Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 101168 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101168 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
23
Edgar
“Can’t believe we forgot,” Edgar mumbled.
Next to him, Poe made a pained sound of agreement.
They were doing something that any New Orleans native knew better than to ever do: try to shop while a festival raged.
Southern Decadence, sometimes described as Gay Mardi Gras, descended on the French Quarter every Labor Day in a flurry of glitter, feathers, body paint, beads, and a lot of intoxicated queers.
When Edgar realized he’d forgotten Allie’s birthday in the chaos of Poe’s return, the baby, and Jamie, he’d rousted Poe from Allie’s couch and into the heat of the evening, hoping that because they were in the Irish Channel, they could avoid the hubbub. Poe had run back inside for his leather jacket and sunglasses and glared at Edgar for the first few blocks down Magazine Street. He’d softened a bit when a street cat had wound around his ankles, and Edgar thought he’d invite his brother to come to work with him next week to hang out with the cats.
Stores on Magazine Street were closing early in preparation for Labor Day, so, gritting their teeth against the inevitable onslaught, they caught a bus into the Quarter.
“What should we get her?” Edgar mused, staring out the window.
“Dude, she’s got a new baby. She wants a whole lot of something we can’t give her.”
“What? Help?”
“Her life back,” Poe said.
“I know you’re not Mister Baby. Neither am I. But she wanted a kid.”
“Big mistake.”
“Kids in general, or Allie’s specifically?”
They hopped off the bus when it terminated at Canal Street and headed downriver.
“Whatever, let’s just find something,” Poe said, shading his eyes with his hand. “Thought that counts, right?”
It was something their mother used to say, but Edgar thought Poe was missing the spirit of the expression.
“Books?” Edgar suggested as they passed Beckham’s, an orange and white tabby cat drowsing in the upstairs window.
“When will she have time to read?”
“A gift card for Sylvain’s?”
“She won’t be able to eat out for, like, twelve years.”
“Uh, maybe some fancy mixers for cocktails?”
“She’ll fall asleep immediately. Or drop her baby.”
“Bath stuff?”
“Drown her baby.”
“Well, could you offer some suggestions, please? Preferably something that won’t result in the immediate death of our sister or her offspring?”
Poe snickered at the word offspring, and Edgar decided he wouldn’t ask for his input anymore.
As they approached Jackson Square, the crowd thronged.
“Hey, I think that’s Carys and Teacup.”
In addition to her work as a tour guide, Carys was a math grad student by day and often set up in the square to perform calculations for the tourists and their money.
“Who the hell is Teacup?” Poe scoffed.
“Her miniature horse.”
“I sure am back in New Orleans,” he mumbled. “If you wanna say hi, I’m gonna wait here. Can’t deal with the tourist mob.”
But all thoughts of saying hello to Carys and Teacup fled Edgar’s mind when he saw something. Something that dripped cold between his shoulder blades and down the back of his neck and sent a tingling across his scalp like insects skittering through his hair.
Edgar’s breath came short. Surely it was just his eyes playing tricks on him in the heat?
“Poe,” Edgar croaked out. “Do you see that?” He pointed a shaking finger.
“I see a bunch of drunk gay dudes and sunburned tourists staring at them.”
Edgar shook his head, unable to swallow. He tugged on Poe’s sleeve, and his brother sighed.
“What?”
“B-behind the band,” Edgar said without looking away. “Antoine.”
“Antoine who—Wait, Antoine Antoine?”
Edgar tried to swallow again. Surely, if he just concentrated, he could make his throat close and then open again. But it was as if all the systems that run him had shut down. He shivered then and couldn’t stop. A mule-drawn carriage blocked his view for a moment, and when it passed, Antoine was gone.
Edgar staggered, trying to cross the street to the square. He was vaguely aware of Poe throwing an arm around his waist to keep him from falling, but he was already pushing toward the steps of St. Louis Cathedral.
He caught sight of Antoine again, drifting past a line of tourists clapping along to the brass band.
“There!” Edgar pointed, unconcerned about seeming rude. The crowd surged around him in every direction—revelers drifting in from the parade, tourists wrangling children, teens yelling to their friends, tipsy partygoers calling from windows and balconies above. The chaos scrambled his senses, but all he cared about was getting to Antoine.
Edgar had never run toward a ghost before. But if Antoine was here, Edgar had to speak to him. If Antoine was lost or scared or needed something, Edgar had to make sure he gave it to him. Because for all that he wasn’t sure why ghosts were or how they were, he did know one thing: if his old friend was stuck here, in pain, Edgar would do anything to help him find peace.
Edgar reached blindly for Poe, intending to pull him along without losing sight of Antoine. But when his hand found Poe’s, his brother jerked it away.