"Oh, to be young again and have so many gentleman callers fawning all over me," Ren said with an exaggerated southern accent.

"No one is fawning over me." I laughed. "I have even less of a life post-Storm than I had pre-Storm, which I didn't think was possible."

"Oh, child, you're growing into quite the ingénue, aren't you?"

I ignored the comment. "Can I ask you something, Ren?" Nervousness flooded from my stomach all the way to my shoulders, making them tingle. "How much of that stuff do you believe?"

"There you go, changing the subject. That means you are sweet on one of them. Which is it? I'm gonna guess the Yankee. You two bicker too much to actually dislike each other."

"Ren!"

"So, it's the foreign fox?"

"Stop! I'm serious. It's important!"

"D'accord, d'accord. How much of that stuff do I believe?" He twisted the end of his mustache. "Well, I believe bits and pieces of it all. Legends are legends for a reason; they don't just appear out of thin air. But over the years, they morph. They evolve to serve a purpose of the time."

"But what about the stories you just told? The Carter brothers, the casquette girls, the filmmakers . . ."

"You mean the vampire stories?"

"Oui."

"In the words of the great Monsieur Baudelaire, 'The finest trick of the devil is to persuade you that he does not exist.'"

I began to twist the ring around my finger.

"Why so serious, darlin'? What's the mat—?"

"I-think-I-opened-the-attic-window-at-the-Ursuline-Convent," I garbled.

He looked at me blankly for a moment. "Why on earth would you think that, bébé?"

"It was right when we got back into town. I had just discovered a dead body and cut my hand, and his blue eyes were just staring at me, and I ran. When I stopped in front of the convent to catch my breath, the shutter started flapping, only there was no wind—"

He put his hand on my shoulder and pulled me into a narrow alleyway. "Breathe, darlin'."

"I didn't mean to trespass. It was like the window pulled me in, and before I knew it, I was in the courtyard. I didn't touch anything, I swear—the shutter flapped itself until it came crashing down! The window shattered, and . . ."

"And?"

The last words rushed out of my subconscious in a shrill whisper. "And something flew out!" I froze, admitting to myself for the first time what had happened that morning: something had come out of that window. I knew it.

He looked at me with a serious but sympathetic expression. "What flew out? Some kind of monster?"

"Well, no . . . maybe . . . I don't know! It was raining, and it all happened so fast, and my hand was bleeding all over the place—I didn't see anything, but I swear I heard something, Ren. And I felt it."

The fear that flicked in his eyes made me instantly regret telling him. "You don't really think there were vampires trapped in the attic, do you?" I asked.

"Calm down, bébé. There's no way you opened that window. Stop worrying your pretty little head." His acting skills were no longer as convincing, but I appreciated him trying to comfort me. "I'm sorry if the story spooked you."

"How are you so certain I didn't open it?"

"Well, the story has more holes than a New Orleans road. Besides, it's not just the blessed nails from the Vatican you'd have to get past: It's been said that what really keeps the vampires trapped inside the attic is something much more magical. A spell. Or a curse, depending on how you look at it. Naturally, the church quickly quelled that rumor, but, unless those nuns had some other miraculous gifts from God, that theory makes the most sense to me. This is the only thing I can tell you for certain: there is no way you could've accidentally undone the spell of another. I may not be a shaman, but anyone who knows about magic will tell you that only the original caster of a spell can undo it."

He smoothed my hair.

That seemed plausible to me. I didn't know anything about binding or unbinding spells, but I desperately wanted to grasp onto anything that proved I hadn't unleashed a drove of bloodsucking killers into the city I loved so much.

"Adele, you were traumatized: the city's a ruin, you'd just discovered a corpse, and it was pouring rain. Besides, it looks like you have men lining up at the door to protect you." He winked, attempting to lighten the mood, but I was hardly paying attention—my mind was rewinding all of the weird things that had happened since the Storm.

"Ren, can I ask you one more thing?"

"Oui, of course."

The two copper gas lanterns over our heads began to creak back and forth.

"Do you really believe in magic? Like, really?"

"Oui, bébé. Moving pictures and flying machines both seemed like magic at one time. It's not a huge leap to believe that what seems irrational or magical now will be commonplace in the future. I believe everyone has magical powers. However, only certain people—the ones who are open to it—can tap into the true capacity of the mind and push the current brink of human thought. Some are called geniuses, some are called prophets, others are called witches."

"So, if someone's not open to magic, they could prevent supernatural things from happening?"

He chuckled. "If only it were that easy, bébé. Sometimes magic finds us; we don't find it. And once it does, it's nearly impossible to close ourselves off to it. It'd be like trying to forget how to read or speak or walk. Usually people who unlock magic within themselves don't understand their importance in the world."

