M. Hanover - Darker Angels

A girl with café-au-lait skin no older than sixteen skipped up beside us, holding something out in her hand. A silver fleur-de-lis pin.

“Three dollars,” she said.

I looked at the pin, then at the girl. Without breaking stride, I pulled my wallet out of my backpack, plucked a five out, and gave it to the girl.

“Keep the change,” I said. She grinned and skipped away. I smiled and dropped the pin into my pack along with the wallet. Karen watched it all as if it were happening at a distance.

“How’re you doing, kiddo?” she said.

“Everyone keeps asking me that,” I said. “I’m fine. I mean, not great, but fine.”

“Hope it’s okay I sent the boys on ahead,” she said.

“Sure,” I said, then sighed. “It’s kind of nice, actually.”

“I wanted a minute with just the two of us. I put you on the spot back there.”

“I thought I was doing that to you,” I said.

“That too.”

A man with a new-looking goatee and a T-shirt that read I Got Bourbon Faced on Shit Street lurched in front of us smiling, looked at Karen looking back at him, and scuttled away.

“The things we did today?” she said. “The safe house, the van, the wards. All of it. It would have taken me weeks.”

“Nah,” I said. “You could have-”

“I couldn’t,” she said. “You could. I knew Eric maybe as well as anyone, and I barely knew him at all. I can’t imagine how hard it would be stepping into his shoes.”

I swallowed. If I hadn’t been so desperately tired, I probably wouldn’t have teared up.

“You’re doing great,” she said.

The sense of sloppy gratitude was only matched by the embarrassment that I was quite so easy to read. I wiped my cheek with the back of one hand.

“Thank you,” I said. “Really. Thanks.”

It seemed like we’d hardly started walking when she angled me up and to the left, and the new hotel opened before us. I stopped at the counter and got my key card. The boys weren’t anywhere to be seen. Karen took my hand. At that moment, I felt like I’d known her my whole life. The smile at the corner of her mouth snuck up to her eyes.

“Call me when you wake up?” she said.

“I promise,” I said. “But it may be early evening. I’m destroyed.”

“Whenever,” she said, then swooped in and gave me a quick hug. I watched her walk back out onto the street, and I watched the men she passed watch her too. My body felt like overcooked chicken ready to slough off the bone. I made my way to the elevator, up to my floor, to the room number, and into the great, king-size bed, still thinking about Karen without thinking anything in particular.

If there were any justice in the world, I would have gone off like a light and awoken twenty hours later feeling rested and human again. Instead, I lay on the bed and vibrated. The clock at the bedside told me it wasn’t ten o’clock yet. My body said I’d been up all night, and I was officially too tired to sleep.

True to their word, Ex and Karen had brought my stuff to the new hotel. I popped open the laptop, checked mail, checked a couple of blogs I followed, and turned to Google.

I got no hits at all for Amelie, Daria, or Sabine Glapion. Not even a MySpace page. I wondered if being a voodoo queen meant being technologically pure or something. I tried loa and got a little over eighteen million hits, including things like the Logistics Officer Association, letters of agency, and the Mauna Loa Observatory. I found a Wikipedia article on voodoo gods, and then another three or four references that explicitly disagreed with it without ever agreeing with one another. Damballah was the voodoo spirit of the snake. Or Baron Samedi was. Or Carrefour. Or Legba.

I paused.

Legba.

It was what I had said during the fight in the lobby, the name I had called the old woman and the shining snake. There was a pretty detailed article about Papa Legba on a site Chogyi Jake had shown me, but when I tried to read it, I found myself losing the sense of it. I bookmarked it and promised myself I’d look again when I was functional. I shut down the laptop and stumbled into the shower.

I ran the water cool, and it woke me a little bit. I still felt the exhaustion, but I didn’t have the same sense of being caught half in dream, unable to wake up or go down to sleep. I washed my hair twice, just because it felt good to do it. The hotel had a white terrycloth robe with its logo embroidered on the right breast, and I had just wrapped myself in it and stepped out of the bathroom when a knock came at the door. My heart ramped up a little.

“Who’s there?” I said.

“It’s me,” Ex said. His voice sounded odd.

I hesitated, then went to look through the peephole. It was Ex, and he was alone. I gathered my qi, the mystic energy that let me do the little bit of magic I could. I pulled the energy up my spine and into my eyes, using it to see through enemy spells, but Ex was still just Ex. I opened the door.

The stink of alcohol was the last thing I’d expected, but he smelled like the mop at a liquor store. His eyes were red, and he was unsteady on his feet.

“Ex?” I said.

He nodded a half a beat late. He was drunk off his ass. I had never seen Ex drink to excess. I’d never seen him do anything to excess. He pointed at me, his expression almost comically somber.

“You,” he said, then paused. “You have nothing to apologize for. Not to me. Not to Aubrey. Not to anyone.”

“Are you drunk?”

“No,” he said. And then, “Yes, but that’s not the point. It’s that you are just fine. You don’t owe anyone anything. Eric was great, but you don’t owe him anything. Or Aubrey.”

“What room are you in?” I asked, reaching back for my key card on the dresser. He was on the same floor, but not the same hallway. Key card in the pocket of my robe, feet bare, I took Ex by the elbow and steered him back to his room. An older couple in evening wear passed by us, and I saw myself for a second as they would see us. A young woman with her hair still wet. A slightly older man with his hair coming out of his ponytail. Both of us had to have circles under our eyes dark enough to approach raccoon masks. The woman of the couple smiled at us indulgently.

Scenes like this weren’t uncommon in New Orleans, I guessed.

I opened Ex’s room with his key card, then stepped him through the threshold, turned him around, and pressed the card into his hand. He looked at it like it was a note from God, written on his flesh. His balance corrected two or three times while I watched.

“Get some sleep,” I said.

“You don’t owe an apology to anybody,” Ex repeated.

“Thank you,” I said.

He nodded solemnly, then leaned forward unsteadily and kissed my forehead. Even drunk, he was weirdly paternalistic. Maybe especially drunk. Still, there was something endearing in it. I closed the door.

My experience with alcohol was seriously limited. Apart from my brief sixteen-year-old rebellious phase and two semesters at ASU, all I had were old sermons about poisoning my body and blunting my God-given judgment. Still, as I padded back to my room, I would have put a hefty bet that Ex wasn’t going to remember our little conversation in the morning.

In bed for the second time, snuggled deep under the sheets, it struck me that Karen’s walk with me and Ex’s drunken visit were probably related. The pair had spent the day together, and whatever had prompted Ex to decide I needed reassuring he’d probably shared with Karen. And she had taken the hint. The idea was a little embarrassing, but it was also sweet.

I wondered, sleep soaking my brain, my eyelids heavy as weights, if in the rush and confusion of my new, chaotic life I had maybe found people who really did care. Chogyi Jake and Aubrey and Ex. Maybe Karen Black.