Breathe.

I smoothed my skirt. The metallic fabric was silky against my fingers. Even in the dark space, it gleamed, reflecting the light from the racks of melting candles. I sucked in a big breath. It didn't help. The mold-tinged air felt dank and cumbersome, too heavy for my lungs to push in and out.

Breathe, Adele.

Muted rays of sun shone through the stained-glass windows high above us, cutting through the dark room on a sharp diagonal. Even through my sunglasses, I could see all the dust and particles of God knows what else floating in the trail of light.

Father McKinley's voice droned on in the background.

Like the rest of the Ninth Ward, the church lacked electricity and was far from operational, but it was the closest one to St. Vincent's that wasn't a total hazard. I think we were still breaking a dozen different laws by occupying it, but who was going to stop us? The government hadn't officially condemned it, so that left it a free-for-all.

I imagined what the holy space had looked like with ten-plus feet of muddy river water flooded inside: The long wooden pews and the ceramic heads of religious icons bobbing between candle racks and collection boxes. Hymnbooks floating higher and higher to the heavens. A whole new meaning to the term "holy water."

A memory of Lisette Monvoisin throwing a saintly statue at Nicco whipped through my mind.

I was grateful for my sunglasses as I blinked it away, as if my eyelids were burying the memory back into my subconscious.

Everyone shifted as more latecomers squeezed into the already-crowded pews, until we were elbow to elbow. The bout of claustrophobia came back. Most of the vast church had been emptied—maybe by looters, maybe by the archdiocese—so I shouldn't have felt so trapped, but we were all crowded to one side. Tape blocked off the other half, where broken pews and dismantled confessional booths waited to be hauled off. The pile of trash glittered with the brightly colored glass that had shattered from the now-boarded frescos.

Jesus, how long is the priest going to talk? Was it absolutely necessary for this Mass to be inside given the circumstances?

Breathe.

I sat up straight and rolled my neck, flinching at the small pop.

On the next breath, I imagined thousands of microscopic mold spores flying into my nose, down my esophagus, and planting themselves inside my lungs. The seedlings germinated into cruciferous-like plants, and the bulbous vegetation grew into my throat until every bit of air was blocked from coming or going, choking my imaginary self to death.

I adjusted the collar of my black blouse, which was tied into a limp bow at my throat.

Just breathe, Adele. Stop thinking about mold.

Or death.

Death by mold.

I focused on the rack of candles next to the priest, trying to distract myself from having an anxious fit. I slowly squinted and released my eyelids, watching the flames change size. Warmth radiated from within my belly, and it took a full minute of playing with the fire to realize it wasn't just an optical illusion. The flames were actually growing taller.

A wave of panic came next, and one of the flames doubled in size. Shit.

With a quick glance that begged my father not to follow, I squeezed past him and slowly pushed through the rest of the people in the front pew. I tried to be light on my feet so as not to distract from the service, but my shoes on the marble floor made it altogether impossible. Heads turned as I hurried down the side aisle, and then a slice of light pierced the congregation as I opened the door just enough to slip outside.

Freedom.

For a moment I leaned against the heavy door, but then it wasn't enough; I needed more distance.

I bobbed down the marble steps, my feet pinching inside the pointy-toed shoes, and the gold lamé flouncing above my knees. Two thin layers of crinoline beneath the silky fabric gave the high-waisted skirt a slight flare. I didn't stop until my heels clicked the bricks of the residential Bywater street.

Almost four months after the Storm had touched ground, the neighborhood still looked exactly as it had the day my father and I drove in after the evacuation. The postapocalyptic-zombie vibe crept up with a vengeance.

A gentle scraping sound to my left pulled my attention—I whirled around. It was just an empty Coke can knocking down the street in the breeze. A mangy black cat emerged from underneath the wrecked porch of a house whose tennis-ball-colored paint job still managed to beam through the layer of grime left by the Storm. The cat lazily stretched its back. I wondered who'd lived in the house and where they were now.

