Phantom: A Dark Retelling (Tattered Curtain Series)

Scarlett

I worry the hem of the gray sheath dress Sol set out for me while I showered. Since I don’t even own one like this, I suspect Sol’s been collecting outfits for me somehow. Maybe sending his more stylish shadows to fetch them.

The dress is going to be hot though. The humidity here in New Orleans makes even the coolest day stifling, and I have to put a ton of product in my hair to keep the curls from acting wilder than normal. It’s a good temperature in Sol’s Aston Martin and he’s looking practically edible in his black designer suit and white button-down, with a gray tie to match.

Instead of my favorite bone-white mask, he’s wearing the one that looks like Ben, and his midnight glass eye is back in. More than once, he’s scrutinized himself in the rearview mirror, and he seems unable to stop itching around the mask and rubbing his eye. The combined move makes me wonder if he’s more uncomfortable physically, or mentally, with them on. If he keeps drawing attention to it, there will be no way he’ll fool people up close in the broad daylight. But it’s at least less conspicuous than his favored mask and eyepiece.

Not knowing why he’s pulling another smoke and mirrors act, nerves have me brushing away invisible dust from the remnants of my powdered sugar–covered beignet.

When we left, a bouquet of burgundy snapdragons and still-warm beignets were at his door, dropped off by a shadow. At first I thought the bouquet was for me, but he told me to bring it along. Obviously, I couldn’t leave warm beignets behind, and I was surprised as hell that he let me eat them in the car with the caveat that he get one, too. I took that deal in a heartbeat, scarfing the other two down in seconds, despite the fact that I was in nice clothes.

It was embarrassing when I got the white sugary cloud all over me, but he only grinned and provided me some napkins from the center console, as if he’d expected my disastrous eating habits, which, I guess after last night’s near-catastrophe with my gumbo and satin dress, I don’t blame him. Though, I was equally pleased when he didn’t bat an eyelash as I dumped the remaining sugar in my chicory coffee.

He slows to a stop on a random side street outside a brick wall portion of St. Louis Cemetery No.1. A man, nearly as tall as Sol, in a hoodie and bone-white skull mask comes to open my door. He takes the bouquet from my hands to help me out, and when Sol rounds the hood, he trades the flowers for the keys.

“We’ll be back at the normal time. Do you have your other mask?” The hooded shadow nods and pats his pocket. “Good, drive around with it on.”

“Yes, sir,” the hooded man responds and slides into the driver’s seat, moving almost as gracefully as the Phantom.

“What was that about?” I ask Sol before turning back to the Aston Martin. Sitting in the car now is Ben. Or, the shadow with Ben’s face on.

“How many people have one of those masks?”

“Very few. My prosthetist fitted my most trusted shadows with full silicone masks that look like Ben. We authorize them to wear them so they can pass as one of us behind tinted windows or in low light. It’s not perfect, but the mask protects people like Miss Mabel, and gives the illusion that we’re—”

“—everywhere,” I finish.

As I watch the shadow drive away, Sol whispers a kiss against my temple. “Exactly. It’s easier to be nowhere when everyone thinks you’re everywhere.”

“And where are we now?” I ask, leaning into his touch.

“A disguised entrance to St. Louis Cemetery No.1.”

“Where Marie Laveau is buried?” I ask about the most prominent name I know entombed within New Orleans’ most famous cemetery walls.

His masked side is seemingly disinterested as he nods and I again find myself wishing I could see all of him. Will he ever again be as vulnerable with me as he was this morning? Will he show me the rest of his past?

Is it fair for me to want that, when I’m still not comfortable sharing my own?

“Actually, I have it on good authority, à la Madam G, that the grave everyone thinks is hers is just a front for tourists. The Voodoo Priestess is actually on the much quieter and more peaceful side. It avoids the drunken vandals and any disrespectful tourists.”

“Good. It always made me angry to see what’s been done to it. I get paying respects—”

“Any respect can be paid to it like an altar, while she can still be left in peace,” Sol agrees and spans his large hand across my lower back. “Come, we can’t keep her waiting.”

My eyes widen and if it weren’t for Sol’s gentle nudge, I would’ve stopped in my tracks. “Marie Laveau is waiting for us?”

“Of course not.” He chuckles. “Here, hold these.”

Rather than removing his hand from my back, he gives me the flowers, and uses his newly free hand to fish a big skeleton key from his pocket. He leads me to a section of the brick wall where paint has worn off. After glancing around, no doubt making sure we’re alone, he inserts the key into the center of a curvy X marking the brickwork. He twists it, and the wall shifts to reveal the outline of a door. Sol easily pushes the door forward and he slides it to the right like a barn door, eliciting a low rumble of metal on metal.

