CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The zombie band took a break, bringing on an air sprite DJ, who clearly hadn’t moved beyond the late 1980s in his musical education. The song was “Penny Lover” by Lionel Richie.

The host had demanded Zoë and Arthur dance once before Arthur stormed out. His stiff arms held Zoë awkwardly as if they had never touched before, never been intimate. With the music and the swaying dancing, Zoë realized the only thing different between this and her first middle school dance was the fact that she could have a big glass of wine when she was done with this travesty.

Arthur reminded her of Matthew Wise, the object of twelve-year-old Zoë’s affections. He wouldn’t meet her eyes, his steps were stumbling, and his hands on her waist were sweaty. He kept glancing back at their host, who watched them with a grin on his face.

“Is there anything you want to talk about before you go on your suicide mission?” she asked finally.

He glanced at her eyes and then back down at their feet. “Dammit, Zoë, I’m sorry. This is so big, I can’t control it. I can’t endanger anyone else.”

Zoë narrowed her eyes. “You need people to rely on. And by ‘you’ I mean everyone. No one can deal with something like this alone.”

He shook his head. “The problem is, people like us shouldn’t date each other. We both need someone like Orson.”

He was referring to Ben’s husband, a man who knew about the existence of coterie, but had no association with them, and frankly hated Ben’s association with them. Zoë had suspected Ben’s MIA status was due entirely to Orson’s wanting him to be unreachable during their vacation.

Arthur’s eyes met hers, and they held nothing but despair and certainty. He opened his mouth to speak, but she spoke first. “You’ve already quit, haven’t you? Not only us, but quit fighting. You’re just wanting to go out on your terms.” She swallowed; her throat felt constricted.

He nodded at last. “I feel like I’m at the end, and despite what the old man said, I don’t see any choices.”

Zoë’s voice was flat, devoid of emotion. “This is the part where you’re supposed to say now that you’re close to death, you can see everything clearly and you need me more than ever.”

He looked away. “It’s not a movie.”

“This is why rom-coms are depressing,” she said. “All right, fine. Do what you want. We’re done here. But I’m not letting you go to the swamp alone. You’ll stumble around and get eaten by a gator or something.”

“I don’t want you hurt,” he began.

She raised a finger, shushing him. “No, you don’t want me distracting you. If today is your last day as a human, having me with you for that last day is worse than being alone, apparently. But I don’t have to respect your wishes anymore. You’re not my boyfriend, you’re just a dude with a death wish.”

He let her go. “I have to go tonight, my time is running out.”

She was glad for the mask that hid half her face. She wished it could hide the whole thing. “Take Gwen, she’s better with this stuff than I am. I haven’t had much sleep lately, and I’m not thinking clearly.” She rubbed the nonexistent bump on the back of her head.

She turned from him and left the dance floor, Lionel Richie still crooning over the speakers. She snatched her wineglass from the table where the host still sat. “Thank you for the invite, sir, and the conversation. It was a true pleasure, and please forgive my rudeness. I have to go now.”

He nodded once as if he had expected this. “Don’t forget your weapons as you go to the swamp tonight, Ms. Norris. And if you find what I’m looking for, let me know.”

“I’m not going to any fucking swamp,” she snapped. “And I still don’t know what you’re looking for.” Walking to the bar, she drained her wineglass, and cut in front of three vampires and a horned demon. She put a hell note on the counter and pointed to one of the bottles of Shiraz behind the counter. “I’ll take the bottle,” she said.

The zombie’s eyes flicked up behind Zoë, and she realized the bartender was checking with the host. She unconsciously slipped into the city for a wider look at the room, and saw him give a nod. Arthur was exiting the dance floor, heading for Gwen, who stood along the wall in deep conversation with Eir.

She snapped back to herself, shocked that the transition had been so easy. The bottle was in front of her, and the vampires and demon glared at her.

“I just broke up with a dude who’s going to die tomorrow. Cut me some slack,” she said to them. One of the vampires, a short Latina woman, looked sympathetic, but the others waited impatiently for her to stop blocking the line.

Something tugged at her attention, and she skirted the room with her bottle, sidestepping demons and vampires, and nearly stepping on what looked to be a leprechaun. She left the ballroom and stepped through the door to the little office area. Now that she was in a safer, quieter area, she expanded her awareness again. Christian the incubus had arrived alongside Reynard the citytalker. They were talking with the host. Reynard looked strange through the city’s eyes, almost transparent as if he were a ghost as well. He would shift in and out of Zoë’s awareness, but Christian and the host didn’t respond to this.

