Page 40 of The Debutantes
We’re all wearing the same masquerade kind, sparkly and ribboned, like that one episode ofGossip Girl.We picked them up at another shop around the corner, which, for some reason, wasn’t closed yet. But that’s French Quarter logic: it runs on its own time, especially on a night like tonight. The streets are packed with tourists and locals, everyone drunk on giant cocktails and the open-container law.
On a different New Year’s, Lily, Sav, and I might be with them, splitting a Hand Grenade and dancing along to the music playing on every corner, live jazz and Top 40 hits all blending together like a chaotic playlist on shuffle. It’s the kind of night that reminds me how much I love New Orleans, that makes me sad for everyone who grew up anywhere else.
But tonight, I can’t enjoy it. Because Lily still isn’t here, and now, we’ve somehow gone from gently waterboarding Milford to sneaking into a secret society.
Which I’m pretty sure might still be a bad idea. There are some obvious connections between Lily and Margot, but following her lighter to a secret “gentleman’s club” full of old Deus guys? There’s a very real chance we leave with nothing but a deep desire to bleach our eyes.
Still, it’s not like we have any other clues. It’s either this or waiting for forty-eight hours to turn into even more, wondering if the worst will happen. If I could have done something to stop it.
“I’m texting him again,” Piper says, whipping out her phone.
Next to us, April peeks through the gift-shop windows, fidgeting with her mask, like she’s not sure what to do with her hands without the camera. She’s looking at a statue behind the glass, a wolflike thing with sharp jagged teeth, glowing red eyes, and pointed claws.
“A Rougarou,” I realize. “Like that one they have at the zoo, right?”
April nods. “It was always my favorite part.”
“Seriously? That shit gave me nightmares.” I shudder, thinking of the swamp exhibit at the Audubon Zoo, where a giant Rougarou figure poses midgrowl, feet crunching over fake mulch, skulls, and baby shoes. As the Cajun legend goes, he huntschildren at night, hungry for human blood. So, you know, anobviouscreature to put on display at a zoo for kids. Somehow, it doesn’t surprise me that baby April was into it.
Fireworks pop somewhere over the river, pulling my attention away from the window just in time to see Milford walking up.
“Oh my god,finally,” Piper says. “You’re ten minutes late.”
He shrugs. “Parking here sucks.”
His wet clothes from earlier are swapped for the same suit he wore at Les Masques, and I look down at my own outfit, still the festive-casual jumpsuit I wore to Piper’s. “Um, a dress-code memo would have been nice?”
“They have stuff you can change into inside.”
“Oh, good.” I gesture at the closed gift shop. “I’ve been looking for aWILL FLASH BOOBS FOR BEADST-shirt.”
Milford ignores me, and I can’t fight the glare on my face.
“When we get in there, y’all need to be quiet,” he says, pulling a mask out of his pocket. It’s one of those half-face ones like inThe Phantom of the Opera.“And don’t tell anyone who you are. I gave them fake names for you. Got it?”
“Fine,” Piper answers, clearly as annoyed as I am.
Milford puts on the mask. “Come on.”
He reaches for the door, and it swings open. Guess it wasn’t locked after all.
Inside, Lagniappe Land looks exactly like it did from the window: a boring gift shop. The lights are off, but there’s a twenty-something guy at the register, a lamp shining behind him as he scrolls through his phone.
Milford smooths out his suit jacket. “I’m here for the feast.”
Sorry, thewhat? I clench my teeth to keep from asking out loud. This is going from weird to full-on cult territory.
The guy behind the desk gives a tired nod and walks over to a nearby shelf of books. He pulls on the edge, and it opens to reveal a velvet-lined staircase, twisting up to somewhere we can’t see.
Okay,definitelycult territory.
Milford steps through the secret passage, and I glance at April and Piper. They both look a little nervous behind their masks, but I don’t think any of us wants to give up now. I’m starting to understand those girls in horror movies who walk down dark halls because they have to know what’s in the shadows.
We follow him in. As the desk guy comes to close the door behind us, he gives us each a once-over, lingering on my mask with a small smirk. Then he shuts it, leaving the three of us and Milford alone in the stairwell.
“Okay, what the hell is ‘the feast’?” I ask.
“It’s just the code to get in,” Milford says, tense.
