One Immortal - Tia Louise Page 0,45
chest.
“I’m happy you feel that way. I’ve got my phone.”
Touching her cheek one last time, I give Patrick a nod before stepping into the crowd headed east on Royal Street. I’ll only be a few hours, and I’ll be back with her. He knows what to do in the meantime, and how to find me if anything goes wrong.
* * *
Melissa
Last night’s deluge followed by today’s overcast skies has driven most people indoors it seems. Fewer tourists crowd the sidewalks in the French Quarter this afternoon. My full night’s sleep has me restless and edgy, and while I’m thankful Elaine wants us to spend the day strolling in the colorful outdoor market, I can’t relax.
The possibility of Derek facing the one who made me sickens my stomach, and I hope with everything in my power Mariska can find a way for the second cure to work without us having an audience.
As we walk, we pause occasionally to look in shop windows at elaborate feather-trimmed Halloween masks, displays of alligators in witch hats, and voodoo gris-gris. Demeter’s criticism of Philome floats through my mind.
In the past I would be amused by the novelty of these things. I didn’t believe any of it, despite having a psychic best friend. Now I know all too well how real the paranormal is, and I want nothing to do with it. I want my old life back. I want to move home to Wilmington with Elaine, find a cottage by the beach, and continue working with my clients on their marketing needs.
“Try on this bracelet, Mel.” Elaine holds out a thick leather strap with a large brass cross in the center.
Before taking it, I give her a quick glance, wondering if she’s testing old myths. If so, I can tell her crosses don’t bother me. I wrap the chunky piece around my slim wrist and fasten the knotted enclosure.
“It looks great on you!” she says. “Get it!”
“No thanks.” Shaking my head, I take it off. I’m not up for mementos of this trip. I only want to be free.
She shrugs and catches Patrick’s hand as they continue walking ahead of me. They haven’t stopped touching each other since lunch. He steals samples of pralines and feeds them to her, and she laughs. She finds black masks and holds them over his eyes. Hazel-green smolders at her, and her entire body flushes. They’re like blissed-out honeymooners, and I’m the ominous black cloud stalking their bubble of sunshine.
I hate not knowing what Derek is doing. The idea he might take matters into his own hands has me an anxious wreck. I want to run to the hotel and hide and chew my nails in worry. It’s an incredibly unhealthy approach to the situation, but I feel so overwhelmed.
As we stroll down Decatur Street in the direction of Café du Monde, my eyes travel across Jackson Square, the courtyard surrounding St. Louis cathedral. Paintings of oversized tribal masks hang on the black wrought iron fence enclosing the space. The artists sit in small chairs under umbrellas with their cash boxes.
Mellow horses wait patiently in front of brightly colored Cinderella carriages, and farther down, a four-piece street band consisting of an upright bass, a banjo, a sousaphone, and a trumpet starts playing “When the Saints Go Marching In,” the official fight-song of the New Orleans Saints football team.
Sugar seems to float in the air, and every door we pass is filled with laughter and music. I’m an alien in this city where everyone is cheerful and singing, and my head aches from the pressure.
When I look up, we’ve reached the beige façade entrance to the French Market. Passing under the enormous arch, produce stands holding hot sauce and creole spices in vibrant Mardi Gras packaging meet us first. Patrons sit at bars and sample local beer or sweet tea and eat blackened Cajun burgers or catfish po-boys. As we continue walking, we reach the rows of tables holding textiles.
Merchants from the Caribbean hawk Rastafarian garb and wooden masks. Silver merchants have necklaces, rings, bracelets, and earrings. The prices are astonishingly low, and while the foot traffic on the streets is thin, every table in the market has a crowd. It’s a bustling, noisy mass of shopping and shouting.
I don’t know how much time has passed. I can’t get my mind to settle on anything, and even with all the lively sights and sounds, the minutes seem to pass with leaden feet. All I can think about is Derek.
Between stealing