A Beautiful Evil (3 page)

It wasn’t that at all.

Outward appearances no longer mattered so much. They had mattered a great deal beyond The Rim, where anything unusual set you apart, but here in New 2, the shocking thing was on the inside, not the outside. And apparently word spread fast.

I guess after the battle with Athena, there was no hiding what I was.

I’d once told Violet to never change.

You shouldn’t either, you know
, she’d told me in that strange, insightful way of hers.

And yet I had this need, this terrible, burning need to be accepted, to be seen as normal. My old social services counselor would say it was because of my abandonment, my childhood, and knocking around from one home to another. I knew that I was broken and missing some parts. I knew I had issues. I even knew all the proper things I was supposed to do to make a Better Me, but knowing and getting that
something
inside you to work right again? Yeah. Hadn’t figured that one out yet.

The streetcar slowed. I hurried to pull on my hoodie; the sweat from my workout had dried cold on my skin.

The sun was just beginning its descent below the horizon, washing the street in hazy gold. I stepped off the car and crossed St. Charles, noticing that a few more houses along the street were occupied, no doubt restored by the Novem and rented out to Mardi Gras revelers who still came to New 2 in droves.

It was the season, after all.

But otherwise, the Novem had yet to lay claim to the GD. Eventually they’d work their way in and start restoring houses, taking over, and leaving the orphans and independent
doué
(us non-Novem folks with abilities) homeless.

My boots crunched over the ruined sidewalk as I made my way down Washington Avenue. Leaving St. Charles Avenue and entering any of the side streets was like stepping into another world, a shadowy, wild, forgotten place where tall houses stood and trees and vines blocked out the sun.

Gardens were overgrown, tangles of Spanish moss and vines thrived and grew unchecked, mansions were abandoned and rotting but still elegant and dominating. . . . It was, to me, the most beautiful place on earth.

Old oaks leaned over both sides of the street, their twisted limbs reaching and tangling and creating a dark, eerie tunnel. Random shafts of golden haze pierced through the thick canopy, turning Washington Avenue into a forest of gossamer saplings.

I walked a meandering path down the middle of the street, in and out of light and shadow, until I closed in on my destination: Lafayette Cemetery.

Lafayette
Swamp
Cemetery.

City of the Dead.

Land of the Creepy Crawlies.

T
HE MUSTY TANG OF DEAD LEAVES AND WET GROUND BECAME
so strong I could taste the damp, decaying atmosphere in the back of my throat.

The massive arched gate loomed in front of me. It would’ve read
LAFAYETTE CEMETERY NO. 1,
if it hadn’t been covered in vines. One side of the gate hung open in invitation. I stopped in the street. I hadn’t been here since Violet had disappeared.

For a long time I stared at the open gate, at the tombs beyond and the crumbled wall that used to surround the cemetery. Some time after the hurricanes—the Twin Sisters, people around here called them—a tall iron fence had been erected around the property holding in the rubble and what remained of the original cemetery wall.

I wasn’t sure if it was meant to keep people out or to keep other things in.

I bit the inside of my cheek, working up the nerve to go inside and, at the same time, trying to put a lid on the anxiety this place gave me. There were a lot of fresh memories here. Bad ones. I squared my shoulders anyway and went through the gate, ducking beneath the vines.

The once-paved avenue that stretched out in front of me was littered with cracked concrete, mossy bones, and years of debris and leaves. It was flanked by aboveground tombs and vaults, some taller than me by several feet and still intact. Others were nothing but rubble.

This was the place where I’d faced Athena, where I’d inhaled the ground-up toe bone of Alice Cromley, the infamous Creole clairvoyant. Her remains had shown me the truth of my curse and the horror my ancestor, Medusa, had gone through.

I passed the spot where Daniel, Josephine Arnaud’s assistant, had been killed in the battle with Athena. A slash of cloth waved from a small branch, snagged there during the fight, probably. Signs of the battle were everywhere in the disturbed leaves, the dried blood splattered on marble. . . .

My gaze fixed on the low, twisted tree limb where Athena had once sat and the tomb where she’d delivered a heart-stopping show with me as the star. I stopped as the mental image of Athena flashed before my eyes, the demented sociopathic goddess of war, sitting on the peak of that cracked marble tomb, her feet dangling over the edge.

