CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The horse, a definitely unmagical brown gelding, plodded along toward the warehouse. The driver looked uncertain that he was in the right place, but Eir took no heed of his warnings that they were in a bad part of town, tipped him, and helped Gwen and Zoë out of the open carriage. Zoë didn’t like to be helped down, but she had to admit the dress somewhat demanded it.

The warehouse at the address was in an empty parking lot, well away from the Bourbon Street revelries. A broken streetlight guttered and popped as they walked under it.

Zoë looked at the empty parking lot and then back at Eir and Gwen. “I see no signs of civilization. Is this the right place?”

Eir looked at Gwen. “You said she would have powers. Why does she not know the answer to this?”

“Right, ‘just fucking Google it,’ I know,” Zoë said. She closed her eyes and reached into the life force of the city. The city herself was busy focusing on something else, and didn’t acknowledge her, which was fine with Zoë. She could sense a great deal of life coming from the warehouse—even if not from living humans, the life force was strong. Inside the warehouse were dozens of people, coterie included.

She opened her eyes. “Yeah, this is the place. And give me a break, Eir. I’m not really used to having this ability. It’s going to take some getting used to. Anyway, I don’t really trust the city right now.”

I heard that.

Then deny it, she retorted.

The city was silent, and the women walked to the door. Zoë leaned into Gwen and hissed, “Why did you tell her?”

“She knew you were a citytalker because she overheard us on the train,” Gwen said. “Remember, she was inebriated but still aware. She will keep your secret.”

“Why do people keep telling me that?” Zoë said to no one in particular.

The door was metal and dented, with gray paint chipping off to show dull steel underneath. Eir raised her hand to knock but the door opened. A zombie stood there, impeccable in black tie and tails, with a top hat. Eir nodded to him and handed over her invitation, careful not to touch him.

The zombie focused on Zoë. “Ms. Norris,” he drawled, his slow Louisiana accent made even slower by his natural zombie state. “He will be so tickled to see you. Welcome.” His cloudy eyes shifted to Gwen and Eir. “The goddesses Gwen and Eir, he bids you welcome as well.”

They followed him into a dirty office area with a gray metal desk that stood askew in the middle of the room. A torn piece of cardboard sat on the desk with the words COAT CHEK scrawled on it in red marker. Tiny gremlins were folding coats into impossibly small parcels and stacking them in the desk drawers. The far end of the room held a door with a torn poster depicting the top half of a toned man standing next to half a motorcycle.

“Are we ever going to know who ‘he’ is?” Zoë whispered to Gwen as she removed her wrap.

“I told you, no one says his name. It’s bad luck,” Gwen whispered back.

“Is it a good idea to come to a party of a bad-luck god?” Zoë handed her wrap over to the waiting gremlins working the coat check. She rubbed the scars on her arm self-consciously, but the gremlins distracted her by taking her wrap, spreading it out on the desk, and efficiently folding it by running along the seam to join the corners together. Then one of them handed her a piece of paper with the number 41 written on it. She smiled, tucked the paper into her purse, and tipped the gremlin a hell note.

“He’s not a bad-luck god,” Gwen hissed, “and I’ll advise you not to refer to him as such again. He is not evil, but people fear what he represents, and so they don’t say his name. At this point, it’s just common practice. If you must call him something, call him ‘The One Who Kills and Is Thanked for It.’ ”

“Can’t I call him ‘The’ for short?” Zoë paused, watching Gwen’s face for any sign of the goddess’s odd attempts at humor. When she didn’t smile, Zoë nodded and said, “OK, then, I’ll be using the name ‘he’ from now on. Thanks.”

Gwen smiled. Eir walked around Zoë pointedly and offered her arm to Gwen. Feeling distinctly like a third wheel, Zoë followed the two goddesses through the door with the torn poster, and they were transported.

“I’m living a goddamned Doctor Who episode,” Zoë muttered as she walked into the huge ballroom. Again, much larger than the warehouse had looked from the outside, it also wasn’t the tin box Zoë had expected.

She could have sworn that the warehouse hadn’t had windows. She could also have sworn that the evening had been cloudy, with no moon visible. Still, tall windows showed a crystal-clear, starry night. The windows were framed by rich brown curtains the color of old blood. What the color didn’t add to the look, the high-quality fabric made up for: it was a rich, textured fabric that nearly begged to be stroked. Huge chandeliers dotted with moving orbs of light gave the room an unearthly glow. The floor was made from wooden planks, cherry, it looked like, and had been polished to a glossy shine. Masked coterie swirled and danced around while suited coterie carried trays of wine, blood, and hors d’oeuvres. (Zoë made a mental note to avoid the trays, in spite of the fact that she hadn’t eaten all day.) Heavy cloth streamers draped the walls in a scalloped pattern, with glittering jewels hanging from their ends. At the far end of the ballroom, a tuxedoed zombie staffed a bar, her dead eyes focusing on each patron with determination. She looked to be serving all sorts of drinks, for both human and coterie, with a speed Zoë had never seen a zombie exhibit.

