboard. “I don’t fault you. I fault your lackadaisical owner.”
Liam grunted, turned down St. Charles, slowing as he reached the Garden District proper, rolled down his window. The truck wasn’t exactly quiet, but without streetcars or planes or the sounds of urban people, we could still hear crickets chirping in the grass, taking advantage of the extended summer.
We passed the Landreaus’ house, the lights on and warmly glowing. Gunnar was probably having dinner with them, keeping an eye on Emme to make sure she was all right.
Liam drove slowly, eyes peeled for the wraiths, just in case they’d been nesting near the house. But there was no sign of them.
He turned southeast onto Fourth Street. It was one-way in the opposite direction, but that hardly mattered now.
The houses ranged in size, but most had been well cared for before the war, with wrought-iron or brick or vine-covered fences to separate their kingdoms from their neighbors’. Almost all the houses that remained were dark, the surviving trees and grass overgrown, the batteries in the cars long since dead. The asphalt was cracked, as were the sidewalks that alternated between concrete and brick. It had been a long time since the neighborhood got TLC.
“I used to walk the houses,” he said.
I glanced at him. His gaze was on a small carriage house lined against the sidewalk, its door yawning open. “Walk them?”
“The empty ones. I’d let myself in—”
“As you like to do.”
He snorted. “The store’s door was unlocked. As for the houses, I never went through a locked door. Didn’t want anyone looting behind me. But if I had time to kill, and a door was unlocked, I’d walk through. Take a look. See how they lived. What their lives were like.”
That was a side of Liam Quinn I wouldn’t have expected to see. “And what were they like?”
He frowned, considered. “Some of the houses were completely empty. They’d taken everything they could. In others, it was like, I don’t know, spying on someone’s life. There were still clothes in the closets. Magazines on the coffee table. Toys in the kids’ rooms. The beds were made up. Lot more mildew, sometimes mold, because of the humidity, but otherwise—they were just houses. I wondered where the people went.”
“Garden District. That’s the last point of contact for the wraiths. I want to see if we can find them again.”
I nodded, rolled the window down, letting in the breeze. Liam rounded through the Quarter to get back to Canal, and I watched the sun set behind burned-out buildings and palm trees. There were no people in sight.
Starving, I pulled out my granola bar, peeled down the wrapper. I broke off a chunk, held it out to Liam. “You want some?”
He glanced down at it, then me. “You sure?”
“Positive. But don’t get too excited.”
He accepted the chunk, popped it into his mouth, grimaced. “Damn. This is not good,” he said over a mouthful of stale crumbs.
“No, it isn’t,” I said, chewing my half. “Probably old,” I added, but I didn’t dare check the expiration date. We were a little looser with expiration and “best by” dates these days. Most of the time, that was fine. Other times, you ate a granola bar that tasted like glued-together dust.
“Speaking of not good, I think your seat’s just about out of cushion.” I squirmed, trying to find a comfortable position. It was like sitting on a concrete block covered in marbles.
The truck backfired, bouncing us in our seats and sending a cloud of blue-gray smoke behind us.
“And she’s easily offended,” I said, then patted the dashboard. “I don’t fault you. I fault your lackadaisical owner.”
Liam grunted, turned down St. Charles, slowing as he reached the Garden District proper, rolled down his window. The truck wasn’t exactly quiet, but without streetcars or planes or the sounds of urban people, we could still hear crickets chirping in the grass, taking advantage of the extended summer.
We passed the Landreaus’ house, the lights on and warmly glowing. Gunnar was probably having dinner with them, keeping an eye on Emme to make sure she was all right.
Liam drove slowly, eyes peeled for the wraiths, just in case they’d been nesting near the house. But there was no sign of them.
He turned southeast onto Fourth Street. It was one-way in the opposite direction, but that hardly mattered now.
The houses ranged in size, but most had been well cared for before the war, with wrought-iron or brick or vine-covered fences to separate their kingdoms from their neighbors’. Almost all the houses that remained were dark, the surviving trees and grass overgrown, the batteries in the cars long since dead. The asphalt was cracked, as were the sidewalks that alternated between concrete and brick. It had been a long time since the neighborhood got TLC.
“I used to walk the houses,” he said.
I glanced at him. His gaze was on a small carriage house lined against the sidewalk, its door yawning open. “Walk them?”
“The empty ones. I’d let myself in—”
“As you like to do.”
He snorted. “The store’s door was unlocked. As for the houses, I never went through a locked door. Didn’t want anyone looting behind me. But if I had time to kill, and a door was unlocked, I’d walk through. Take a look. See how they lived. What their lives were like.”
That was a side of Liam Quinn I wouldn’t have expected to see. “And what were they like?”
He frowned, considered. “Some of the houses were completely empty. They’d taken everything they could. In others, it was like, I don’t know, spying on someone’s life. There were still clothes in the closets. Magazines on the coffee table. Toys in the kids’ rooms. The beds were made up. Lot more mildew, sometimes mold, because of the humidity, but otherwise—they were just houses. I wondered where the people went.”