Zoë stuck her head back into the ballroom—Reynard looked solid and normal as he shook the host’s hand. So it was true. Ghosts and citytalkers together were not only deadly to demons, but harder for the city to notice.

He had probably found a ghost to help keep him safe from demons. Smart. Zoë probably should have made some kind of deal with Anna to stick closer to her.

Zoë ducked into the office again and slid down the wall, her bottle clutched in her hands. She tried to look as much like a depressed drunk as she could to keep people from wondering why she didn’t respond if they called to her, and then expanded her awareness again and eavesdropped on the table.

The host knew she was there immediately. He smiled and looked right at her vantage point, but returned his gaze to Christian.

“I didn’t know the Grey Cabal was sending an ambassador. I also didn’t realize it was sending a human,” the host was saying. “Still, it’s delightful to meet you. How can I aid the Grey Cabal?”

Silence. Reynard looked to be talking, but Zoë couldn’t hear more than some kind of odd static. She really wished she knew why a ghost/human combination was invisible to the cities, but at least she understood why the citytalkers had been so easy to hunt—all the assassins had to do was have a ghost riding with them. So it was true, he was working with the Grey Cabal.

Were citytalkers assassinating again? Zoë felt cold, and very much an outsider. Already something had tried to kill her, but she was fairly sure that the one person who truly hated her, the zoëtist Lucy, was dead.

Well, there was Kevin, but he was dead, too.

“I am aiding Mr. Reynard by providing census numbers of the city, but he needs information on where to find the more independent coterie living in the bayou,” Christian said.

They paused again, presumably while Reynard spoke. Then the host took a cocktail napkin and drew a quick map. “She was last reported living in her houseboat on this river. She likes to move around. Doesn’t like to be found for some reason.” His voice dripped with amusement. “I would go myself, but of course, circumstances…” He trailed off.

“Thank you,” Christian said, and bowed his head to the host.

“Y’all going tonight?” the host asked nonchalantly.

Silence again.

Before she could hear a response, Zoë was dimly aware of fingers on her shoulders, shaking her. She returned her awareness to find Eir holding her in midair by her shoulders and shaking her like a rag doll. The bottle of wine slipped from her fingers and spilled on the floor, splashing Eir’s boots.

“God, what, I’m back, let me go!” Zoë shouted, struggling.

Eir set her down, and Zoë frowned sadly at the spilled wine. “There goes my evening.”

Gwen retrieved the bottle, still half full, and handed it to Zoë. “We wanted to see if you were all right. Arthur has asked us to accompany him to the swamps tonight, but he said you weren’t coming. Are you spending the evening with a bottle instead of your friends?”

Zoë put the bottle down on the desk, where the gremlins pounced on it, using teamwork to tip it over and taking turns guzzling the wine. It ran down their chins and over the desk.

“I was kidding about the bottle, but yeah, Arthur made no secret that he doesn’t want me, and he’s probably going to die out there. Screw him anyway. Still, he needs help, and if you can give it, give it. I don’t want him to turn into a zombie just because my feelings got hurt.”

Zoë rubbed her arms, the ache still new. Maybe he was right. They didn’t belong together, and she would get in the way.

Gwen nodded once. She gave Zoë a wry smile. “Maybe tomorrow we can get started on the book?”

Zoë groaned. “The book, I almost forgot. Is anyone taking notes about this ball?”

“I will do it,” Eir said. “Gwen and I will leave for the swamps in an hour. First we party.”

The idea of the stoic goddess partying was enough to push a smile back on Zoë’s face.

CHAPTER 21

Plantations

Arcadia

All New Orleans plantations are now tourist attractions for humans—all but one, that is. Arcadia is still a living, breathing, working plantation.

In its ugly past it had a ruthless master, Harold King, who was famous for using his wealth to buy more slaves than he needed, and having them fight for the “honor” of working the fields. One night, a visiting vampire from Morocco took pity on a slave—Jenny—and turned her, then set her loose on the plantation. Jenny was a zoëtist of growing power, and her mixture of vampirism and zoëtism was a sight to behold as she killed her master and trapped his soul within the plantation itself. She freed her fellow slaves and turned several of them, and they took over Arcadia. For some time, the evil that dwelled in the land turned the crops sour, but even evil gets tired, Jenny learned, and after some decades the fields began to be fertile again.

Jenny died her second death when some zoëtists hunted her down, screaming that she had blasphemed against her culture by accepting a vampire’s embrace. Many of the original slaves still live in Arcadia, but no other vampire at the plantation has retained their gifts. However, they still say they can feel Master King in the soil beneath their feet, and they refuse to sell the plantation for two reasons: they don’t wish to risk anyone else owning the haunted place, and they want to continue the punishment of the most evil man they knew.