Yawning, I turned off the alarm on my phone. My eyes drooped. I hadn't meant to fall asleep, but after my restless night, I could have easily slept through till tomorrow. Just as my lids slipped back shut, "Moonage Daydream" cranked out of the scratchy cone at full volume.

"All right! I'm up!" I yelled at the phonograph. If I was late meeting Isaac, my grand plan wouldn't work out.

I forced myself out of bed and into a black sweaterdress, sheer turquoise tights, and black ankle booties. I quickly reapplied the day's makeup, stealing a few seconds to add a little smoky eyeliner. If we ran into my father, I hoped it'd make him sweat. Maybe he'd think twice next time before inadvertently playing matchmaker. His behavior surprised me. Normally, he did anything he could to keep boys away. Especially boys with long hair and attitudes. Maybe he was concerned by how much time I'd been spending by myself since the Storm? Unlikely. Maybe he just wanted me to have a bodyguard? More likely.

Spritz of perfume. Chain. Ring. Gris-gris.

Accessorized, I reknotted the loose bun on top of my head and skipped out the door just as "Lady Stardust" wound down.

***

The sun was setting over Jackson Square, which felt creepy without the fortune-tellers, artists, and street performers who usually littered the pedestrian streets late into the night. Isaac was sitting on the steps of the gated park in front of the cathedral. I was surprised but happy to see a few other people standing around the old town square. When the click of my heels against the slate came within earshot, he looked up. "Hey." The relief in his voice didn't escape me.

"Did you think I wasn't going to show?"

"No, but I guess I kind of deserve to be stood up."

"Yeah, don't ever pull anything like that again."

"Just say yes the next time I ask you out and I won't have to."

Before I could fire back, he quickly added, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I don't want to fight on our first date."

"It's not a date, remember?"

"Call it whatever you want. I'm just glad I managed to get you here."

I swallowed my smile.

"Ma bébé!" a booming voice yelled—exactly the man I wanted to see. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

I turned around, straight into a crushing hug. "Ren . . . ribs . . . can't breathe."

His eyes were fixed on Isaac before he even set me down. "Hmm, curious . . ."

"Ren, Isaac wants to learn about the great city of La Nouvelle-Orléans, so I thought, what better way for him to get to know the city than on your walking tour?"

"I see. Oui, oui. Bienvenue." He looked Isaac up and down, as if assessing his likelihood of heckling.

Isaac leaned close to me and lowered his voice: "Nice one."

I tried my best to contain my grin from growing extra wide.

"Laissez les bons temps rouler!" Ren yelled, accepting the challenge.

Isaac looked to me. "Are you gonna give me a clue?"

I laughed. "Let the good times roll."

"Gather round, everyone," Ren called out to the few people lingering in the square. "So glad you all decided to brave the nightfall. I'm sad to say this tour is gonna be cut a little short thanks to the parish-wide curfew, but don't worry, you'll still get all the tales, because we won't be making any pit stops for drinks. Unfortunately, everything is closed. Everything legal, that is, er—" He cut himself off when he saw the inquisitive look on my face. "But please feel free to partake in your own libations, if you brought 'em." He lifted his coat to reveal his flask. "It is perfectly legal to drink here on the streets of La Nouvelle-Orléans."

The tour hadn't even begun, and people were already enthralled by Ren. "I wonder if he dresses like that all the time?" one of them whispered.

I chuckled. Ren was in full gear tonight, somewhere in between the gentleman-pirate Jean Lafitte and the vampire-prince Lestat.

A brief round of introductions told us that five out of the eight other people on the tour were recovery workers from various organizations, and one couple was in town to help relatives clean out their house. The last, a blond woman, offered no real information about herself. Her hair, which flowed in beautiful, wild waves, was so bright it glowed white, and despite the temperature she wore a skintight tank top and a gauzy pink skirt that blew when the breeze picked up.

How is she not freezing?

I looked at Isaac, who was just in a white T-shirt. "Aren't you cold?"

"No, I'm from New York . . ."

"Right, how could I have forgotten?"

The woman looked at me; her lips pursed daringly. Chills swept up my spine. I turned away and crossed my arms.

"Oh, are you cold?" he asked.

"No, I'm fine." I dropped my arms to appear more convincing.

Ren went around the group, collecting money. When he got to us, Isaac pulled out two twenty-dollar bills.

"I can get my own ticket."

"No, I got it. You wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for me," he insisted, but I shook my head. I didn't want to owe Isaac anything.

"Like I'd ever take your money, ma chérie," Ren said to me. "But I'll gladly take yours." He plucked one of the bills from between Isaac's fingers.