Their host sat at a table near the bar, his hands on his cane. He talked to his companion, a fat vampire with a sickeningly pale face and an eye patch. The host wore purple tails and a top hat, but this was clearly a worn and well-loved suit that looked to have hosted many balls with him. It was threadbare and one of the lapels had visible white stitches where it had been ripped at one point. His cane was made from black wood and had an ivory handle in the shape of a snake. When Zoë and her friends entered the room, he swiveled his head around immediately and focused on them. He stood and tipped his hat to the vampire and left him looking disgruntled. The host limped toward them, grinning widely.

“Ms. Norris, I didn’t think you would make it,” he said, opening his arms to them.

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Zoë said. “I’ve never been to a masque before, much less an exclusive one, much much less one with such a charming host.”

He cackled. “You flatter an old man, Ms. Norris. Now who have you brought with you? You I know.” He pointed the end of his stick at Gwen, who smiled and embraced him. Zoë frankly stared at the sudden show of physical affection. She hadn’t seen Gwen embrace even Eir.

“Does she do this with all old friends?” she whispered to Eir.

“She has never met him before this trip, not in person. They just work in the same circles. When that happens, you get to know people by reputation after a few hundred years.”

“It’s a god thing, right, I get it,” Zoë said.

The god released Gwen and looked at Eir. “Now, you I don’t know, but I think we have some things in common as well.”

Eir inclined her head, holding her spear upright in front of her. “Indeed. It is an honor to meet The One Who Kills and Is Thanked for It at last.”

“You as well, Lady Eir.” He bowed back at her. Zoë noticed they kept a polite distance. “Divine ladies, please enjoy yourself to the fullest extent that I can provide. And Ms. Norris, will you accompany me to the bar? I find myself thirsty.”

He held out his arm, and Zoë, after a brief, panicked look at Gwen, who nodded to her, took it. He led her along the perimeter of the room, with the masked dancers moving along the floor to the sound of slow jazz played by a zombie band at the other corner. He didn’t speak, and Zoë took stock of the whole room. The dancers were all coterie, mostly fae and vampire, but a demon with tentacles coming out of her face was dancing with a fire sprite in the corner, an interesting mirror dance that allowed them not to touch each other. Which, since she looked like a water demon, and he was clearly made of pure blue fire, was the wisest way to go.

A couple of zombies hung out near the band, drinking thick white drinks from martini glasses, tapping their feet slowly.

“Your invitation was a surprise, but I’m still not sure why you gave me such an honor, though,” she said to her host, who limped beside her, cane in one hand and her arm in the other.

Had he been limping on the other leg before? She couldn’t remember.

“You’re very interesting, Ms. Norris. You have a… dangerous glow about you.” He spoke as if he chose his words carefully.

Zoë looked down at herself self-consciously. “Dangerous glow? Like I’m pregnant with a killer robot?”

He stopped and looked her up and down, frowning. “No, I don’t think so. I mean you shine unlike most humans. Especially after your little adventure yesterday.”

Zoë snorted. “I’m sure I didn’t see you yesterday. I was dealing with some staffing problems.”

His fingers tightened on her arm, not quite painfully, but in an insistent and annoyed way. “I see a lot more than you think, Ms. Norris. Do not lie to me. I know what you are, and I know where you were and what you accomplished yesterday, not to mention what you accomplished today. Understand this is my adopted city, and I will protect her.”

Granny Good Mae had never taught her how to fight a god. Zoë forced herself to relax, and smiled. “I understand, sir, but please understand my position. I am only now learning about my heritage, but one thing I am learning is that secrecy and self-preservation seem to be the priority these days. My kind seems to have been hunted almost to extinction. I don’t advertise what I am any more than coterie tell humans what they are.” She looked around the room at the masked dancers. “Well, in most places besides New Orleans, anyway.”

Her joke amused the god, and he chuckled and released his iron grip. “I forget that sometimes the hunters are hunted. I have so long viewed your kind as the ones to fear, not the ones who hide. Times change. We all have changed.”