The waterline was over my head, swallowing most of the one-story. Were they home when the levees broke? Did the water rush in all at once like a giant wave tunneling down the street? Or did it slowly rise, giving them the false hope that it might stop before it touched their toes . . . before it swept around their shins and soaked their clothes and chilled their bones? Before they climbed to the highest, driest spot in the house? Were they thinking that if they climbed high enough God would rescue them? Because, really, who drowns in an attic?

My eyes fixated on the numerals inside the orange spray-painted X.

0-1-0-0

The numbers sprayed in the bottom quadrant sank my heart.

Who drowns in an attic?

This person did, that's who.

The 0 meant there'd been no survivors found by the rescue crew, and the 1 meant a corpse had been. I wondered if they ever got a funeral, or just a label on a body-bag tag at the new city morgue. "D-MORT," as Isaac called it.

My hand moved to a tendril of hair, deftly twisting it between my fingers, and the Coke can skittered across the broken road, landing next to my shoe as if it had been well trained. It rattled in place. I kicked it hard and sent it skidding down the street.

"Chill out," I said, re-smoothing my skirt. The sun gleamed off the shiny gold fabric like brass.

Brass.

Notes squeezed out of a saxophone from a nearby street. The scales got louder and closer—someone warming up on their way here. The ground trembled underneath my feet. Tuba tremors.

A large, jolly-looking man rounded the corner with the enormous instrument wrapped around his body. His cheeks puffed up like a blowfish, and he gave me a sympathy nod as he walked past, the sun bouncing hard off the banged-up horn, which looked like it had recently been shined.

I squinted behind the dark, round lenses, which now felt like a part of my armor, shielding people from seeing my eyes and knowing my thoughts.

If people knew what I was thinking . . . what I had done.

Well, at least they'd stop looking at me with those poor little girl eyes.

I sighed and looked around, suddenly very aware that I was standing by myself in a crowd of people filtering out from the church.

Chatter came from every direction. Laughter. Whispers. Hoots and hollers. More instruments warmed up. A trumpet. A bass drum pounding. Cymbals clanking.

The more instruments that joined the warm-up, the louder the crowd became over them, like birds squawking and chirping. My pulse began to climb. Chirp. Chirp. More brass. More chirping. More metal. More vibrations.

Too much metal.

The vibrations traveled through my body, rippling through my bloodstream. I broke a sweat.

"This is so weird," a voice whispered close to my ear.

I twitched, but he didn't recoil from the rejection. Isaac.

His hand went to the small of my back, and I took a deep breath. I knew the gesture was supposed to be comforting, but it wasn't—not today.

And people kept doing it. The small of my back, my shoulder, my arms. If it wasn't Isaac, it was Sébastien or my dad or Ren. Even Detective Matthews had kissed my cheek. But I couldn't expect anything less. This was the South after all.

"The skirt came out amazing, by the way."

He was trying to distract me. "Thanks," I mumbled.

He ignored my attitude and slid his hand around my hip. My entire body tensed. I didn't mean for it to, but the fact that he was being so nice annoyed me. He'd been babying me since early yesterday . . .

I'd spent most of the day distracting myself by making the gold skirt. Instead of going to the café like he normally did after work, Isaac came over and sat on the floor against the wall in my bedroom, one leg outstretched and the other bent at the knee to rest his sketch pad. It took me most of the morning to draft the pattern pieces. Our eyes met only once—when he was switching knees and I was pulling out the fabric. I wasn't able to force another smile after that point. It was the gold fabric . . . I'd bought it in France.

When I'd spotted it through the small shop window in Paris, I'd nearly leaned off Émile-slash-Emilio's Vespa. His arm caught me as he came to a sudden stop.

"Don't do that, please. Your mother will kill me if anything happens to you," he'd said in French, his touch lingering, making me wonder if he was really the one who cared.

"Unlikely," I'd said, and smiled, running into the store.

On the ride back to my dormitory, I hugged the tissue-wrapped pillow of gold fabric so I didn't accidentally hug him. I am such an idiot.

The memory now made me shudder.

Of course, I couldn't think about Émile without thinking about Brigitte, and after that I was hardly able to look at Isaac, knowing I'd lied to him about what happened in the attic on Halloween.

