We rolled into town under the pale light of a half-moon. Our carriage bounced along the cobbled streets, making enough clatter to stir the dead, as some say. I was grateful that was just a saying. Crescent City is famous for its cemetery… a Necromancer’s playground.

Living people did poke their heads out to watch us pass. But only because we made our way through the quieter backstreets. It was the witching hour, which, honestly, meant very little here. The city was always abuzz with some activity or another, whether it be fishing skiffs coming in or a noisy parade for a funeral. Beats sitting around in church, hearing sobbing. First few times, it really weirds you out to hear cheerful music accompany stories of death.

Sure, you had your usual human debauchery—drinking, fornicating, a total disregard for one’s fellows. It was more than that though. In a place with so much stirring, it was simple for real demons and Nephilim to prance about unnoticed. Every year, dozens went missing here in Crescent City, never to be heard from again. To most, it just came with the territory. Bigger city meant more people, which meant more bad things. I knew better. Shar could have me after any number of nocuous entities.

But first, Bram needed help.

“Her place should be right up here,” I told Harker.

“Thank heavens,” he said. “Remind me to give him a piece of my mind when he’s well. Hauling us to such a despicable place…” He shook his head.

“Something tells me you won’t need much reminding.”

We pulled up to a humble cottage on Saint Anne Street. I’d been here a few times over the years. Its owner was an ally when it served her. Though I noticed a few things out of the ordinary.

First, the flickering candles I’d come to expect in the windows were absent. Just darkness and white curtains stained brown with age. Second, the sign that used to hang proudly above the door—the one that read Herbal Healer—was no longer there. Furthermore, the house looked like it went a few rounds with the devil. Then again, who hasn’t? But it worried me the place had gone vacant.

The third thing—though I suppose it might really be a fourth—was the two men nonchalantly standing nearby. To the untrained eye, they might’ve appeared to be common riff-raff having drunk too much, unable to make their way back to their homes. But to my mind, I saw them for what they were.

Dark jackets and pants—overdressed for the heat. Clean, unlike most locals. Gave me the notion they were outsiders, unaware of what it took to fit in. But the way they fudgeled around in the shadows told me they were more interested in concealment than comfort. It also told me they didn’t plan to do much in the way of moving.

Pinkertons, US Marshals, local enforcement… they were something of the like.

“Pull over here,” I commanded Harker.

He took the horses to the side of the avenue, and we made quick work of tying them up. More than once, those men gave us cop eyes, all professionally detached neutrality. I even waved, making sure they knew I saw them as much as they saw us. They turned away, subtle as a thrown brick.

I slipped Timperina a hard-pressed cake and patted her lightly. She looked tired as a coal mine mule. “You rest now, girl. We’re done moving for a bit.”

I dragged my hand along her back as I made my way to the wagon door. She gave a soft whinny and the other horses joined in the chorus.

“How is he?” I asked, opening it.

Rosa must’ve dozed off, ’cause she jumped in her seat. As was her nature, she quickly recovered. Her eyes settled on the cluttered buildings and busy streets at my back, and went wide. I knew the look. Probably the first time she’d seen a city with buildings as big as this.

Stacks spewing out black smoke hovered over everything. Clothes were strung from balconies. People hollered to each other just to be louder than a hundred loud things. It’s enough to give anybody pause. And it’s why I prefer the frontier. Cities… They’re like living, breathing things. And such things are unpredictable. The trees have neither ears nor tongues, I always say. Normal ones, at least.

“Hanging on,” Irish said.

“Good.” I turned back to the bench. “Harker, help Irish. Quick. He looks pale as a fear-stricken ghost.”

Bram stirred a bit at that but made no comprehensible words.

I gave Rosa a reassuring glance before making my way across the street.

Upon closer inspection, the cottage looked even worse. The boards were rotting—paint peeled and nearly nonexistent. And the beautiful flowers once planted in the garden were dead and withered.

