The Second Line slowly walked underneath an iron archway that spelled out ST. VINCENT DE PAUL CEMETERY No. 1, and the mood changed so suddenly, chills swept up my arms.

As the priest led our procession to Bertrand and Sabine's new home, a solo came from Alphonse Jones's horn, so somber and quiet I could hear the birds swooping above us. Michel had been carved into the mausoleum where Jeanne and Sébastien's parents already resided. I'd never given the idea of eternity much thought, but now its vastness sucked me in like a black hole.

They were gone forever.

The pallbearers set the casket down, and my father walked over to join me. He stretched his back. "I'm getting too old—"

I plowed into him like a child, my arms locking tightly around his chest, as I buried my face in his shoulder.

"Hey," he said, cupping the back of my head.

"I don't want you to die, Dad."

"Sweetheart, I'm not going to die. Well, not anytime soon."

"I don't want you to die ever."

"I guess you'll be accompanying me on more runs, then?"

I looked up with a meek smile.

He rested his arm around my shoulder and guided me to the front row. Jeanne and Sébastien filled the space on my other side, Dee and the Borges on his other side. Isaac filed behind us with Ren's crew and the Daures. I hoped neither of them had just witnessed the moment with my father; surely that was crier behavior. The rest of the crowd filled in, and the priest moved to the head of the closed casket.

I tried not to think about the level of decomposition hidden underneath the lid. I tried not to think about how much the casket looked like les cassettes stacked in the convent attic.

"May the souls of the faithful departed through the mercy of God rest in peace." Father McKinley's voice was the kind that made you believe things, like Ritha's, and as he spoke about life and about death, I was moved by his words . . . until he began to talk about forgiveness.

I will never forgive Emilio for what he did. To Mémé and Pépé or to my mother. My clammy palms clutched handfuls of my skirt. Was it random when he killed her, or was it planned? Had Nicco known he was going to do it? My chain rippled against my chest, along with the sun charm and Isaac's feather. I took a deep breath.

When Father McKinley finished, my father left my side to deliver the eulogy. He did his best to keep the speech lighthearted, starting out with a joke about Bertrand's "French hours" fitting perfectly into New Orleanian work culture. I caught sight of Ritha's expression—the one worn too often by New Orleanians lately—the how did this senseless tragedy happen look.

My pulse accelerated thinking about exactly how it had happened. Ritha knows about the coven. She knows about my magic. Another ripple of my necklace made chills jaunt down my spine.

Ritha looked down at the rosary woven between her fingers, then unthreaded the beads and held them in her palm. I felt my eyes go wide as I realized her beads were shaking too.

Relax, Adele. I turned back to my father as he finished with a comment about how he hoped Sabine had passed the recipe for her heavenly croissants on to me.

Jeanne and Sébastien got up and walked to the podium, leaving the two chairs on my other side empty too. I crossed and uncrossed my ankles, feeling all of the metal around me. I slid my hands underneath my legs. And then, just as the next wave of anxiety came, arms slid around my shoulders from behind and locked in place. I nearly jumped up, thinking that Isaac had lost his mind, but as the arms pressed, weighing me down, familiarity rushed me rather than anxiety.

"It's going to be okay," Codi whispered into my ear, just loud enough for me and no one else to hear, like he'd done when we were kids. "I've got you."

I nodded, my hand reaching for his arm, and I inhaled.

The twins took my father's place at the podium, and Codi's arms slipped away as my father sat back down and took my hand in his.

Tears came to Jeanne's eyes, but then she took a deep breath and sucked them back. Her words came out in her clear, strong voice. "What kind of monster preys on two innocent senior citizens? A pathetic coward." She got louder as she continued to lambast the unknown murderer. "Not only did you kill the only family we have left, but you ruined two cadavers that were supposed to be donated to science!"

Sébastien turned a bright shade of red and he cut her off. "We're just so thankful that Mémé and Pépé can finally rest in peace. Merci for coming, everyone."

They came back to their places, all four aquamarine eyes on me, and in the silence, Jeanne's words pounded into my head.