"I promise I'll be on my best behavior," he reassured Ren.

"Son, I love trouble. Don't change your ways on account of me."

"I'm not changing them on account of you." Isaac glanced at me.

"Interesting," Ren murmured, looking back and forth between us, "very interesting."

My eyes dropped to the ground.

"Time to start, folks!" Ren yelled to the group and then beckoned us to follow him down Pirate's Alley.

The flames in the gas lamps created the perfect ambiance for a ghost tour, and the bells in the steeple clanged as if they were part of his act. He stopped halfway down the alley and, after an attention-commanding pause, proceeded to tell us the story of how the infamous alley got its name.

As he spoke, the echo of heels on slate became louder. I turned to see the silhouette of a girl hurrying down the alley toward me.

Is that Désirée Borges?

Isaac's back stiffened. "You know her?"

"Sort of."

"Sorry, I'm late," she grumbled to Ren, pulling cash from her wallet, but he shook his hand, motioning for her not to interrupt. She merged into the group next to me. I couldn't tell whether she was annoyed or relieved to see someone she knew. Especially since that someone was me.

"What are you doing here?" I whispered.

"My dad forced me." She sounded annoyed. "You know, help boost tourism, support local businesses, blah, blah, blah."

"Hmm. I'm still surprised you came."

"I have a plan, and it doesn't involve staying." She pulled her phone from her blazer pocket.

"In that case"—Ren snapped the twenty from her hand—"Bienvenue, shay." Even with the interruption, he didn't skip a beat. "Listen up, folks, there are two alleyways on either side of the Saint Louis Cathedral: one is named after a pirate and the other for a priest. Scientists from all around the world flock to one of them and claim it has one of the highest records of concentrated paranormal activity on the planet. Can you guess which?"

Everyone laughed.

"Of course, we New Orleanians do not need gadgets and gizmos to record noises and auras in order to know when we're in a nexus of supernatural activity." He looked directly at the blond woman as he carefully articulated the last sentence. Her shoulders straightened, and her face lit up. She loved it.

"This way!" He walked us around the church, where an illuminated statue of Jesus cast a fifty-foot shadow on the back of the cathedral. I guess the church thought Jesus deserved a generator?

Like everyone else, Isaac was hanging on to Ren's every word. I forced back a smile, watching him.

"Psst. Adele, come take a picture of me in front of the statue, but wait until some other people are behind me so it proves I was on the tour."

"Come on, Désirée, it's rude. I don't want to distract Ren."

"Oh please, that statue of Jesus could start twerkin' and Ren wouldn't break character."

She had a point. Plus, I wanted her to pick me up for school tomorrow. I sighed and grabbed her phone. "Get close to the light so I don't have to use the flash." I hurried to frame the shot as the group walked behind her.

As she held her extrafake grin and I snapped a few pics, I felt Isaac's gaze shift to me—watching me like a hawk, just like my father had requested. I returned her phone and walked back to him as Ren began describing the ghost of Julie, who haunted the Bottom of the Cup Tearoom.

"Nothing like the ghost of a scorned lover," I whispered to Isaac. He smiled quickly, staring at the roof of the building where Julie had frozen to death.

We walked the rest of the block to the corner of St. Ann and Royal Street. The moon shone over the corner building like a spotlight for just us. The dark-green floor-to-ceiling shutters were latched closed, and wrought iron balconies wrapped around the second and third floors of the maroon three-story residence.

"John and Wayne Carter were brothers who seemed to be just your average men—"

The woman with the long, blond hair let out a loud cackle and then quickly tried to calm herself. "Pardon moi," she said, and squeaked out another giggle.

Désirée mouthed the word "nutcase" to me. I suppressed a laugh and turned back to Isaac, who was staring hard at the woman. Remembering this particular story, I became nervous that his inner naysayer might make an appearance, so I dropped to the back of the group; luckily, he fell back with me.

"By the way, you look really nice tonight," he leaned in and whispered, his breath tickling my ear.

The compliment caught me off guard. "You look, uh, clean," I joked.

"Haha. Some of us have to get our hands dirty while others go to fancy schools."

"That's not fai—"

Hands from behind wrapped around my eyes, interrupting.

"Piacere! What's going on here? Did our invitations to the festa get lost in the mail?"

I didn't tell him there was no way Niccolò would say something so cheesy, which left only one Italiano to suspect. He kissed both of my cheeks and then moved out of the way so his brother could do the same.

"Ciao," Niccolò said, looking almost bashful.

His shyness rubbed off on me. "Twice in one day," I barely managed to get out.

"The tour has already begun," said Ren.

Isaac smirked.

