The Poseidon Express emerges from the body of water and runs its wheels across the tracks with a loud squeak. High heels and million-dollar loafers brush against the thick, red carpet covering the floors. Some are finished with their tea and champagne; others are too self-absorbed to pick up after themselves.

The train conductor excuses the two overly-dressed women and announces they have finally reached New Orleans, Louisiana. Many rejoice, while a few, like Ichabod, struggle to get off their comfortable seats.

Laughing, I fetch my backpack and beaded handbag and kiss Ichabod on his head.

"Hey, Crane," I croon. "Are you feeling tired?"

He places his paw on my cheek and lets out a tired meow.

"Okay," I whisper.

I open my front backpack pouch, let Ichabod inside, grab the rest of my stuff, and leave before Oliver talks to me.

Squeezing between the crowd of rich people, I enter the damp tunnels crafted from shale. Green water glosses across the smooth, gray surface, reeking of rotten eggs.

Cigarette smoke, French accents, and Southern songs linger in the muggy air as rich, old, young, black, and white people make a sluggish beeline toward the satin-white seats.

Tugging the sleeve of his flannel, Hugo forces his tired  feet to drag on the smooth surface, avoiding the civilians maneuvering around him. After that, he follows me to a flight of stairs leading us out of the humid train station.

I grasp the wood stair rail pierced into the rocky wall and then force myself to ascend along the concrete stairs. Hugo follows me until we stumble upon a wooden door cemented to the wall.

Surprised, I approach it and press my ear against the rough surface. One minute, I'm hearing shattering dishes and broken English, and the next, I'm listening to sixties music playing in the background.

"Hey, Teddy," Hugo whispers. "What are you listening to?"

I lift my head from the frigid surface and ask, "Why are you still following me?"

"Because I'm lost," he answers.

"Then ask someone who can help you."

"But I don't know anyone in these shitty tunnels."

I exhale and let out a sigh. "Fine, I'll lead you out of the tunnel, but don't ask me again for any favors."

Hugo nods. He gives me a Scout's Honor sign, then watches as I open the door and find myself standing in an unfamiliar restaurant.

The customers walk in and out of the restaurant like clockwork. All the booths are drenched in this glossy brown color. Ceiling fans spin fast enough to fend off the flies buzzing inside the diner.

As Hugo runs his finger along the oak-brown table, his ears heighten as the jukebox plays "Shout Sister Shout" by Sister Rosetta Tharpe.

Sugary pecan pralines and beignets waft from the kitchen window to our noses. More train passengers come through the back door, both surprised and relieved. The servers welcome us with open arms before handing us a menu and a free beignet.

Hugo scans his eyes at the lively diner until a black waitress in a pale pink uniform and white slippers walks over to us.

Golden hoops dance inside her brown earlobes. Her eyelids are smudged with blue eyeshadow. A black, stretchy choker hugs my neck while a silver locket glides across her breasts. She's cute, but her bright pink lip gloss does not compliment her look.

"Y'all seem distracted." she comments. "Did y'all just come from the station or what?"

"I guess so," Hugo replies with a laugh.

"Anyways, welcome to Doc Win's Cajun Shack. If you guys have already decided what you would like to eat, please sit on the bar stools."

Hugo and I trade a look at one another before sitting on the two empty bar stools.

We peel our jackets and stuff them in our bags. Ichabod leaps out of the pouch and takes the time to stretch his legs when the waitress looks down at the cat, yanking the sharp pencil from her left ear.

"Is the cat dining with you two?" she inquires.

"Nope," I beam. "Ichabod and I are taking our meals to go."

"What would you like, little kitty?" asked the server.

Ichabod squirms out of the backpack pouch and pounces on my lap. "I want fried chicken, a beer, a Cochon de Lait, fries, and-"

"Give my cat some packaged cat food and a bottle of milk," I request, cutting him off. "And I'd like a Meatball Po'Boy and a Coke, please."

"What about you, handsome?" the server asks Hugo.

He looks at the menu sign above his head, sighs, and tells her he'll have the same.

The server bobs her head and leaves while I fold my arms on the emerald green countertop and put my head down. Cold air rains on my warm brown skin, teasing a smile on my face.

I think of closing my eyes when I glimpse wax candles, dried, white Southern Magnolia flowers, and ancient photographs of black Southerners sitting on the wooden shelves until I notice a wrinkled missing poster of Benji Horowitz beside them.