About my mother being trapped inside.

About my mother being a vampire.

An omission of truth counts as a lie, right?

The guilt had gnawed my nerves ever since, especially as we'd promised each other no more secrets on that very evening. Before we'd gone out that night, I never got the chance to tell him or Désirée that Adeline had killed Giovanna Medici. So, naturally, when Isaac pushed an extra female vampire into the attic with Martine, he assumed she was Nicco's sister Giovanna.

And I hadn't corrected him. Yet.

"Breathe," he whispered, his forehead knocking the side of my head and his fingers pressing into my hip.

The music stopped. Mouths disengaged from conversation.

Short squeaks danced out of a solo clarinet, floating out over the crowd. The opening notes of the mournful hymn jabbed into my heart. I looked down at my chest, half expecting to see blood gushing out.

Isaac squeezed me tighter.

This is really it.

From behind us at the back of the crowd, a trombone blew. The long notes slid deeper and deeper until they felt like they were inside my stomach. I knew without looking that Alphonse Jones was playing that horn. A few measures later he was weaving through people, past us, with the satin sash of grand marshal across his chest. Back from Los Angeles for the occasion, or to meet with their insurance agent, or FEMA. I wished Brooke had come with him. I'd only spoken to her once since Halloween night—when she spilled the beans about being cast on the next season of American Idol, and how she'd be going dark while they were shooting, per her NDA.

I changed my mind about wishing she was here. How would I explain all this to her?

"I think that's my cue," Isaac said softly, in a way that sought my approval.

When I nodded, he kissed my cheek—the gesture broke through my numbness. Face burning, I darted a quick glance left and right to see if anyone had witnessed the PG-PDA.

No eyes were on me.

As Isaac walked away, he paused to stretch his arms. He must have been out flying last night. The hem of his black T-shirt lifted as he deepened the stretch, exposing his hip bone. I looked away, trying not to blush. After all his hours of manual labor, his black T-shirt and black jeans were now too tight, like most of the clothes he'd brought from New York. His work hours seemed to increase by the day. Isaac just couldn't not help people.

He looked strange in the dark clothing. That kind of ensemble was more reserved for Nicco. My gaze dropped to the ground.

More feet joined Isaac's tan work boots. My father's. Sébastien's.

"Pretty girls don't frown." The words came from lips that were now kissing my cheek. "Hold on to my parasol, s'il vous plaît?" Blanche pressed it into my hands and kept moving past me.

"Good thing I'm not a pretty girl," I mumbled.

He turned back around. "You betta be ready to dance!"

I forced a smile, only to feel like a grimacing clown, but then the back of his outfit made a genuine smile spread across my face. On the tails of his black tuxedo jacket were swirling appliqués of silver and iridescent sequins. They matched his purple satin shirt and signature glitter-swept lids.

Ren's boyfriend, Theis, brushed past me too, giving my shoulder a squeeze on the way. It felt awkward coming from the standoffish Scandinavian. More taps on the shoulders, and more kisses on my cheek: Chatham and Edgar Daure, with their three sons. Codi, who was closest to my age, lingered behind, pulling me into a hug. I hadn't seen him since before the Storm, at his going away party when he'd left for freshman year at U of A.

"This is seriously the weakest hug ever, Adele," he said, refusing to let go. I sighed, wrapping my arms tighter around him. He tightened too.

"Oh God," I said. "Don't do that. You're going to squeeze the tears out."

"Fine." He held the hug for one more second before joining the others at the casket. Along with some guys from the roasters, they all picked it up and lifted it to their shoulders.

There should have been two caskets, but resources were scarce thanks to the Storm. I didn't think Mémé and Pépé Michel would mind being crammed together for eternity. In fact, I couldn't imagine them wanting it any other way.

It had been three weeks since they'd died—since Emilio had murdered them. A long wait for a funeral, but their bodies had been held as part of the investigation. Really, I think the system was just utterly overwhelmed. There weren't enough cops back yet, let alone detectives, forensics, coroners. The rumor was there were still over five thousand unclaimed bodies from the Storm.