The blond woman stared intensely at Niccolò. The way he stared back at her—it was like they were silently daring each other. Maybe she is the reason for Niccolò's early-morning stroll?

Ugh. I tried to convince myself that what Niccolò Medici was doing at dawn was none of my business.

Her stern expression faltered when Gabe smiled at her with a hint of glee. It was painfully obvious they all knew each other.

"Are you sure you can't take just two more?" Gabe asked, approaching Ren with a couple of crisp bills. "We're very generous tippers," he added, looking him straight in the eyes.

And with that, Ren changed his mind: "I've always had a hard time saying no to a handsome foreigner."

From my peripheral vision, I saw Isaac scowl.

Bashfulness gone, Niccolò touched my face. "Your wound is finally healing." He kept one eye on Isaac, as if he were some kind of abusive boyfriend—which wasn't fair and certainly didn't go unnoticed by Isaac.

"So little time, so much to see!" Ren yelled, scooping his arm toward Bourbon Street.

"So, Dee," I asked as Isaac grabbed my arm and pulled me along with the group, "are you still leaving, or do you need more pictures?"

Désirée must have also noticed the bizarre exchange with the blonde earlier, because she looked directly at her, as if rising to the challenge. "Oh, I'm definitely going to need more pictures." And then she wrapped her arm around Gabe and snapped a selfie. They looked like a pair of supermodels.

"Most people know the Vieux Carré, or French Quarter, is the oldest neighborhood in New Orleans, settled by the French in 1718, but what most don't know is that the majority of the buildings around us are not actually French. Two great fires in the eighteenth century destroyed nearly everything in the Quarter.

"Spain occupied the city at the time when the old square was rebuilt, so most of the buildings standing before you were constructed by the Spanish. There are only four original French structures remaining"—Ren looked straight at me and Désirée—"a Voodoo shop, a Creole cottage on Burgundy Street, the Ursuline Convent, and this former brothel."

I'd known our house was an original French cottage (there was even a plaque on the outside from the historic registry), but I had no idea it was one of only four.

"Wow, I can't believe I'm working on one of those places," Isaac whispered, nudging me. "Cool."

"You might be thinking it's curious that these four buildings survived all of these years, through the fires and the storms. Is it a coincidence? After all, what do a convent, a brothel, a Creole cottage, and a Voodoo shop have in common? Of course, it wouldn't have been a Voodoo shop back then . . ."

"Back then, that sort of thing wasn't legal," Désirée finished.

"That's correct, Mademoiselle Borges. Back then any shop selling magic fixin's would've appeared to be just a shop where certain items might have come with a little lagniappe. But you'd know more about that than lil ole me."

Désirée rolled her eyes as his accent thickened for the tourists.

"This way, people, allons-y!" He hurried us along toward the house of New Orleans's most famous murderess, Madame Delphine LaLaurie.

I started to move forward with the group, but a tug at my dress made me pause and turn back.

"Hey," Niccolò said, his hand lingering on my arm. "I just want to apologize for this morning." The sound of his soft voice brought me back to our tangled embrace.

"For what?"

"For acting so weird. The truth is, my brother and I were out drinking, and we got into a little scuffle with some guys who were being foolish. I didn't want you to think I was that kind of guy."

"What kind of guy?" I wrapped my arms around myself.

"Are you cold?"

"N—"

Before I could answer, he stripped off his black leather jacket and swept it around my shoulders.

"Grazie. Someone hit you?"

But it was Gabe who answered for him, joining the conversation out of nowhere. "Oh, Adele, don't worry about Nicco . . . You should have seen the other guy. Out stone-cold." He tousled his brother's hair, and Niccolò quickly swatted his hands away.

"Why would someone hit you?" I asked. It was hard to imagine. Niccolò seemed like the quiet guy in the corner. Gabe, on the other hand, I could totally see instigating a brawl.

"I could think of a couple reasons . . ." Isaac had reappeared with Désirée in tow, and I could see Mr. Hyde coming out to play.

Niccolò's jaw tightened.

"So much for your best behavior," I mumbled, giving Isaac a look.

"Save it for the frat house, boys." Désirée put her arm around me and walked us back toward the crowd. "Don't look back. Pretend you don't care."

"I don't care."

"Riiight."

"She's beautiful and unforgiving," Gabe yelled. "My favorite combination."

I felt Désirée's entire body smile, not that it showed on her face.

Gabe caught up, breaking us apart. With his arms around each of our shoulders, we hurried to catch up with the rest of the tour. Désirée let out a genuine giggle.

We had missed nearly the entire story of le Comte de Saint-Germain. Something to do with a residence on the corner of Royal and Ursuline.