“How about we just show them instead? A little taste . . . a vision . . . just enough to show
you
, dear Ari, that you don’t belong . . .”

Brutality and arrogance shone in her eyes as greenish bolts of power shot from her hands to lift me off the damp ground. I hovered as though floating in water, my hair coming loose and spreading out in white waves.

And then the pain. My scalp burning. My heart hammering out of control. Fear, primal and raw, as things began moving and splitting my scalp, rising up in writhing, milky, serpentlike shadows—a sickening, terrifying vision of what was to come.

My friends had gaped at me in horror. It was exactly what Athena had wanted. My place was with her, she’d said. And Sebastian could never,
ever
be interested in someone like me. My eyelids slid closed as I mentally dulled the sharp truth of that memory.

Then I resumed my walk, letting thoughts of Sebastian finally filter in as I searched the cemetery. The short time we’d spent together had been spontaneous and crazy, a middle finger to a messed-up world, a messed-up life. Escapism at its finest.

I was well aware of why, when I’d woken in Sebastian’s arms and our gazes locked, I’d taken a chance and let things happen.

It was called loneliness. Maybe a little desperation, too. And it felt right. Normal.

I was in a city alone, freaked out by what I’d learned about my mother and even more freaked out about the hunter I’d killed. And there was Sebastian. He saw me.
Me
. Being the empath that he was, I suppose he’d sensed a lot of things that day. Both different. Both loners. And maybe that had allowed him to see past all the barriers too, and just go with the moment.

I sighed. I had no idea how he felt now or where we stood. Athena had showed him and the others what I’d become, and he’d stepped back, pale with shock. Stupid me for being drawn to the possibility of an “us” like a moth to a flame. He’d fled, and even though he’d come back with reinforcements, it didn’t mean he was still interested. How could he be when he saw what I was? How could anyone be okay with that?

There was only one person who hadn’t run away that day in the cemetery. Violet.

My throat thickened and my eyes stung. I hunched my shoulders and picked up my pace.

That tiny, pale, Gothic child with her black bob, dark eyes, pert nose, and eerie fangs had pushed her Mardi Gras mask onto the top of her head and stared at me in wonder.

Fucking
wonder
.

I sniffed back angry tears, swiping my sleeve across my nose.

In the end, they’d returned—Dub, Crank, Henri, and Sebastian. They’d accepted me despite knowing what lurked, even now, inside me. But there had been nothing in the world like Violet’s complete and utter acceptance.

Violet had launched her little body at Athena and stabbed the goddess of war in the heart. And then they’d vanished, Violet still clinging to Athena.

That strange little girl had tried to protect me, and I’d do anything in my power to get her back.

Anything
.

Which brought me back to the task at hand. I climbed over a large debris pile of marble, bones, funerary boxes, and urns, paying close attention to where my boots landed. At the top I balanced and then scanned the far end of the cemetery.

Cypress tress grew at the south end where the land had sunk, allowing stagnant water to form a small brackish swamp right in the middle of the GD, and making it so humid that a damp film covered everything.

Tombs poked through the shallow black water along with the short knobby knees of the cypress trees, and Spanish moss hung in long lacy tendrils from the branches above.

A flash of white caught my attention. But it was just a crane, shaking its feathers.

I slid down the pile and approached the edge of the swamp. With each step my boots sank deeper into the soft earth.

Somewhere in that dark, shaded swamp was Violet’s white alligator, I hoped. The cemetery had been the last place any of us had seen him.

I called his name even though I felt like an idiot. Startled, the crane took flight, things moved and shuffled in the branches, and the water rippled.

I waited. And then . . . nothing.

I needed to find Pascal, to do something for Violet until I found the means to save her. And I just prayed he hadn’t waddled off to parts unknown.

The last bit of daylight was fading fast, so I made my way down the row of tombs and then up the east side, back toward the gate. Disappointment sat heavy on my shoulders as I crossed the dark street and made for the rotting mansion I now called home.

