bones aren't the same ."
Grandma shared a glance with Ant Eater and shook her head. "You should know better than to listen to strange spirits."
"Oh, come on—" I started. "This one's making sense."
Ant Eater gave me a squirrely look. "Resist the temptation."
If only it were that easy.
***
I took an extra-long shower in a bathroom off one of the guest rooms and thought about how I wanted to approach Osse Pade. I had to look non-threatening. I had to blend if I wanted to get close enough to plant the bug on him. I also knew better than to try and hide what I was. It wouldn't work, and the bokor would see it as weakness.
A straightforward plan was best. I'd let him know in no uncertain terms that his actions had attracted the attention of a demon slayer and that he'd have to deal with it.
I changed into a simple black leather dress and matching boots. I tucked the enchanted emerald necklace down between my breasts and styled my hair into a simple ponytail at the nape of my neck. Then I buckled on my demon slayer utility belt with the five switch stars holstered, ready to throw, hoping the voodoo bokor had enough magic to see it. And enough arrogance to ignore a simple housefly.
I left my bike in the backyard of the house, preferring to walk over to Royal. Burgundy Street was pretty this time of the morning. Lush plants dripped from wrought iron balconies and I caught the distinct beat of jazz music filtering out of a house or business nearby. As I drew closer to the touristy section of the French Quarter, I passed shopkeepers, out early, stood hosing off the sidewalks from the night before.
The sound of the trumpets and the beat of the drums grew louder as I approached St. Phillip Street. Then I reached the intersection and saw it. Well, I heard it first. The tinkle of a piano and then to my surprise, the entire instrument along with the man at the keys, sitting high up on the back of a metal trailer dragged by a red pickup truck. A seven-piece brass band marched along with it. The men wore suits and swayed to the music. An old-fashioned horse and buggy hearse trailed behind them, with an honest to God skeleton in the front seat, driving. Well, he wasn't driving. My world hadn't gone that strange yet. Eight pallbearers marched, four on each side, leading the empty carriage. They came from the direction of the large cemetery north of Rampart.
A family trailed behind, holding on to each other. The men sported white suits, with colorful ties that matched the brims on their white hats. The women's colorful dresses caught in the morning breeze. Clutching their hands, in the middle of this human chain, was Osse Pade. I recognized him immediately, even without the eerie white skull paint on his chest and face. I'd know those high cheekbones anywhere, that expressive face, those wicked black eyes. He wore his white top hat tilted rakishly to the side with yellow feathers thrusting out of the brim.
He didn't see me in the crowd.
It was on.
I followed him, joining the parade of mourners twirling umbrellas and singing, "When The Saints Go Marching In." It seemed death was a celebration.
Just what kind of business did this man own?
I kept sight of him, up with the family, as the procession continued down St. Phillip and then made a left onto Bourbon Street. These people were not trying to hide. We picked up a bunch of tourists on Bourbon. Them in their colorful mourning wear. Me in my simple black.
"Nothing to see here," I murmured. Just a demon slayer carrying a spell bug, joining with voodoo church members to celebrate a jazz funeral.
We made a last minute left on Barracks Street and hit Royal, trailing past Voodoo Works , the shop where I'd met up with Carpenter. The owner, Aimee, watched us through her glass front window. She caught my eye and nodded. I kept walking.
We stopped about a half-block down, in front of a funeral parlor. Only this was nothing like the subdued, tasteful mortuaries I'd seen
Grandma shared a glance with Ant Eater and shook her head. "You should know better than to listen to strange spirits."
"Oh, come on—" I started. "This one's making sense."
Ant Eater gave me a squirrely look. "Resist the temptation."
If only it were that easy.
***
I took an extra-long shower in a bathroom off one of the guest rooms and thought about how I wanted to approach Osse Pade. I had to look non-threatening. I had to blend if I wanted to get close enough to plant the bug on him. I also knew better than to try and hide what I was. It wouldn't work, and the bokor would see it as weakness.
A straightforward plan was best. I'd let him know in no uncertain terms that his actions had attracted the attention of a demon slayer and that he'd have to deal with it.
I changed into a simple black leather dress and matching boots. I tucked the enchanted emerald necklace down between my breasts and styled my hair into a simple ponytail at the nape of my neck. Then I buckled on my demon slayer utility belt with the five switch stars holstered, ready to throw, hoping the voodoo bokor had enough magic to see it. And enough arrogance to ignore a simple housefly.
I left my bike in the backyard of the house, preferring to walk over to Royal. Burgundy Street was pretty this time of the morning. Lush plants dripped from wrought iron balconies and I caught the distinct beat of jazz music filtering out of a house or business nearby. As I drew closer to the touristy section of the French Quarter, I passed shopkeepers, out early, stood hosing off the sidewalks from the night before.
The sound of the trumpets and the beat of the drums grew louder as I approached St. Phillip Street. Then I reached the intersection and saw it. Well, I heard it first. The tinkle of a piano and then to my surprise, the entire instrument along with the man at the keys, sitting high up on the back of a metal trailer dragged by a red pickup truck. A seven-piece brass band marched along with it. The men wore suits and swayed to the music. An old-fashioned horse and buggy hearse trailed behind them, with an honest to God skeleton in the front seat, driving. Well, he wasn't driving. My world hadn't gone that strange yet. Eight pallbearers marched, four on each side, leading the empty carriage. They came from the direction of the large cemetery north of Rampart.
A family trailed behind, holding on to each other. The men sported white suits, with colorful ties that matched the brims on their white hats. The women's colorful dresses caught in the morning breeze. Clutching their hands, in the middle of this human chain, was Osse Pade. I recognized him immediately, even without the eerie white skull paint on his chest and face. I'd know those high cheekbones anywhere, that expressive face, those wicked black eyes. He wore his white top hat tilted rakishly to the side with yellow feathers thrusting out of the brim.
He didn't see me in the crowd.
It was on.
I followed him, joining the parade of mourners twirling umbrellas and singing, "When The Saints Go Marching In." It seemed death was a celebration.
Just what kind of business did this man own?
I kept sight of him, up with the family, as the procession continued down St. Phillip and then made a left onto Bourbon Street. These people were not trying to hide. We picked up a bunch of tourists on Bourbon. Them in their colorful mourning wear. Me in my simple black.
"Nothing to see here," I murmured. Just a demon slayer carrying a spell bug, joining with voodoo church members to celebrate a jazz funeral.
We made a last minute left on Barracks Street and hit Royal, trailing past Voodoo Works , the shop where I'd met up with Carpenter. The owner, Aimee, watched us through her glass front window. She caught my eye and nodded. I kept walking.
We stopped about a half-block down, in front of a funeral parlor. Only this was nothing like the subdued, tasteful mortuaries I'd seen
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