The funeral being delayed had somehow allowed me to put all my most overwhelming feelings on hold. I'd buried myself in schoolwork, in Kafka and Shakespeare. I'd spent too much time thinking about the way Isaac's rough hand felt in mine and making mental lists of all the places I wanted to show him when things improved—if things ever improved.

But over the last few days it had all started to crash around me: the guilt, the sadness, the loss, and the horror of their deaths.

And of the role I had played.

But it wasn't just the time lapse. The adrenaline from the battle with the Medici—the win—and the dark, phantasmal nature of it all had somehow superseded thinking about everything else. Our victory had overshadowed the fact that Emilio had killed two people I loved.

At least the Medici didn't get what they were after, whatever it was.

At the time, the win felt like we had redeemed everyone who'd died. We had won.

But what exactly had we won?

Your life, I reminded myself. And Désirée's, and Isaac's. The lives of who knows how many other innocent people.

More musicians joined the clarinet and trombone duo, and we followed behind the casket, walking in time with the mournful dirge. A lot of the local musicians had worked at the roasters when the cash from their horns wasn't enough, so there was no way they were letting Mémé and Pépé go without a proper send-off. Dozens of others followed behind us, waving white handkerchiefs, wearing Saints jerseys and three-piece suits and everything in between. Some were as old as Méme and Pépe; others were younger than me. A guy whose curls were so black they gleamed blue—or maybe it was the silver-sequined umbrella the lady next to him carried, reflecting the sky—drifted with the crowd; his enthralled look gave away his out-of-towner status.

Désirée stepped in line next to me with a huff.

"What's your issue?" I asked.

"Nothing . . ." She crossed her arms as her grandmother and parents walked past us with smiles and waves, photographer in tow.

Isaac glanced back. Despite carrying two dead people, he was still checking on me.

"Ugh," I whispered beneath the requiem. "I'm so glad the funeral is finally happening so people will stop looking at me like that."

Désirée raised an eyebrow.

"He's treating me like a delicate flower that's about to fall apart. I haven't even cried since that night."

"That's exactly why he's concerned." She pulled a flask from the waistband of her tight black pencil skirt and handed it to me.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I didn't even think about it before unscrewing the cap.

"You are a crier."

It was totally something Brooke would have said; my dry eyes went to the sky as my lips pinched the metal, and I knocked my head back. Locked myself in an attic full of vengeful vampires, but I'm still known as the crier.

The booze, minty instead of fiery, went down surprisingly easy. It was cool on my throat, which burned from . . . trying not to cry. Both the tingling aftertaste and the smile on Désirée's lips told me that the flask was not filled with alcohol.

I sniffed the remaining contents. "What did I just drink?"

"You're welcome."

"Dee!"

Note to self: do not consume anything from a Borges without first inquiring.

"Chill out." She yanked the flask back, took a swig, then offered it to me again. "It's just a little herbal refreshment to take the edge off the day. I figured you'd be freaking out."

Is this why Désirée is so placid all of the time? Swigs of enchanted herbs?

I reclaimed the flask and raised it to my lips. "Back to you. What were you in a tizzy about?"

"The Casquette Girls Coven descendant research has to pause for now. Not that you or Isaac care—neither of you have been helping me."

It's not that I didn't care about finding the rest of our coven members. It just wasn't a priority these days. I looked back at the casket.

"Sorry," she said with an expression that might have been sympathy.

"Why do you have to stop the search?" I asked, taking another sip.

"Gran found out about the coven."

Potion sprayed out of my lips. She yanked back the flask and stealthily tucked it into her blazer pocket before anyone saw.

"What do you mean she found out? Does she know about the curse? About what we did?"

"Relax. She doesn't know about anything else. She just knows we bound the coven, and she's pissed."

"Pissed about what?"

"That I joined another coven instead of the family's. We got into the fight to end all fights. Books were thrown. Jars exploded. A batch of fermenting seaweed got on everything. She even tried to make me break the coven's bond."

"What?"