"Adele?" my father whispered, and his hand moved to my back.

Other than my pounding heart, every inch of my body felt paralyzed.

"It's okay if you don't want to . . ." His voice sounded distant.

"Non. Ça va," I said, getting up. I tried to hold a neutral expression as I walked to the front.

I moved the sunglasses to the top of my head and tried to channel Brooke's fearlessness, but the guilt was overtaking me. I just knew everyone could see straight through my wide eyes into all of my memories.

All of my secrets.

Everyone in the crowd had the same poor little girl look of sympathy. A wave of undeservedness made me feel light-headed. I shifted my focus from the crowd to the casket.

You can do this, Adele. Pour Mémé et Pépé.

My first remark came out in perfect French, and I got a handful of recognition from the small Francophile contingency. After I translated the sentence, I took a pause for people to understand the joke, but all I got back were the same blank stares.

Ren's brow dipped in concern, and then so did Chatham's, and I realized I'd repeated the line in French. My gaze went back to Mémé and Pépé. I clutched my shaking hands together behind my back and tried a third time, but the words still came out in French. The warble in my voice made my face flush, and the flutters moved from my stomach to my lungs until they expanded so much I could barely breathe. The speech I'd written seemed so stupid now. Lies. Nicco had warned me that his family would retaliate, and I'd done nothing that night to protect anyone. This was the consequence.

Focus.

But I couldn't think. The multitude of brass instruments out in the crowd overwhelmed my senses. The only person who wasn't staring at me was Ritha. She was squinting at the casket. I squinted too, and that's when I realized the screws in the hinges were slowly turning—one was almost completely out. It tinked to the floor. She looked straight at me. The tremble in my hands mutated into a violent shake. Any second now the instruments would start to shake too.

"Désolée!" My voice cracked out the apology. "Désolée!" And then I bolted down the center aisle.

My father gripped Isaac's shoulder as I ran past. "Let her have some space."

Heads rippled as I hurried past the tombs. I had to escape the burning looks of sympathy. As I ran straight through the iron archway, it took all of my strength to keep the gate from slamming closed behind me.

I could barely feel my pinched toes as my shoes pounded the pavement.

Faster.

Faster.

The faster I ran, the easier it was to fight the tears.

***

By the time the NOSA campus was in sight, my chest felt like it was going to explode, and by the time I made it around the final building to the statue, I was panting.

I fell to the ground, the dead grass crunching under my lamé skirt, and leaned up against the metal figure. She was cool through my thin blouse. My toes pulsed with pain. I kicked off my shoes and raised my hands over my head, trying to catch my breath; when I looked up, I saw her. My mother. I still hadn't returned the mask to the statue.

Why did you come here, Adele? But I knew the answer. I always came here.

I just hadn't been back since Halloween night, when I discovered it was Brigitte beneath the carnival mask. The night I locked her in the convent attic, before the coven cast the slumbering spell—a spell that we weren't even certain worked. For all I knew my mother was dead.

Twice over.

Suddenly my safe space felt unfamiliar. Tainted. Undeserving. What if I killed my mother for good? I'd scorched her just before I locked the shutter—before Niccolò Medici hurled me out the third-story window.

Nicco let go of my hands.

Sparks buzzed from my palms. I balled them into fists.

I was glad to have a wall of spells between us. I wanted to launch him into another dimension for betraying me. For betraying us.

"There was no us!" I screamed to no one. It was the millionth time I'd told myself the words. "There is something seriously wrong with your judgment of character, Adele. Forget about him!"

"Forget about her" was a mantra I'd been telling myself for the last twelve years in regard to my mother. Every year it got easier. I said the mantra on every birthday when she didn't call, every Mother's Day when I had no one to celebrate with, and every Christmas when it was just me and my dad, until she rarely crossed my mind. The only reminder of her was the sadness in my father's eyes.

Now that I knew she hadn't just abandoned us, per se, she was harder to forget. There were so many questions I wanted to ask her. I wanted to know what happened. I wanted to know if she really still cared about me. I wanted to apologize for hating her all these years.