A
S
I
WALKED THE FOUR BLOCKS DOWN
C
OLISEUM
S
TREET TO
First Street, the last bit of light gave way to darkness. No streetlamps. No traffic. Only the occupied mansions were illuminated, lit from behind grimy windowpanes. It made them seem warm and alive, watching within a sea of blackness. Walking in the GD at night wasn’t for the fainthearted.

My gaze went up as it always did when I looked at my new home. The two-story Italianate mansion dominated the corner with its double porches wrapped in iron railings. The mauve paint was faded and chipped. The tall black shutters still framed the windows, though some hung lopsided, barely clinging on.

A content feeling came over me as I stepped onto the sidewalk.

The lawn was overgrown, the fence around the house barely visible beneath mounds of wild vines, but the place had character—the neglected, soulful, earthy kind. This was my home along with Crank, Henri, Dub, Violet, and Sebastian. Some would call us squatters, misfits, the fringe of Novem society. It was all true.

The scent of hot spices leaked from the house. I opened the front door and entered the large foyer with its wide, sweeping staircase and the massive iron chandelier hanging above. The Crypt, the Gothic-looking dining room, was to my right and the living room to my left.

The wood in the house was rotting in the damp, humid climate. The expensive wallpaper had all but peeled away. The plasterwork was cracked and tiny bits fell randomly or whenever one of us slammed a door. 1331 First Street reminded me of a once-wealthy southern belle who was now flat broke and refusing to admit it.

My stomach growled. Voices drifted from the living room, so I followed the sound.

Dub was on the floor picking through a pile of stolen grave goods dumped onto the coffee table. Crank sat in one of the chairs across from the couch in her usual cabbie hat, braids, and grease-stained overalls.

Sebastian’s forearms rested on his knees as he leaned forward and spoke to Dub from the love seat, but at my entry, he went silent and lifted his head. The gray-eyed stare shot right to my stomach and made it weightless. Sebastian’s eyes were the color of smoke and silver. His pale skin, raven hair, and naturally dark red lips, paired with a rebel attitude and a poet’s soul, pulled me in like a dark, magnetic force.

Crank had told me that Sebastian could feel what others felt. And when he looked at me, it sure as hell felt like he could see past all the bullshit and right into the very heart of who I was. All my secrets, all my fears, hopes, dreams, beliefs—all those things I’d never allow others to know.

Footsteps echoed over the hardwood floor behind me. I broke eye contact with Sebastian as Henri angled by with a large stainless steel pot. I followed him to the coffee table, where he set the pot next to Dub’s loot. A stack of plastic bowls hung from his crooked finger, and there were silver spoons in his grip.

“How was Presby?” Crank asked.

I let my bag slide to the floor and plopped down on one end of the couch as Henri took a seat on the other end. “Tiring.”

Crank snorted. “And you were trying to talk us into going. Crazy talk, Ari. Crazy talk.”

Well, I guessed I couldn’t really argue the point anymore. Presby was stuffy, arrogant, and totally out of my league, so I could just imagine the experience Crank and Dub would have there. They might not be well educated, but I’d like to see a twelve-year-old Novem kid fix a motor, work for a living, and feed themselves on ingenuity alone.

My stomach growled again.

“Here.” Henri shoved a bowl full of red beans and rice my way.
“Bon appétit.”

“
Merci
,” I said, using one of a few French words I knew. The food was hot in temperature and in taste, and extremely good. “More stuff for Spits?” I asked Dub after several bites, gesturing to the pile of grave goods on the table.

“Yeah.” He scratched beneath his short blond Afro and a frown appeared, creasing the light brown skin of his forehead. “Not the best take ever. Guess he can melt down some of these gold teeth. Few pieces of jewelry . . . I’ll need to go out again first thing tomorrow.”

Spits was a guy in the Quarter who bought the things Dub scavenged in the cemeteries. He cleaned the sellable items and then resold them to tourists in his antique shop, and the tourists didn’t have a clue they were buying and wearing stuff taken off dead people.

“Why the rush?” I asked.

He raised his grass-green eyes. “Mardi Gras. The tourists are here in droves. Spits is buying. They spend money, so . . .” He pulled something from his pocket and tossed it over the table.