I knocked lightly three times, worried I might pound a hole through the fragile door. I peered over my shoulder—as expected, the two lawmen perked up.

Why they were watching the place, I couldn’t say, but their intent was clear.

When no one answered, I rapped a little harder. And some more.

By now, Harker and Irish stood directly behind me, holding Bram aloft across their forearms. His head lolled as he muttered nonsense.

“He’s got fever,” Rosa said, hand against his forehead.

“Perhaps she isn’t home,” Harker said.

“For his sake…” I pointed to Bram. “…I hope you’re wrong.”

“Step aside,” Irish said, dragging Bram and Harker with her up the step. She slammed her fist against the gray wood door with enough force to send the termites running for cover.

The neighbor’s shutters threw wide. “Shut the hell up!” shouted a man with a Cajun accent thick as roux.

“You shut your feckin’ cake hole,” Irish answered. “Or I’ll burn yer house down wit ye inside.”

The man looked like he’d been scolded by a church marm and retreated indoors.

“We’ve got to find a doctor, James,” Rosa said.

I gritted my teeth. If there was anyone on Earth that could help Bram, it was—

The door finally cracked open.

Marie Laveau, better known as the Voodoo Queen of Crescent City, greeted us through the gap with a single eyeball. I guess she recognized me since something sparkled in her gaze before the door shut. Rosa gave me a sidelong glance. The sound of a chain rattled on the other side, and the door reopened.

A woman of rich color around seventy years old stood before us, her hair hidden beneath a tall, tightly wrapped mauve cloth. She was old, but her eyes were alive and alert beneath strong, sharp eyebrows. Around her neck and shoulders draped a large snake I knew to be called Damballah. Laveau loved that snake every bit as much as I did Timp.

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The Voodoo Queen looked far older than the last time I’d seen her, even her wrap unable to hide the gray by her temples. Me? I looked exactly the same. Though she said nothing about it—ever—I’m sure Laveau had her suspicions about what I was and was gracious enough to never pry. She knew things about the supernatural world that no mortal should.

“Come in, come in,” she said, eyes darting behind me at the men across the street. She turned her focus to Bram and the others. “And who is this?”

“We need your help,” I said.

“This, I can see. But that was not the question.”

I was quick to introduce everyone. Rosa seemed positively drawn to Damballah, while Harker shied far away from the snake.

“And this is Bram Stoker,” I said. “Got bit by something in the swamp.”

“His noggin’s hot as the noon sun,” Irish said.

Laveau led us through the sitting room into the central part of the cottage, which was both her main living room and kitchen, with a spot in the corner behind a shade I assumed to be her pot.

“Put him on the bed, quickly.”

“The bed” referred to one of several makeshift hospital berths scattered around the small home. None were occupied. In fact, nobody was around at all. A Voodoo Queen can’t be queen without followers, and last I was here, she had plenty. Local folk with a gift or a yearning for dark secrets. Some who just wanted to help her heal but didn’t have the education for institutions.

Now, it was only her. Alone. Old. Withering away. Where had time gone?

As Bram was laid down, I caught sight of Laveau’s windows. The candles I thought were absent were right there on the sill, flickering. She caught me looking.

“Part of the protection spell cast upon the cottage,” she said.

“You’re being watched,” I said, not a question.

“There is no light without shade,” she said offhandedly as she dithered about the cottage.

My eyes darted from side to side. “Marie, where is everybody?”

“Moved on. Dead. Tired of persecution. Everyone except Damballah.” She stroked the reptile’s head like one would a small dog. “All the strange things coming and going in Crescent City, it is easy for blame to fall upon those who do not wish to hide for unexplainable crimes.”

“But that—”

“Times have changed, James,” she cut me off. “And not for the better.”

“Can we focus on Bram not kicking the bucket and gab gums later?” Irish asked.

Laveau gave an agreeable nod and dashed away as fast as her elderly legs would take her.