The longer I sat under the statue, the more anxious I became, until suddenly I was squeezing my swollen feet into my shoes and walking the remaining blocks back to the French Quarter.

I told myself I was going home.

As I walked my thoughts remained on my father, who was surely freaking out by now. Would he hate me if he knew what I did to my mother?

Would he still love her if he knew she was a vampire? Should I still love her? I barely even remembered loving her as a human.

My pace quickened to a near jog. Again, I told myself I was going home.

I imagined myself opening the front door, running up to my bedroom, pulling off the constricting clothes, and flopping on my bed, crying. Go home, Adele. I imagined myself mourning for the Michels and for my mother.

But my feet disagreed. My heart knew I was lying to myself.

Go home, Adele.

Go.

Home.

The gate swung open, and I weaved my way through the overgrown hedges, panting and overwhelmed with guilt.

With each step I told myself to turn back, but then I found myself walking through the front door. I felt compelled to move fast—like I might change my mind if I slowed down. My feet screamed as I pounded the stairs, the skin having rubbed off in spots.

I wound up the staircase, passing the second floor, gaining speed up the steps to the next, and then I was standing in front of the giant padlock on the door that closed off the third floor—the door Nicco had broken when Gabe's strength had failed, when I thought we were on the same team.

My chest puffed up, struggling to regain breath.

When I touched the wooden door, the tinge of nostalgia mixed with guilt was like a bullet to the gut.

Which was worse: Locking up my mother for eternity, or not telling my father what I'd learned about her disappearance? Or knowing how many had died at the hands of these predators before I acted to stop it?

Or the fact that I still thought about Nicco?

You can't do this to the coven, Adele. Or to Adeline's coven. Do you really need a reminder of Medici retaliation on today of all days?

My stomach clenched as my fingers whipped across the padlock, ripping it away. The lock hit the ground, the loud thud echoing behind me as I hurried on while I still had the courage to do it.

Courage? You're delusional.

My eyes were slow to adjust to the dark hallway, and despite the lack of light, despite having only been inside the attic once, something guided me through the sea of objects in the storage room, as if I'd done it a thousand times. Emotion? Intuition? It certainly wasn't instinct, because my instincts screamed at me to turn around, asking me if I wanted to die. The darkness flooded around me like quicksand trying to prevent me from trudging closer.

Turn around, Adele.

The tingles started in my toes; I moved down the hallway as if magnetized. When I got to the small door, the tingle ripped up my spine. Goose bumps clutched the back of my head.

Don't do this. Go. Home.

The protection wards pulsed like a shield around the door, far stronger than the first time I'd managed to undo the locks.

Can I even break the slumbering spell on my own?

My hands shook as I brushed the series of intricate locks that lined the door. A giant, invisible fist pounded against my heart.

Thump-thump.

I pressed my cheek lightly against the wood. It was cool on my skin. Almost damp from the humidity.

No sound came from the other side. Perfect silence.

What are you expecting to hear? A tea party?

I remembered the excitement radiating from Gabriel as he'd stood behind me, waiting for me to undo the enchanted locks, and the anxiety that had radiated from Nicco. The memory of him was so strong I glanced behind just to make sure I was still alone.

Thump-thump.

My stomach clenched; I pressed my forehead against the door. You were wrong about him, Adele. And nothing had felt right since. Being wrong about him made my whole world feel slightly off-kilter, even more than when I'd found out he was a vampire, even more than when I found out that Isaac was the crow.

Isaac.

Thump-thump.

Thump-thump.

Isaac never had problems doing the right thing. Everything was so black and white for him. Good. Bad. Right. Wrong. All vampires were monsters.

What's wrong with me? Why do I want to open the door so badly? Was it love, or was it curiosity? Why did my mom help me escape? Could she really be completely horrible?

I grasped the door handle to keep my body from shaking. Why did Nicco let go of my hands? I slumped to my knees, fighting the tears.

Fighting myself.

Never trust a vampire.

Thump-thump.