“We have?” Zoë asked. They reached the bar, and the old god stepped to the front of the line. Everyone in line stepped aside in deference.

The zombie bartender waited for him, her back straight and her suit immaculate, despite the fact that her right ear was only half-attached, which gave her an odd doglike look, drooping forward.

“Give me something from the old days, Greta,” he said. “I’m feeling nostalgic.” The zombie nodded once and turned to the bottles behind her. Instead of the usual liquor and beer and wine, the bar featured bottles of water—both salt and fresh—what looked like jars of salt, thick bottles of blood, clear plastic bladders of colored gases, and multiple bottles Zoë didn’t recognize.

Greta opened the refrigerator; it had a glass door showing brains and other organs, on obvious display for the patrons to choose. A blender was beside the fridge, and Zoë realized what the zombies had been drinking. Her stomach tried to clench, but she firmly told it that she’d been involved with this world for too long to get squicky about it now.

Greta pulled a small circular plastic container off the bottom shelf of the fridge and passed it to the host. It was a Petri dish with a web of bacteria inside. Zoë felt simultaneously more curious about who this god was, and certain that she didn’t want to know. He accepted the dish with a nod and looked at Zoë.

“Oh, right, something in the plain old red wine variety, if you have it. If not, then just water. Plain water, that is,” she amended, remembering that some coterie ordered water from different lakes, oceans, and time periods as their intoxicating drinks.

The zombie pushed a glass of red wine over to her across the bar, and she smiled. “Thanks.” She rooted in her purse for a hell note, but her host put his hand on her. “The bar is free, my dear.”

“Can I tip her at least?”

“Be my guest,” he said, removing his hand. She put a hell note on the bar, and the zombie accepted it without changing her facial features.

Zoë still wasn’t used to zombies and their lack of body language, but she managed to remind herself that the cues were not the same as with humans.

They retreated to the table she had seen him at earlier. The fat vampire was gone, his seat vacant. They sat down and watched the dancers, Zoë sipping her wine, the host dipping his finger into the Petri dish and swirling it around absently.

The band changed to a faster number, and the coterie who preferred slow dances left the floor for the more energetic dancers—Zoë was interested to see that a lot more demons took the floor at this point, including the blue fire sprite and his tentacled date.

Her wine was surprisingly good. It was a dry Shiraz, an excellent vintage, if she wasn’t mistaken. She had figured the coterie would choose crappy wine for the stray humans who were invited.

She took a deep breath and met her host’s amused eyes. “So you know who and what I am, I understand to not ask who you are, but the question still stands of what you want with me.”

“Who says I want anything? I think you’re interesting, and I’m delighted to be able to host one of the last of your kind at my party. Although the social worth of it is somewhat lessened by my being the only one to know that secret.” Zoë frowned, and he patted her hand. “Don’t worry, dear. I will keep the secret. In fact, you were told to bring a gift. That secret will suffice.”

Before Zoë could feel the crushing embarrassment of not having brought a gift to the old god, someone spoke behind her. “The One Who Kills and Is Thanked for It,” said a familiar voice speaking in a very formal tone. Zoë gasped and turned around.

Her host raised his head and looked at the newcomer as well. “Ah, Mr. Anthony. I was expecting you. Please join us.”

Arthur stood there looking none too pleased to see Zoë.

Zoë tried desperately not to fidget at the table as Arthur, dressed in a very sharp white tuxedo and a simple domino mask, carried a cane in one hand and a wooden box in the shape of a cube in his other. He gave her a curt nod as he sat down with them, and otherwise did not look at her.

“You have been quite persistent in requesting this meeting. I admire that,” their host said. He licked his finger with a white tongue and closed his Petri dish.

“I didn’t expect to get invited to the party, honestly. Thanks for that.” Arthur looked around, a frown creasing his face. His eyes still didn’t land on Zoë’s.

“I was kind of hoping for something a little more intimate,” he finished. “My topic is rather”—he pursed his lips—“uncomfortable and personal.”

“Oh, I know all about your little problem, Mr. Anthony. There’s not a lot that happens here that I don’t know about, including what goes on in the swamps. Most of what goes on in the swamps, anyway. Did you find the Doyenne?”

Arthur’s jaw clenched. “I couldn’t find her.”

“That’s a pity, but few can find her. That is because she doesn’t want to be found. You were silly not to accept Ms. Norris’s help.” He indicated Zoë, politely.

“I wanted to fight that battle myself,” Arthur said, looking at the table. “I didn’t want her hurt.”

