“I could stay, too,” Burke said. “I’d be happy to help.”
I could see Tadji’s internal war—she’d rather be alone than deal with an uncomfortable assistant—but she was gracious enough to know that this wasn’t about her, but Gunnar and his family. And it probably wasn’t a good idea for her to be here alone, just in case.
She nodded. “That’d be great, Burke. Thank you.”
So as Burke and Tadji began to clear things from the table, we worked out the transportation. Campbell had driven, so he’d take me, Gunnar, and Liam to the house.
For now, that was plan enough.
? ? ?
Campbell had an old-fashioned, military-style jeep. Two seats in front, a bench in back, the doors open. The vehicle had been stripped of most electronics since they weren’t reliable anyway. It wasn’t pretty, but it was as solid as you could get in the Zone.
“Tell us what happened,” Liam said when we’d climbed into the back, and Gunnar and Campbell had taken the front.
“Emme was on her way home from school. She’s a sophomore at Tulane,” he added, glancing in the rearview mirror to meet our gazes.
“She has a car, gets home around the same time most days, and Zach keeps an eye out for her.”
“Zach?” Liam asked.
“My younger brother,” Gunnar said.
Campbell nodded. “He checked the window, saw them—two male wraiths.”
Liam and I exchanged a glance. It didn’t take much to imagine they were the same wraiths I’d fought the night before. But we wouldn’t know that for sure unless we found them.
“They attacked her when she got out of the car. Zach ran out to help her, used a flare gun to scare them off, but not before they got violent.”
Flare guns were popular in New Orleans during and after the war. When phones didn’t work, you could send up a flare to signal emergency or to alert Containment crews.
“He got her inside, and your father helped her.”
Campbell turned the vehicle onto St. Charles Avenue. Before the war, St. Charles had been the primary street on the New Orleans star tour—the street where the famous writer had lived, the actor, the chef, the former senator. They’d celebrated their money with architectural grandeur, not that it was worth much now.
It was a four-lane road separated by a median of streetcar tracks, what we called the “neutral ground.” Both sides of the street and the neutral ground had once been lined with trees, including tons of live oaks planted after the storm. Some had been knocked down in battle. Others had died when magic seeped into the soil, or when humans had cut them down to make firewood.
The neighborhood’s mansions, businesses, and high-rises hadn’t fared much better. Many had been leveled, especially near Lafayette Cemetery No. 1, where there’d been heavy fighting during the Second Battle.
“What happened to the wraiths?” Liam asked.
“I don’t know,” Campbell said. “I guess Zach scared them off?”
If it was the same two wraiths that I’d seen in the Quarter, that was two nights in a row they’d attacked and been scared off. I didn’t think we’d stay that lucky for much longer.
The Landreau house was two stately stories in creamy yellow fronted by porches and marked with columns. The main house had once been surrounded by palm trees, so tours had referred to it as the “Palm Tree House.” I’d passed it a dozen times as a teenager. I hadn’t known Gunnar then, but I’d known the house. Now the trees were mostly gone, and so were most of the Landreaus’ neighbors.
We parked and climbed out of the jeep. There was a Containment vehicle at the curb, a few agents milling around. Even the sight of them made me nervous.
“You’ll be fine,” Liam murmured. “They’ll have already interviewed the family.”
Gunnar jogged to one of the agents, nodded at whatever information he got, then joined us again.
Campbell’s wife, Sloane, met us at the front door. Gunnar embraced her, and we followed them in silence through the house.
It looked, as it always did, untouched by war. No soot on the walls, no smears from magical fire on the antique carpets. The furniture was expensive and immaculate, the crown molding pristine, pretty little art objects and framed photographs on nearly every surface. The house blazed with lights, and the air was frigid. The Landreaus had two generators, and they’d donated several dozen to the city’s remaining schools. They’d also paid a small fortune to repair their house after the war. But the city needed it. We needed normalcy. We needed hope. That was, after all, why we’d all stayed—because we believed regular life in New Orleans would be possible again someday.