It wasn’t long before I no longer recognized the roads. I had ignored the road signs, since my only thought had been to get away. I wasn’t too worried, since I had my purse and a GPS on my phone to get back to the apartment. The trouble was that I wasn’t sure I wanted to go back. I could always get a hotel room for a night or two and try to solve the case on my own. Turned out, I liked being on my own with no one to answer to. I was used to being alone until Maron came along and made me think there was something better. Why did he always make me so confused? Maybe I wasn’t as immune to faerie magic as I thought.

  That sun seemed to be going down earlier that night than the night before. With the typical heat haze around the city, everything was feeling a bit gloomy. I looked away as a group of teenagers dressed entirely in black passed by talking about a vampire club meet up. The houses with their cute pastels and cast-iron terraces were losing their novelty. A frog leapt across my path, but I ignored it. Tonight we were going to leave the cult stuff alone.

  Ahead of me I could hear the beat of a hand drum and the thump of an upright bass. The closer I got to it, I began to hear the middle and upper registered instruments. The rhythm was infectious, something to dance to. I found myself drawn to the music like a submerged sailor swimming towards the single life preserver. Music was the one thing that was always there when I needed it the most.

  The cafe was small, but the atmosphere was energetic. The windows and doors were open with people streaming in and out holding drinks while dancing. Spider plants filled every corner not occupied by books or instruments. The band was playing upbeat cajun tunes on a guitar, cajon, double bass, and trumpet. Occasionally a singer with a smoky voice would belt out French lyrics with a repetitive refrain for the audience to repeat. As soon as a seat opened up near the band, I took it and clapped along.

  Although I was unfamiliar with the songs, I was getting used to the timing and I could figure out the key. I started to wish I’d brought my little button box with me to play along. While a server was passing by with empty glasses, he asked if I wanted a drink. I didn’t.

  “Musicians get one free if you join the session,” he yelled over the ruckus song.

  “How did you know I’m a musician?” I asked.

  He pointed at the small box in the center of the table and was off to fill more glasses. I blinked. My concertina was sitting next to me. Peering under the table, I glimpsed the little red cap and white beard of the Lutin from the apartment. I would have to remember to leave a present for him when I returned.

  Taking my little instrument out, I pressed a few keys along with the tune. The high-pitched notes cut through the music. The other musicians let out a cheer and waved me over to a chair in their group. I was feeling a bit anxious about it at first, but it didn’t take long for me to get swept up with the beat. Since musicians came and went to the open jam, I was hardly surprised when an excellent flutist joined and another rhythm player.

  Maron and Jack had found me with instruments in tow. The music had calmed me, and I no longer felt the need to get away from them. Jack borrowed someone’s banjo and Maron had his golden flute. They wove in and out of the music effortlessly while trying to outdo one another. Jack plucked out a speedy solo. Then Maron took it over while spinning and kicking his feet. It was a sight to behold, exactly the way many nights were when I was with Maron. I had to remind myself that things could not go back to the way they used to be.

  Maron ordered a round for the players, but then snuck a flask out of his pocket that he poured into Jack’s and my cups.

  “This is the best mead you will find in this day and age,” Maron boasted.

  “So, you do make wine.” Jack swallowed the contents of his glass in one gulp as if he had won an argument.

  “Of course. My purpose is merriment, afterall,” Maron said.

  “Overindulgence too,” Jack said. “But that’s good mead, I’ll take another!”

  After a small sip of the mead, my chest and face were burning. Even though there was no hint of bitter alcohol, I knew Maron’s drinks were potent. I’d spend the rest of the night nursing just the one. Jack and Maron, on the other hand, seemed to have perpetually full glasses.

  Suddenly, the band broke into a tango. Maron put his hand out to me and I acquiesced. We had tried to take dancing lessons together once, but I discovered it took more than rhythm to be good at it. I think I was always too self-conscious to allow myself to do the moves properly, but after a bit of mead, I was feeling less awkward.

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  Maron practically lifted me to my feet, and we strode across the floor. I wasn’t sure if we were doing well or if people were as drunk as we were, because we received encouraging shouts and applause. He twirled me around, caught me with his other hand and dipped me back. Jack watched with a smile as he played along with the rest of the band. When the song ended, Maron produced a red carnation out of seemingly nowhere and tucked it behind my ear.