“Noble, and ridiculous. Also, are you speaking metaphorically or literally?”

“Pick one.”

The host laughed. “Frankly, Mr. Anthony, I would love to help you. You’re more special than you know, and the world is a better place with you in it. However, your affliction is not something I can fix. You’re already half dead, you see, and bringing folks back from that threshold isn’t my purview. I can help you in the other direction if you like, but you don’t want that.” He paused and smiled slyly at Arthur. “Despite what you may think. Also you don’t necessarily need help finishing the job the zombie started.”

Arthur’s long, scarred fingers fiddled with the box he had brought. “And how can you tell that?”

“I know everyone who longs for release. You don’t. You long for a cure, and you’re fighting every step of the way. You need the Doyenne, but the price she demands will be high. And that’s if you can find her. Are you prepared to pay her price?” He settled back in his seat, hands wrapped around his cane.

Now Arthur glanced at Zoë, then back at their host. “I normally would say yes. But I’ve dealt with enough coterie to know that if you’re smart, you don’t make blind promises, no matter how much you want something. I’m prepared to hear what she needs from me as payment for whatever herbs or magic she does, but I can’t promise I’ll give it.”

“You’re wiser than I thought, then,” their host said. He held out his hand, and Arthur looked at it, mutely. The host raised his eyebrows. “Your offering?”

“Oh, yeah, right,” Arthur mumbled, and put the box into his waiting hand.

Zoë watched the exchange with interest, wondering what was in it. The host opened the box and pulled out a little specimen cup that looked to be half filled with blood.

Do you consider a cup of blood half empty or half full? Or do you just go into why is my sort-of-maybe-probably-not-boyfriend passing around his blood to ancient gods whose names we’re not allowed to say?

The city’s voice was stern. Ain’t you figured it out yet? He’s a god of disease, you damn fool. Giving him diseased blood is considered an offering.

Zoë pursed her lips. I liked you better when you couldn’t speak directly to me.

“Is that your blood?” Zoë asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “That and an anticoagulant, anyway. Couldn’t have it clot before I got here.”

“Weird. It’s apparently currency at a little shop north of here. Lot of people want blood, I guess.” Her tone was light, but Arthur didn’t relax.

“Fascinating,” the host said, shaking the cup a bit to mix the blood back together. “You truly are caught between living and death. While it’s not my usual offering, it’s unique, and I appreciate it. I’ll give you this, then. When you find the Doyenne, you do not tell her I asked about her. To find her, you must look in the dark areas, the areas you wouldn’t normally look. It’s possible your death goddess friend can find her with her unique abilities. I would ask her, but she owes me nothing. She may do it if you ask her. Tell her that you and the Doyenne have something in common. The Doyenne will offer you the herbs when you find her, but the price will be too high for you. You may choose to die instead, or find a way to pay it and then live with your choices. Even though I know what you will choose, what makes humans glorious is their free will. And their lovely diseases, but mostly the free will. You go to her. Hear your options. Make your choice. If you choose to become a zombie and stay in New Orleans, I have a place in my court for someone like you.”

Arthur stood up from the table, his eyes wide. “No, I’m not going to choose to be a zombie. I’ll die first, or pay whatever price she wants.”

Some nearby coterie looked over to them with curiosity, and Zoë was pretty sure a zombie who looked like an old Southern gentleman looked shocked and offended at Arthur’s comment.

The host did not respond to Arthur’s rudeness. “As I said, you have a choice. I’m not telling you what you have to choose. I just know what you will choose. Oh yes,” he added as if just remembering. “And Zoë must go, too. She is rather important here.”

A cool, thin hand touched Zoë’s bare shoulder, and she jumped. Gwen stood behind her, smiling. “I thought I heard someone mention me. Also, your life expectancy just dropped drastically. What’s going on?”

CHAPTER 16

Festivals

JAZZ FEST

The coterie don’t like to admit it, but jazz was created entirely by humans. However, several of the jazz greats were then turned to be vampires or zombies, but they prefer their privacy. That said, if you go to Jazz Fest, you can likely find them on the coterie stages, late at night.

Since the creation of jazz and the forming of New Orleans’s second biggest party, certain coterie have taken a shine to it, and make yearly visits. At previous Jazz Fests, performing coterie have included Kokopelli, the god of fertility, agriculture, and music, and every year since 2000, Euterpe of the Greek Muses has made an appearance. (There was a notable concert in 2006 where she brought all eight of her sisters for an epic performance.)

All coterie concerts begin after dark, and some are invite-only. Several innkeepers in town have the connections for tickets.