"And the next two tales bring us to the end of the tour."

When I looked up, we were standing directly behind the old Ursuline Convent. My heart began to knock against my chest.

Gabe looked down at me as if he could hear the pounding. I moved from underneath his arm to the familiar gate.

This time when the chills rushed up my spine, I also broke out into a sweat. I tightened Niccolò's jacket around my shoulders—the attic window I'd witnessed explode was now completely bricked up, preventing even the moonbeams from coming and going.

Ren leaped onto the hood of a previously drowned car and paused for dramatic effect as he prepared himself for la grande finale.

"New Orleans came to be thanks to the real crème de la crème of Parisian society: the thieves, the crooks, and the murderers. That's right, folks, New Orleans started as a penal colony. These fine founding citizens were convicts from la Bastille who'd been granted pardons by the king in exchange for building la grande capitale of New France. So, early on, the city was a cesspool of scoundrels and scalawags, which means not much has changed since." He winked and then took an exaggerated sip from his flask.

"These unruly Frenchmen survived hurricanes, indigenous swamp creatures, and the cannibalistic ways of certain native tribes, but how could a population of only men evolve into the society meant for such a fine city? They demanded, pleaded, and begged the king to send over women! Being a reasonable man, the king emptied the female correction houses and raked the streets for spare ladies of the night, who were then shipped to New France like a platter of beignets, though not nearly as sweet.

"Now, King Louis XIV was on a mission for La Nouvelle-Orléans to be le Paris of the New World. Propaganda was launched across France to arouse adventurous men to seek their fortunes in this new land of opportunity. In response, a new class of Frenchmen made the grueling journey across the Atlantic Ocean—only to find a giant swampland full of mosquitos, alligators, and serpents.

"Of course, it wasn't long before they too demanded the king send ladies! Having already rid the French streets of excess undesirables, King Louis scavenged hundreds of virtuous young women from convents and orphanages to send to these opportunity seekers. He gave the girls small dowries and sent them on their merry way to marry the colonists and propagate the burgeoning city. The small chests, or cassettes, given to the women to hold their wedding dresses looked very similar to caskets and earned the girls the title les filles aux cassettes or simply 'the casquette girls,' as the locals say."

"What does this have to do with the Ursuline Convent?" I asked, barely hearing the words come out of my mouth.

"Yes, mademoiselle, the nuns! Now, for as much of this city's soul as is built on Vodun folkways, Native American spirits, and everything in between, the Catholics also dutifully staked their claim into the soggy soil of La Nouvelle-Orléans. And there is no better example of that sense of duty than the sisters from the Order of Saint Ursula.

"The Ursuline nuns came from France to open L'Hôpital des Pauvres de la Charité, or Charity, as the locals now know it. But the Ursuline nuns' real mission was education, not hospitals! Before crossing the Atlantic, they'd made a deal with the bishop: they'd gladly make the perilous journey to a bayou country full of savages and pirates and tend to the sick, if—and only if—they were also allowed to open a school. And so they did on the property that stands before you, a school that served only girls—all girls, regardless of race, color, or social class.

"It's said that it was the Ursuline sisters who took in the casquette girls when each shipload docked in the French Quarter. They stored their cassettes in the convent attic for safekeeping, and then housed, educated, and chaperoned them until each was married off.

"But as things go in New Orleans, scandal struck when the first marriage proposal was accepted . . . When the sisters fetched the girl's cassette, they discovered, to everyone's dismay, that it was empty! No dowry from the king. No wedding dress. Nothin' but cobwebs. Every cassette in their care had been emptied."

Ren switched to an unidentifiable Eastern European accent.

"Legend has it the casquette girls had smuggled les vampires across the ocean in those casket boxes, and these vampires had been sleeping in the attic during the day and running amok at night, feeding on anyone they fancied. New Orleans was the perfect cover. Between the crime and the disease, death rates were already astronomical. Who would bat an eye when another dead body turned up? Who was going to notice another missing ex-con or prostitute?"

I began to wrap and unwrap my chain around my fingers.

Blue eyes. Dead, blue eyes.

Ren looked around the silent crowd. "And that's the story of how the vampires came to New Orleans. To America."

"Riveting," said Gabe, looking at the blond woman, who seemed oddly somber.

"So what's the deal with that attic window?" I blurted.

The group turned to see who had spoken.

"I'm so glad you asked, m'lady. If you walk around the French Quarter, you'll find that every set of attic windows is permanently latched open. Can anybody guess why?"

"Because of the heat," Niccolò answered dryly.