  It was then that Jack leaned his chair back a bit too far. The banjo flew from his grip and hit the floor with a loud twang, while he knocked into a table full of drinks. The drinks crashed to the floor and shattered, their contents turning to ice and where Jack landed on his butt. The waiter went to assist and slipped on the ice, knocking a plant over and dirt went everywhere. The singer with the smoky voice slow-clapped sarcastically at the entire mess.

  After a great deal of apologizing, and wads of cash that neither Jack nor Maron had any discretion unloading, it was the general consensus that we should depart. We’d had a fun night, but I was relieved I wouldn’t be returning to the area any time soon.

  “You, sir, cannot handle your mead,” Maron teased.

  “What’s in that stuff?” Jack asked with a hiccup.

  Slightly ahead of them, I did not calculate the drop from the first step of the cafe and nearly fell flat onto the sidewalk. Luckily, Jack caught me on one side and Maron on the other. The three of us linked arms and like a good group of drunken idiots wandered down the road singing a song in the worst French anyone has ever mustered.

  “Pardon, Pardon!”

  “N’est pas mon…foot?”

  “Non! Non! Pardon, Pardon.”

  Perhaps we would have blended in on mardi gras, but for a random Saturday evening in the summer, I was surprised we didn’t get a single officer called on us for public intoxication. Even for New Orleans, we were over-the-top obnoxious. Eventually, somehow, we stumbled our way to our apartment. The fluorescent lights on the outside of the beignet shop were off to indicate it was closed. Jack eyed the narrow ladder to get up to the fire escape and then back to us. With our instruments alone it would be a challenging climb, but while intoxicated, I didn’t want to chance it.

  Jack thought better of it too and tugged on the glass door to the shop. He pulled a little too hard and it flew open with ease causing him to teeter on his foot and fall into the front entranceway. He slid onto his stomach like a penguin down an icy slope. Maron and I burst out laughing. I set my concertina and purse on a nearby table to help Jack get back up and steady himself on the doorframe.

  The room was much darker than outside, with the shades pulled down over the windows and door. It was taking a moment for my eyes to adjust. Jack leaned on a nearby table where freshly sugared beignets were sitting on a plate. He scooped one up and brought it to his mouth. Maron was standing very still peering further into the shop.

  “Sweet, I’m starving,” he said.

  The word, ‘sweet,’ struck a chord in my mind. I recalled Lopes telling us about how her friend ate lead paint chips because they were sweet. Lead was sweet! The creepy beignet owner went to the church gatherings. He was using the beignets to poison the cultists and likely the whole city. I instantly felt ill thinking that I had enjoyed the beignets upon my arrival.

  “Jack! Don’t eat that!”

  “Hmmf?” He asked with a mouth full of pastry.

  “It’s covered in lead!”

  It was then I realized we weren’t alone in the shop. Candles flickered on the far end of the room reveal a group of a dozen people standing in a circle together. The walls which once had shoreline photos, now had paintings of enormous amphibians emerging from the watery depths. Hooded figures turned to look at the disturbance. We had interrupted their ritual. There were men and women holding daggers and looking around wildly. Some had chunks of hair missing other’s lacked teeth. Empty beignet plates were strewn about the room covered in powdered sugar.

  The tables had been shoved against the walls of the shop to make room for the ceremony. There was a circle of a red substance painted around the group with candles placed every few feet. Symbols had been hand-painted onto the walls and chairs in what looked like blood. I was impressed by the effort put in to change the appearance of the shop. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought I walked into an entirely different building.

  In the center of the circle, the shop owner had his arms raised. He was not wearing a shirt, and his blotchy skin was covered in lumps. He had worked up a sweat from the chanting, and his mouth was wide open gasping for air.

  “The Advent is upon us! Do not let them interfere. I am the avatar, my transformation must complete before the devourer cleanses the city!” He gargled while screaming. Then he went back to his chanting, “Advent Anura! Advent Anura!”

  We stood with our backs to the door, as a dozen crazed cultists readied themselves to attack with ceremonial daggers.

  “In retrospect,” I said to Jack, “we really should have seen this coming.”