Once it’s open, he escorts me through the entry and returns the doorway to its stationary position behind us.

“Come, pretty muse,” Sol murmurs.

My inner muscles flutter at his command. I quickly shove my desire to the back of my mind, and enjoy the way he gently guides me with his hand pressing lightly on my lower back. The comforting touch makes me shiver and I notice in the corner of my eye that even the right side of his lips lift up in a smug, crooked grin.

The sun blazes down on us and bounces off the raised brick and stone tombs. I can already feel the sweat prickling on my nape, threatening to slide down my spine.

Sol doesn’t seem to mind the heat even in his suit as he leads us through the maze of graves. I resist stopping at each one, although the curiosity in me keeps me lingering every now and then at certain plots.

“My inquisitive little muse,” Sol teases when I get too slow. “The way you long to explore the world reminds me of how I used to be. Come on, not too much farther.”

His words make my heart twist for him, but I leave it be, for now. When I see the gravestone that’s feet taller than the others, I understand why we’re here.

Perched at the peak of a gray stone obelisk are two macabre skulls, positioned back to back. One is perpetually in a morbid laugh, while a frown is carved into the other, reminiscent of the theater tragedy and comedy masks.

A figure in black and as tall as Sol emerges from behind another grave and I have to blink a couple of times before I realize it’s Ben. His eyes flick to mine and flash with surprise before settling back on Sol.

“Just in time, brother. She’s been asking for you.”

Sol grunts his reply as we round another tomb. Maggie is on the other side, holding her daughter high up on her hip with a lace fan working away to cool them off. They’re both in black, and Maggie’s dress flatters her curves while baby Marie’s sequins glitter in the sun.

“Scarlett,” Maggie whispers with a surprised smile and quickly moves to give me a half hug. “I didn’t know you would be here this time.”

“This time?”

She nods. “We come with her to his grave every Sunday.”

My eyes dart to the tall pillar underneath the tragedy and comedy skulls. Outlining the freestanding family tomb is a short wrought iron fence, about as tall as my shins. The small patch of ground within is filled to the brim with bouquets of dried snapdragon shells. The little tan, skull-shaped husks have holes for eyes and mouths gaping open in silent screams, giving the effect that tiny skeleton heads pile around the grave.

Stone-carved tattered curtains drape the monument, unveiling the name Bordeaux engraved on a painstakingly etched stage. At the end of a long list of French and biblical names with English spelling, is one that seems weathered, but more recent than the rest. Ten years ago, from the inscription.

Jean-Pierre Abraham Bordeaux

Loving father, doting husband, dutiful leader

La vie est une grande mascarade, alors laissez les bons temps rouler.

The last part is a popular Cajun French phrase, so I access my freshman French diction class to decipher the rest until I finally figure it out.

“Life is one big masquerade, so let the good times roll.”

The tribute to both the Bordeauxs’ opera house and the New Orleans motto brings a smile to my face, until I notice the statuesque woman standing in front of it.

Her silver hair is tied up into a sleek chignon on top of her head and a black lace dress envelopes her frail body. Under her breath, she hums to herself an achingly familiar tune. She looks fragile in every way, until her midnight eyes turn to me.

A swirl of madness fights with clarity there, a look I’ve felt intimately, and my heart breaks for the woman. She’s clutching a black parasol with a skull handle, and twists a skull ring on her pale, knobby left ring finger with her thumb. The entire ensemble reminds me of the so-called superstitions I’ve always thought my friends had. It finally dawns on me that they might not be superstitious at all.

They’re Bordeauxs. People that Sol and his brother have sworn to govern and protect.

The large piece I’ve been missing in my New Orleans puzzle clicks into place. My mind whirls with theories, but I blink to focus on the older woman before me.

I hold my breath as she assesses me for a painfully long moment. The stifling heat and anxiety threaten to make me pass out.

After centuries of waiting, I’m afraid I’ve been found wanting, until she holds her hand out for me to shake. In a moment of true embarrassment, I have to quickly wipe my palm on my dress to avoid getting sweat on the poor woman before I take her hand.

It’s cool, like she hasn’t been baking out in the Big Easy’s heat for longer than three minutes. I look like a mess compared to her. But her familiar lopsided grin sets me at ease.

“You must be Scarlett. I am Valérie Bordeaux. Solomon’s mother.”