"Don't worry. I didn't."

"Does that mean she knows about . . . me?"

"Oui, and Isaac. Although, I think she's always known you're witches. Obviously she doesn't have a problem with your magic, just as long as Borges aren't binding themselves to it. We're supposed to stick to our kind. You know, keep the magic line as strong as possible."

Jeanne dropped into step beside me, looking perfectly put together in Mémé's pearls and the black pantsuit I'd picked out for her. The loose braid I'd swept her long blond locks into was mostly intact. She extended her open palm toward Désirée in a way that made her look much older than her twenty years.

My stomach tightened. Only I would get busted for drinking when I'm not even drinking.

"What?" Désirée asked, as if clueless.

Jeanne further extended her arm. "I'll give it back."

Désirée shrugged and conceded the flask. "Drink at your own risk."

I wondered what exactly was in the herbal cocktail, or more precisely what spell she had used—and whether Jeanne, in her life, had ever drunk a sip of anything stronger than the tight-rolled leaves of China Gunpowder tea.

I guess we're about to find out.

As we continued to walk, she took a healthy swig, but before she swallowed, she swished it between her cheeks. "What is this? It's not alcohol."

"Pfft." Désirée smiled. "Like you'd know, Little Miss Scientist."

I gave her a harsh look, but Jeanne was utterly unfazed by the jab.

"It's Dr. Little Miss Scientist," she answered, somehow still holding the liquid in her cheeks. "And that's exactly how I know there's nothing fermented in this solution." She gargled for a deeper investigation.

"Is she serious?"

"As a starved alligator." I fought the urge to smile.

Walking in between the two of them, my anxiety began to dissipate. Neither Jeanne nor Désirée could coddle me if their lives depended on it. Jeanne's empathy gene was buried deep beneath all of her genius—I was pretty sure she had to consciously remember simple social norms like greeting people when she walked into a room. And Désirée was, well . . . Désirée.

My gaze wandered to check on Isaac, which made me feel like a hypocrite.

Sometimes his New Yorkiness—his mouth—made him stand out, but now he totally looked like a fish out of water, surely the only person in the krewe who had never seen a casket dance. When he'd offered to help carry Mémé and Pépé, I wasn't sure if he was trying to be helpful or just trying to befriend Sébastien, or my father, who wasn't exactly thrilled about our sudden closeness. Either way, they weren't going to turn down his roof-repairing upper-body strength. As the rest of the guys began to casually shake with the beat, Isaac's awkwardness made my smile finally crack.

He has no idea what he's gotten himself into.

It was tradition at a New Orleans jazz funeral for the pallbearers to shake the casket on the way to the cemetery in order to give the deceased one last dance before they were locked away for eternity.

But Isaac didn't seem scared of our weird ways in New Orleans. He didn't seem to be scared of anything, actually.

The tempo picked up as the trumpets transitioned the band into a jazzier tune, and for a full street block, I watched him watch the others sway with the music, like trying to learn the moves from an aerobics instructor without tripping in the process. After another block, his body began to move naturally with the rhythm, and I found myself starting to wish he was back here with me.

Ren, Chatham, and the others carried the huge box like they had done it a hundred times before. Maybe they had.

I wondered if Isaac had carried his mother's casket at her funeral. Do they play jazz at funerals in Brooklyn? Was it a small, intimate affair?

My mother didn't get a funeral. No one had mourned for her. No one even knew that she'd died, other than me.

Except, of course, her killer.

And his famiglia.

Before my thoughts could spiral any deeper, a man turned around—the mayor—and offered his hand to Dee. "Y'all need to stop looking like someone died." A satin Zulu sash was tied across his chest.

Each Social Aid and Pleasure Club had their own marching krewe with their own colors, costumes, rituals, and funeral rites. The walking parade rolled to celebrate the joy of someone's life, rather than the ominous fact that it was over. The family, the casket bearers, the krewe, and the band made up the First Line, while the mourners-slash-celebrators, and really anyone in the neighborhood, formed the Second Line.