I frowned. Hadn't I heard that before?

"Just remember, everything happens for a reason. D'accord?"

"Okay."

"Anything else?"

I paused, debating whether I should tell him about my recent bout of telekinesis. Instinct pinched my lips and shook my head.

Luckily, he let it rest and linked our arms back together.

When we got to my front door, he kissed my head instead of giving me one of his bear hugs. "Lâche pas la patate, bébé," he said. "You'll figure it out, whatever it is. That I can guarantee."

"Merci beaucoup."

"Bonne nuit. Sweet dreams." He waited for me to slip inside and lock the door.

Through the peephole, I watched him walk down the street—that's when I noticed the crow perched on top of the street sign, staring in my direction. I stumbled backward into a small table, having to grasp the overhanging mirror as it nearly slid off the wall.

"Dad?" I called out into the dark house as I straightened it back in place.

Only the pendulum swings of the old clock answered. He must be at the bar. At least he wouldn't know I'd arrived ten minutes past curfew.

***

A million thoughts spiraled as I lay on my bed, arms crossed, staring at the lamplight. You've got to relax, Adele—

Like that's going to happen.

The phonograph cranked on, but the glam-rock beats just made me more restless.

I didn't want to believe I'd released a bunch of monsters into the city . . . monsters who'd been trapped in a convent attic for three hundred years and who were probably really pissed off about it. I really didn't want to believe that.

My fingers strummed my stomach, and my feet rocked back and forth, moving faster and faster. Then a loud crack exploded.

"Shit!" I sat up in the sudden darkness, clutching my chest.

The lightbulb spontaneously combusted.

Breathe.

As I sucked in air, a little flame slowly grew from a vanilla-scented candle on the fireplace mantel.

This is not happening.

This is not happening.

A second flame ignited from a neighboring candle.

"This is happening."

I jumped up from the bed, flipped on the overhead light, and looked around the room, wishing there was a witness to tell me I wasn't going crazy. When my gaze landed on the closet, the brass handle turned, and the door creaked open a few inches.

I swallowed a lump in my throat. At this rate, I'm going to have a heart attack before my seventeenth birthday.

But instead of giving in to the fear, I yelled out to no one, "C'est parfait! A good cleaning project is exactly what I need!" And then I walked straight toward the little room. I waved my hand through the air, and the door swung open.

A yank on the rotting cord hanging from the ceiling bulb shed dust-dimmed light in the tiny room. I fought the urge to sneeze.

Piece by piece, I brought everything into my bedroom: I stacked piles of books ranging from poetry to medicine along the wall, trashed piles of disintegrating linens, and moved a box of old vinyls to the phonograph. I consciously focused on each task, refusing to let the idea of vampires running around the city raid my thoughts.

An hour later, the last thing to go was a large, antique steamer trunk decorated with tags from all around the world. In theory it should have been easy to move because it stood upright on wheels, but it weighed a ton and the metal parts badly needed oil. I pulled the beast of a trunk with all of my strength. It moved an inch, and I slid down to the dirty floor, exhausted.

From the ground, I could see that the wheels were thick with rust. "Fight what you know to be true." I concentrated, visualizing a turning motion, until the wheels squeaked loudly and began to move. As the large chest slowly wheeled itself into the bedroom, I realized I'd actually managed to distract myself for another half hour. Of course, as soon as this realization hit, the vampires rushed my mind with a vengeance.

I grabbed the broom.

Once the wooden floor of the closet was swept, I aggressively repeated the process with the mop, only stopping when one of the strings snagged a nail. I bent over to free it, but the nail refused to let go.

"Whatever." Yawning, I jerked the mop, ripping the string from its head.

As I reached up for the light cord, I felt my chain sliding off my neck. "No!" I yelped, grabbing for the medallion, but it clanked to the floor.

I worried the chain had broken—it had just come unfastened. I held my hand out to retrieve the sun charm and the medallion, and they leaped into my hand, along with the nail that had snagged the mop string. It was a long, black, handmade carpenter's nail, like the ones at the convent.

I restrung the necklace, making sure the fastener was secure, and reached back for the light.

Again, I felt the slink of metal down my neck. I slapped my chest, again, not fast enough. The necklace clanked back to the floor.

"What the . . . ?"

For the second time, I reached out and gained another nail from the floorboard along with the medallion. I dropped the nail to the floor, but it leaped right back up to my palm.

"What the hell?"

All the nails in the two floorboards beneath me were vibrating. The rest of the floor seemed normal—it was just this spot.