Three months ago, Benji was last seen having short dreadlocks. His acne scars decorated his dark brown, chubby face. He wore glasses, the white Jane's Addiction t-shirt I bought for him on his sixteenth birthday, a hoodie, a pair of stonewashed jeans, and red Chuck Taylors.

Benji's new friends mentioned that he went to a house party on the night of his disappearance, but this info doesn't sit well with me.

For one thing, Benji hated going to parties. He'd instead lick rust than spend an hour standing in some random guy's house, listening to shitty music. Second, Benji didn't seem like the type of person who gets invited to one - apart from me, Lea, and Casper, of course.

In the meantime, Oliver receives his Po'Boy and Coke. He reaches inside his pockets to pay the server, but I hand her a fifty-dollar bill without a word and turn my back to Hugo.

"If you want a place to stay, try a motel on 3900 Highway 90 East," I advise. "It's shitty to look at, but it's cheap."

Hugo doesn't thank me. He takes his sandwich and Coke can then leave without his change. As for me, the waitress handed me the sandwich wrapped in aluminum foil, food for Ichabod, and a soda can.

After thanking her, I leave a twenty-dollar bill on the counter, collect Hugo's change, close my backpack, and walk towards the glass door when the server stops me again. This time, she offered me a plate of free beignets smeared with honey and powdered sugar.

"Ooh, I'd like to try one," I beam, walking over to the silver dish of desserts.

I thank the server as I pick up the pastry and take two huge bites while Ichabod pleads with the waitress to give him one.

"Crane, you heard what the doctor say," I tell him. "No sugar or greasy foods."

"Come on! Just one pastry!"

"No, but I will treat you once we find a hotel."

Ichabod rolls his eyes at the filthy ceiling fan above his head, but instead of responding with his usual snark, the cat follows me outside the restaurant.

***
The second we step outside, I shove the soda can in one of my backpack's side pockets and unwrap the silver foil. I took, like, two bites out of my Po'Boy until I found my car in the parking lot.

"What the fuck?" I swear with my mouth full.

Swallowing my food, I re-wrap my Po'Boy, tuck it in my backpack, and lick the barbecue sauce off my fingers. I walk over to the vehicle and peer through the tinted glass to see the Hamsa Hand necklace tighten around the neck of the rearview mirror.

"Whoa," Ichabod murmurs. "I thought you parked the car outside the barbershop. What the hell is it doing here?"

Curious, I approach the vehicle's hood and notice the yellow paper taped onto the surface. I yank the paper off the hood, study it, and recognize the lopsided smile drawing.

My older sister must've sensed I was here and had someone teleport my car beside Doc Wins' Cajun Shack. When I tell Ichabod this, he asks me how she knew where we were.

"Andie probably used a locator spell or a fucking scrying map," I huff, burning the note with my green fire. "She's an asshole, but her spellcasting's better than mine."

Unlocking the car with my keys, Ichabod and I climb inside and drive around the area for any vacant hotel rooms. Jazz and blues music ushers through the parks, bars, clubs, malls, and other establishments. Neon lights and graffiti grab our attention as I drive across abandoned markets, stores, and bleak concrete walls.

Gumbo and red beans and rice continue to savor the autumn air. Almost every restaurant, neighborhood, parlor, abandoned mansion, and pastel-colored building is either draped in Halloween decorations or left alone. I even spot a few flyers about a grand parade and parties occurring in the French Quarter, but I can't distinguish the words.

Ruffling the map some more, I take a good look and beam, "Well, there is Hotel Monteleone, Maison Saint Charles, St. Charles Inn, and a boarding house deep within the bayou in Baton Rouge, but I think I forgot its name-"

"How about we check out your old house?" Ichabod suggests, cutting me off. "I think your family misses you."

Stuffing my sandwich into my bag, I roll my eyes to the ceiling. "I'm pretty sure they care about what people think."

"Oh, come on," the cat groans. "What about your niece? She loves you."

"I'm not exactly the role model she'd look up to, Crane." I snort. "Mom's probably telling Audrey I'm dangerous."

Folding my map into a square and tossing it in front of the dashboard, I stare at the stoplights and sigh, "Let's check out Hotel Monteleone first. I bet it has fancy bedrooms and comfortable bathrobes."

"Yeah," Ichabod agrees. "I like that idea. We could rent a movie and order some pizza."

