Mr. Eaton killed the engine and walked around to the passenger side to open the door for Amma. She swatted at him as he tried to help her down. He should’ve known better. Amma was barely five feet tall and a hundred pounds, but there was nothing frail about her. She followed him toward the field and the Outer Door, her white gloves glowing in the darkness.
I opened the door to the Beater as quietly as I could. “Hurry up, or we’ll lose them.”
“Are you kiddin’? I can hear them yappin’ all the way from here.”
“Seriously?” I knew Link had powers, but I guess I didn’t expect them to be so powerful.
“I’m not one a those lame superheroes like Aquaman.” Link wasn’t impressed with my abilities as a Wayward. Aside from being pretty good with a map and the Arclight, it wasn’t too clear what I could do, or why. So, yeah, Aquaman was about right.
Link was still talking. “I’m thinkin’ Magneto or Wolverine.”
“Had any luck bending metal with your mind or shooting knives out of your knuckles?”
“No. But I’m workin’ on it.” Link stopped walking. “Hold on. They’re talkin’.”
“What are they saying?”
“Mr. Eaton’s lookin’ for his Caster key to open the door, and Amma’s givin’ him an earful about misplacin’ his stuff.” That sounded like Amma. “Wait. He found his key, and he’s openin’ the door. Now he’s helpin’ Amma down.” Link paused.
“What’s happening?”
Link took a few steps forward. “Mr. Eaton’s leavin’. Amma went down alone.”
I shouldn’t have been worried. Amma had been in the Tunnels by herself lots of times, usually to find me. But I had a bad feeling. We waited until Mr. Eaton was headed back to his truck, and then we bolted for the Outer Door.
Link was there first, which was hard not to notice, because he gave new meaning to fast. I bent down next to him, studying the outline of the door—one you’d never notice unless you were looking for it. “So, how do we get in? I’m guessing you don’t have your garden shears with you.” The last time we were here, Link had pried the door open with a gigantic pair of garden shears he’d stolen from the Jackson bio lab.
“Don’t need ’em. I’ve got a key.” I stared at the crescent-shaped key. Even Lena didn’t have one.
“Where did you steal that?”
Link punched me in the shoulder, lightly. I flew backward and landed in the dirt.
“Sorry, man. I don’t know my own strength.” He pulled me back up and worked the key into the lock. “Lena’s uncle gave it to me so I can meet him in his creepy study and learn how to be the good kind a Incubus.” It sounded like Macon, who had spent years teaching himself the restraint necessary to feed off Mortal dreams instead of blood.
I couldn’t help but think of the alternative—Hunting and his Blood Pack, and Abraham.
The key worked, and Link heaved the round door open proudly. “See—Magneto. Told you.”
Usually I would’ve made a joke, but tonight I didn’t. Link was a whole lot closer to being Magneto then I was.
This Tunnel reminded me of a dungeon in an old castle. The ceiling was low, and the rough rock walls were wet. The sound of dripping water echoed through the passageway, although there was no sign of the source. I had been in this Tunnel before, but somehow it felt different tonight—or maybe it was me that had changed. Either way, the walls felt close, and I wanted to get to the end.
“Hurry up or we’ll lose her.” I was actually the one slowing us down, tripping in the darkness.
“Relax. She sounds like a horse walkin’ through gravel. There’s no way we’ll lose her.” It wasn’t an analogy Amma would appreciate.
“You can really hear her footsteps?” I couldn’t even hear his.
“Yeah. I can smell her, too. Follow the pencil lead and Red Hots.”
So Link followed the smell of Amma’s crossword puzzles and her favorite candy, and I followed him until he stopped at the base of a crude set of stairs that led back up to the Mortal world. He inhaled deeply, the way he used to when one of Amma’s peach cobblers was baking in the oven. “She went up there.”
“You sure?”
Link lifted an eyebrow. “Can my mom preach to a preacher?”
Link pushed open the heavy stone door, and light flooded into the Tunnel. We were behind some old building, the door etched into the chipped brick. The air was thick and sticky with the distinct stench of beer and sweat. “Where the hell are we?”
Nothing looked familiar. “No clue.”
Link walked around to the front of the building. The smell of beer was even stronger. He peered into the window. “This place is some kind of pub.”
There was a cast-iron placard next to the door: LAFITTE’S BLACKSMITH SHOP.
“This doesn’t look like a blacksmith’s shop.”
“That’s because it isn’t.” An elderly man in a Panama hat, like the one Aunt Prue’s last husband used to wear, walked up behind Link. He leaned heavily on his cane. “You are standin’ in front a one a Bourbon Street’s most infamous buildin’s, and the hist’ry a this place is as famous as the Quarter itself.”
Bourbon Street. The French Quarter. “We’re in New Orleans.”