My heart rattled in my chest as I knelt down over the shaking nails. Instinctively, I raised my hand over the boards. The nails slowly wiggled themselves out and rose to the palm of my hand.

The wood was so degraded I could easily squeeze my fingers in between the planks and shake them until they loosened enough for me to pry one free. And then another. I hastily cast the floorboards aside and peered into the dark hole, like a child about to discover a treasure. But I didn't find anything at all.

I slipped my hand into the small space and felt around. Nothing but cool metal, like the inside of a safe.

The lightbulb overhead flickered. My pulse climbed.

I hurried back for the vanilla candle, setting it inside the hole to take another look.

Nothing. I sighed.

As I stared at the flame in frustration, the candle trembled and the metal floor underneath it warped. "Fight what you know to be true." I held my hand over the metal, and the surface rippled. At first there was just a slight tingle in my shoulders, but then the energy traveled down my arms like a current, until my whole body began to shudder. My fingers burned. I cried out, "Fight what you know to be true!" And just as I was about to rip my hand away, the metal floor parted in a circular wall of waves.

The candle fell into the lower compartment, but illuminated something else before it flamed out. Without thinking, I thrust my hand into the hole and grabbed it. As soon as I jerked my arm back out, the waves collapsed.

I pounded on the metal surface, dumbfounded. It was warm but solid. I raised an eyebrow at the leather-bound object in my hand and scurried back to my bed. All that trouble for a book?

But it wasn't just a book. It was a very old lock-and-key diary. The antique metal lock made the dense diary even heavier, and the hand-stitched leather binding and thick paper made me believe it must have been expensive in its time.

How old is this thing?

The edges of the pages were mismatched and browned, but the diary had been so perfectly preserved in the secret compartment it was difficult to guess its age.

I imagined the metalwork unlocking—and the tiny latch snapped open.

Adrenaline coursed through my veins as I carefully opened the cover of the unlocked treasure. A folded square of paper had been pressed between the cover and the first page.

Careful not to destroy the old stationery, I unfolded the handwritten French letter.

5th February 1728

Dearest Adeline,

It is my greatest desire to be able to make this voyage with you to La Nouvelle-Orléans, as the adventures in which you have accompanied me are the fondest memories a father could ever hope for. But, alas, there are urgent matters that I must attend to first oceans away.

Make me a promise that you will record every single detail in this diary that was made especially for you. When we meet again, I will read and reread every word, one hundred times until your memories are my memories.

I know that you will set up the Saint-Germain estate perfectly, and I will be there before you can even miss me. You are wise beyond your years, my sweet Adeline, but please, I implore you, take every precaution on this journey.

Remember everything I have taught you. Trust no one.

With all my love and affection,

Papa

My fingers went to the medallion around my neck. Adeline. The Saint-Germain estate? ASG? This is ASG's diary?

I fanned through the pages, and my heart fluttered as I caught sight of a phrase among the motion. I flipped the pages back, frantically scanning for the words I knew I'd seen. And then, there they were, staring back at me.

You will never believe what the locals call the orphan girls. The townspeople have given them the funniest name, "les filles aux cassettes."

"Les filles aux cassettes?" I whispered. "The girls with the cassettes . . . the casquette girls?"

Although, I shouldn't speak of them as if they are a group separate from myself. I may have boarded the ship under different circumstances, but after numerous events that have bound us together, I consider them to be my sisters.

The ring around my finger suddenly felt warm. I slipped it off, tossing it lightly into the air and reaching to catch it. Midair, the silver disc, with its spherical, milky stone, dislodged from the setting, and both pieces fell gently back into my hand.

Dammit! Whatever . . . Dad can fix it.

But then the ASG medallion, still hanging from my chain, floated into my other hand. Unable to decide which one to focus on, my eyes flicked back and forth between them. Then they started to float off my hands so slowly I hardly realized it.

Breathe.

I wanted to shut my eyes, but I forced them to stay wide open. The two silver medallions rose higher and higher; my heart pounded harder and harder. And then they stopped midair right in my sight line, at the perfect angle to see the details.

How did I not notice this before?

They both had the exact same delicately engraved border. With a snap they clamped back-to-back as if magnetized. A golden flicker chased the edges, magically welding them together into one thick medallion. It slowly turned in the air, allowing me time to examine it. The design no longer looked incomplete—one side had the stone, and the other side had the imprint of the star and the initials ASG.

According to my mother, the ring had belonged to my father's family. Did that mean ASG was . . . one of my ancestors?

Ren's voice boomed in my head: ". . . only the original caster of a spell can undo it."

"Who were you, Adeline Saint-Germain?" I whispered.