"Jesus, we're not on vacation," I remind him. "Plus, the sky is getting dark, I doubt we'll have the time to check all the hotels out. If it comes to that, let's pick a hotel. If not, let's find a parking lot and sleep here. Just like old times."

Ichabod blinks at me.

"I don't know if it'd come to that, Terry," he says skeptically. "Plus, I doubt the cops in this place would allow a nineteen-year-old and a cat to sleep in a car right next to a Taco Bell."

Ichabod abandons his curling position and stretches his limbs. He treads his paws along the thick cushions until he unwittingly bumps into my thigh.

"Do you want to go this route?" he questions. "You'd rather drive all over Louisiana in the middle of the night than stay with your family?"

I didn't answer his question. Instead, I start the car and focus on the leaf-infested road as the crimson lights turn bright green.

***
The wealthy hotels I scribbled on the map are either checked out, closed, or expensive. On the one hand, I managed to converse with the locals. I ask questions about the boarding house and Benji's disappearance.

While many shrug, others repeat the info I read from Benji's missing posters and recommend I should talk to the police.

Yeah, as if they give a damn about a black kid.

Maybe I should talk to Benji's "friends" and his parents tomorrow. They might not remember what happened that night, but with some persuasion, I'm sure they'll tell me something about his death.

The street lights go out like a flame sitting on the candlewick. People are already going home, and a sense of dread is gaining on me. I look down at the odometer and express a sigh of relief. The car still has enough to send me and Ichabod deep into the swamp.

Tourist attractions and boisterous music are replaced with chirping frogs, algae-infested waters, and vast vegetation. The headlights shine on the old, gray moss hanging from the ancient cypress trees.

Thick, old grass conceals the ground, but even so, I steer my Volkswagen along the thin tire tracks until I reach the old Victorian manor. In front of it stood a tall, iron gate covered in vines and shrubs.

Layers of mud, moss, and mold smear the mansion's scarlet paint. Surrounding the manor is a manicured garden full of flowers. The bricked pathway to the house is plagued with weeds and cracks. Autumn winds rock the trees into their eternal sleep.

Tied to the thick branches are colored bottles. The brown rope tightens around their glossy necks, their fragile bodies clinking against each other like bells.

Believe it or not, Casper's mom owns this estate. One time, Casper told me that after his grandmother died, she left the deed to the place to Casper's mother and had witches spell-proof it in case something terrible happened.

As soon as I shut off the engine, Ichabod turns to me and asks, "Are you sure this is the place? Because it looks like a set of some cheesy 80s horror movie."

I look at the map again and shrug my shoulders. "I think so."

"Really?"

"You don't believe me?"

"Uh, no. Because it looks like a piece of-"

Knock! Knock!

Ichabod and I jump at the noise. Our eyes broaden with sheer horror as we stop talking and see my best friend, Casper De La Cruz, standing near my door. He adjusts his orange beanie, letting his thick, black curls brush the back of his neck.

Casper's eclectic style includes a Yin-Yang necklace, an oversized, bright red Hawaiian-print shirt, baggy jeans, and well-worn black Adidas sneakers. Though Casper's a little shorter than me, his slim skateboarder build allows him to wear whatever he likes. As he unwraps a stick of bubblegum, the white sleeves of his undershirt cover his arms.

Shock catches my breath. I place my hand on my chest and then glare at Casper, whose innocent smile stretches across his face.

"Teddy, is that you?" he exclaims. "Holy shit! It's so awesome to see you!"

"Well, if you hadn't scared us to death, we wouldn't live long enough to see you!" I growl.

Casper scratches the back of his head. "Yeah, sorry about that, Teddy? What are you and your cat doing here, anyway?"

"We're trying to find a hotel, but all the places are closed," I answer reluctantly. "Do you think your mom could let us in the house for the night?"

"Really?" he asks, raising his left eyebrow. "I hate to sound like an asshole, but don't you want to head back to your house? Maybe talk to your-"

"Please ask your mom," I pleaded. "Or at least let me park my car somewhere."

The eighteen-year-old shapeshifter frowns. He slides his hands deep into his pants pockets, briefly turns away from the car, and looks at the creepy manor behind the rusted gates.

"Alright, fine. Just stay here, okay," Casper sighs. "I'll let my foster mom know you guys are here."
© kstorm68q