"Exactly correct, my fair-faced friend! It gets hotter than hell here in southern Louisiana, and in the early eighteenth century there was no central air. Since heat rises, the attics were the hottest rooms in these Creole cottages, and they were also where the children often slept. The shutters on the attic windows were kept permanently latched open out of fear they'd swing shut in the middle of the night, leaving the dreaming youngsters to cook to death.

"However, the attic windows of the Ursuline Convent are all latched shut. Legend says that one thousand nails were sent from the papacy in Rome, blessed by the Pope himself. And that while the monsters slept, the Ursulines nailed up the shutters completely to protect their convent and the citizens of New Orleans from the attic's deviant denizens."

The blonde's eyes lit up with excitement. "Ha! Like za Catholic Church could imprison a clan of vampires!" she said with conviction.

Is her accent French?

Désirée walked to the convent's gate and peered through the iron posts. "I agree with blondie. It sounds like there was more going on here than the work of the Lord."

"Well, honey," Ren said, "you know that in the Big Easy, there's always more than meets the eye."

He gave us a minute to take it all in.

A history of strange or unusual happenstances flooded my head. My pulse began to race as I thought about every shadow, every creak, every unexplainable occurrence in my life I'd never given a second thought to before. Désirée also seemed to be processing something buried in her subconscious. Maybe she's thinking the same thing? After all, we were the only two of the group who'd been born in this town, where the debate between fact and fiction is grayer than the newspaper it's read from.

"As you can see, a shutter is missing from one of the windows. I have it on good authority that it fell only a week ago . . . and yet somehow, even in this time of chaos, the archdiocese managed to brick up the window right away. Whatever could cause such urgency when there are people to feed, houses to rebuild?" Ren slowly scanned the crowd. "I don't know the answers. I just tell the stories."

Violent chills spread throughout my entire body until my teeth chattered uncontrollably. The gate rattled in the breeze.

Breathe.

"Hey, are you okay?" Isaac asked. "You look even paler than usual."

I nodded, unable to move my eyes from the attic window.

"You're trembling." He put his arm around me.

On the verge of a claustrophobic fit, I stepped away, following Ren to the church adjacent to the convent, where he continued:

"A different version of the story simply claims that vampires live in the attic and are able to move through the convent windows at night. Barely more than a decade ago, that rumor inspired a college-aged couple from California to come to town with the brilliant plan to make a documentary on our extracurricular nightlife. They set up their cameras, camped out in front of Saint Mary's, and waited . . .

"The next morning, their bodies were discovered . . . drained of eighty percent of their blood. On their tapes, nothing but static. There was no evidence of—"

"I heard it was a woman who killed that couple," said the blonde.

Niccolò moved to my side, and Ren hurried along with the story, speaking directly to her. "There were a few unreliable witnesses who claimed to have seen a young brunette bent over the bodies." His gaze shifted to me. "But there was never enough evidence to hold any suspects for more than a night."

He carried on with his story, but the memory of the methodical banging of the shutter clogged my ears. It got louder and louder and faster and—

A sharp whistle brought me back to the present.

Everyone around me was clapping enthusiastically, cheering for Ren as he took deep bows. The tour was over. I put my hands together in appreciation and forced a smile. It's only a stupid story, Adele. Chill out.

The blonde turned to Gabe with an expression that could only mean she was looking for trouble. "Surely there is something to get into tonight? It is still La Nouvelle-Orléans, after all. How much could it really have changed?"

Definitely a French accent. Definitely trouble.

"I am in wholehearted agreement, signorina," said Gabe.

Niccolò looked at her and then at me. "How are you getting home?"

"Uh, walking; I live arou—"

"I'll walk you."

"That won't be necessary," Isaac said, stepping in between us.

This time it was Niccolò who smirked, almost beckoning a challenge, which in turn made Gabe grin from ear to ear.

My eyes rolled at the ripple of testosterone. "Ren, will you walk me home?"

"At your service, mademoiselle."

Isaac shot me an exasperated look, unable to fulfill the promise he'd made to my father about not letting me out of his sight.

Gabe offered his hand to Désirée, but Isaac walked in front of it. "I got it," he snapped, not giving her a chance to disagree, which I thought was kind of hilarious.

As Isaac pulled Désirée away, she turned back to me. "See you at seven tomorrow, Adele. And try not to be late." She gave Niccolò an obnoxious look of approval, which everyone noticed.

My cheeks burned like they were harboring fireballs.

"Merci beaucoup, and good night, folks!" Ren yelled with satisfaction. "Au revoir, boys. À la prochaine!" He spun me in the direction of my house, linking his arm through mine.

"Ciao," I yelled over my shoulder to Niccolò, Gabe . . . , and the blonde.