He pulled Désirée away. The staff photographer put a white handkerchief in her hand and followed behind them. Dee despised that guy and his camera clicks, and I couldn't blame her. I could tell she was trying to not give the photographer the shot, but when her father twisted her around, she cracked a smile.

Watching them dance made my senses wildly confused. My hips wanted to sway along with the brassy song as the band really got going, and my arms wanted to wave Blanche's umbrella above my head, but my brain told me that I should be overwhelmed with melancholy.

Dee danced back, grabbed my hand, and spun me around just as I crossed a pothole. I had to grind my heel into the rocky road to help balance the momentum to keep from falling. More and more people joined the parade behind us, until I was sure that everyone east of the Quarter who'd returned post-Storm had joined the Second Line. More singing, and more dancing, and more handkerchiefs waving high as paraders riled up.

At first it was only my shoulders moving side to side as I walked, but half a block later, Blanche's umbrella was open to the sky, getting the proper attention a purple bedazzled parasol deserved. My strut slid into a bounce, and the bounce, well that's what New Orleans dance is all about. Once you've hit the bounce, you're doomed. The world ceases to exist as the energy pushes through your muscles, making your body pop. When it occurs in the middle of the street with a large group of people, half of whom you've known since birth and half total strangers, well, it's something special.

I yelled to Jeanne. She shook her head fiercely, refusing to join me, but I grabbed her hand and twirled her until her blond braid spun. Désirée's potion coursed through my veins like a permission slip to smile.

Despite the occasion, and despite dancing through such a heavily devastated area, euphoria washed over me as the music pounded. The energy from the krewes was infectious, and for a few blocks I forgot why we were parading. A genuine giggle slipped from Jeanne's mouth, and I gave myself over to the zeal of the crowd.

If we didn't hold on to the spirit of the city, it would be like all of those people lost in the Storm had died in vain . . . if we didn't stay and rebuild, if we didn't shake the caskets and dance to the beats on the mispronounced French streets.

Mother Nature had taken our homes, our schools, our electricity, and even our people, but there's no way New Orleans would let her take our traditions.

The brass band banged on. I floated down the street in the euphoric bubble with the Pleasure Club krewes in their brightly colored jackets—magenta, tangerine, and teal—and their matching hats with towering feathers. The ladies of a club who all wore lime green twirled by, waving fans made of fuchsia feathers that looked like they were borrowed from a Las Vegas showgirl's dressing room. The explosion of color against the decrepit post-Storm Ninth Ward gray was impossible to process.

But I didn't want to process anymore; I just wanted to be.

And so I danced on, past sights that will haunt me forever. It wasn't the conditions of the streets or the spray-painted Xs—those I was getting used to. It was the evidence of returned life that now stood out so starkly.

We danced past a sign painted on an old sheet:

FUCK FEMA

And then another, which had been painted on the side of a half-demolished house:

Looters will be shot on sight!!

Then another:

STILL ALIVE

I hoped they were.

The landscape didn't seem to bother anyone else, for we were rolling and today was about Bertrand and Sabine Michel and giving them their last dance.

My quads burned, and my toes bordered on numb, but the color-me-lime-clad ladies were revving up for the end of the road. Or better said, getting down—because when buckjumping, the lower you got to the ground, the better.

A lady with cushy shoulders and an enormous fuchsia-feathered hat backed up against me, nearly making me topple. Doing anything else but joining her felt downright disrespectful. The tandem dance created an energy that defied public humiliation.

Her back supported mine, and mine hers, as we bounced and bounced, getting ever closer to the ground. The people around us clapped and shouted, and the band rang louder. I laughed, worrying that if we got any lower I wouldn't be able to get back up. But the adrenaline pushed me down. And then the music pulled me back up.

I let my weight press against her back so I didn't bounce away.

But then the euphoric bubble popped. The procession halted, and the music stopped. We had arrived at the cemetery.

**********

Hi Kittens! For everyone who has been following this story since the early days, you might remember that some of this scene was in the original chapter 1 when I was writing TRC on Wattpad back in the day before the book deal! I think it works better as chapter 3 <3 <3