had kept the narrow streets that had originally been designed for horse and carriage instead of cars. Or how gas lanterns still flickered in golden-orange rebellion against the harsher brightness of electric lighting. Or how the eighteenth- and nineteenth-century architecture lining much of the famed streets prioritized beauty and whimsy over the modern tendency to stuff as many people as possible inside a building.
It could also be the ghosts. Aside from former battlefields, America tended not to have an abundance of ghosts concentrated in the same spot. New Orleans, however, was filled with them, from residual ghosts that were mere snapshots of energy repeating the same moment to sentient ghosts like the newly deceased guy who kept chasing our car because he thought it was the Uber he’d ordered.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he was dead. He’d figure it out soon enough. Hopefully, he would move on to the next phase of his journey once he did. Sentient ghosts usually remained on this side of the veil for only a short amount of time before they crossed over, though some lingered for decades, and every so often, some never crossed over.
New Orleans had one of the highest concentrations of sentient ghosts I’d ever seen. They came from all around America and even the world, drawn by the otherworldly power of the city’s most famous resident, Marie Laveau.
“How long have you known Marie?” Ian asked Ashael.
Ian had come even though he wasn’t able to attend our “audience” since Ashael had only a plus-one invitation, not a plus-two. However, having Ian on the outside came with its own advantages. Marie guaranteed safe passage to and from any meeting with her, but in case this was the one instance where she revoked that, Ian was our backup. Marie didn’t know Ian could teleport, so he could warn Ashael and me of danger faster than she could sic one of her infamous Remnants on him.
“Since she was human,” Ashael replied, his mouth curling at my surprised expression. “Yes, I knew Marie was special even then. She channeled ancient mambo magic like no mortal had done in centuries. When someone pulls that hard on the veil, our bloodline allows me to feel it. You would have felt it, too, if you hadn’t been suppressing that part of yourself.”
Interesting. “You don’t think Marie could be another one of our father’s secret offspring, do you?”
“Blazes, no,” Ashael said with a chuckle. “I’ve seen the source of her magic. It might be netherworld adjacent, but it’s definitely not netherworld descendant.”
“If not a demon deal, what did you do for her that she owed you this ‘marker’?” Ian asked in a casual tone.
I’d wondered the same. When I saw the look Ashael leveled at Ian via the rearview mirror, I knew we weren’t getting an answer.
“That’s between me and Marie,” Ashael said with finality.
I was surprised when Ashael drove out of the French Quarter and toward the Garden District. Ian must have been, too, because his brow arched as if to say, know what he’s up to?
I shook my head. Marie’s formal audiences were in St. Louis Cemetery Number One, in the underground sanctuary beneath her crypt, and we were going in the opposite direction of that.
“Sightseeing, are we?” Ian asked in a casual tone.
Ashael grunted. “No, but I’d kill for a beignet and a café au lait right now. Pity that Café Du Monde is closed.”
At this hour, it certainly was. Midnight was the time Marie set for our meeting, proving she still had a sense of the dramatic.
After several minutes, Ashael pulled onto Prytania Street. We passed row after row of beautiful houses before he pulled over and parked in front of an ornate, wrought-iron fence that bordered the grounds of a stunning pale pink mansion.
“Here we are,” Ashael said.
Ian and I exchanged a look. I spoke first. “This isn’t Marie’s normal meeting place.”
“That dank hovel?” Ashael shuddered. “I wouldn’t have worn these shoes if splashing through secret cemetery tunnels was on my agenda for tonight.”
He had dressed up, wearing a black suit with a snowy white shirt open at the collar. Black diamond cuff links glittered at his wrists, and yes, his shoes were polished to a fine sheen.
Ian and I again wore borrowed clothes from Spade and Denise. Lucky for us, they had plenty to spare, though Denise wasn’t a fan of pantsuits the way I was. If she had to conceal multiple weapons the way I usually did, she’d become