The place had always borne a queer mixture of voodoo elements in stark juxtaposition to paintings of everything from the Virgin Mother and various saints to a large crucifix upon which an effigy of the wounded Christ hung. Just below said cross was a black altar covered in jars of herbs, dried roots, and earthen-colored powders.

Laveau gathered a handful of crushed, browning herbs from a bowl beside a petrified head, slapped her hands together, and wafted the floating fragments toward her face. Then, she made herself busy collecting other items, returning to us holding a stick embellished with what appeared to be bird feathers and bones of origins unknown to me.

“What did this?” she asked, pulling at the hastily wrapped bandages on Bram’s leg.

“I truly don’t know,” I answered.

“Well, if I am to attend to him properly—”

“Was one of these sons’a whores,” Irish said.

We all turned to find her pulling the mangled reptile head from her satchel. Not sure when she managed to saw one off.

“My word,” Laveau said, breathless. “This is worse even than I thought. Okay, everyone out. I need quiet.”

“I ain’t going nowhere,” Irish said.

“You want him to live, no?” Laveau asked. “Then you go. Now.”

I put a hand on Irish’s shoulder, hoping to bring assurance. “It’s okay. She’s good people.”

“And leave the grunch,” Marie added.

So, that’s what this was. A grunch. I’d never encountered one before, much less half a dozen, but I’d heard stories. They’ve got different names depending on the region. Back near Dead Acre, people told tales of the chupacabra—heinous little beasts that would lure their prey with something like a…

“That explains the goat,” I said, my mind drifting a bit, considering all the implications.

“Yes,” Laveau said. “They did not use to be in the region but migrated from west of here in recent years. And they do not merely bite; they suck the blood from their victims.”

“Like a vampire,” Harker whispered, a hint of excitement behind his dread.

Laveau shook her head. “No, no. Nothing like those. Pray to meet none of those.”

Harker blinked. “They’re… real?”

Laveau sighed. “Your friend will live, but I need quiet. Go now.”

Irish took a step forward. “Happy to keep my flabber shut, but I ain’t leaving Bram with no stranger.”

Marie’s eyes went dark, and Damballah rose slightly from her shoulder, unleashing a soft hiss. Irish took a small step back, the first sign of backing down I’d ever seen from the woman.

“I said I’d vouch for her,” I said.

“No offense, Mr. Crowley,” Irish said, “but you ain’t much less a stranger than this one. I’ll be keepin’ put.”

I looked to Laveau, pleading.

She nodded.

“I’m staying too,” Harker said.

“As am I,” Rosa added.

Bram moaned.

“Blessed mother,” Laveau said, waving us away. “You can all stay. Just wait in the front room, please.”

We emptied out into the sitting room. Damballah swayed toward us as we brushed by. Fascination was etched onto Rosa’s face, and her hand slowly reached for her snake-and-dagger tattoo, though I don’t think she even realized it.

The front room was cramped, with only three chairs, each one upholstered with a different pattern and torn at the seams. A rotting wooden bookshelf on one side had myriad unmarked texts bearing secrets of the thin line between our world and that above and below. Forbidden texts. On the other side, petrified things in jars like pickles: organs, chicken feet, small creatures—curiosities galore.

Weak flames flickered from about ten or so wax candles already half-length, set in hollowed skulls. But, with the windows magically boarded shut, it was dark.

Harker and Irish took seats without so much as a thought for Rosa and me, though Rosa offered me hers.

“No, ma’am,” I said. “Ladies always first. Besides, I’ve got some things to take care of in the city if I can’t be any good here.”

“Want company?” she asked.

Truth was, I’d have loved Rosa to come along, but with my line of work, it would just put her in undue danger. Rosa and her companions had their reasons for being in Crescent City, and I had mine. Though admittedly, I had no idea what that was yet. It was high time to find out.

“No, it’s late. No time for a lady to walk these streets. And yes, I know you can handle yourself. But all the same, spare my conscience.”

Rosa stood and lowered her voice. “James, please. You didn’t tell me how creepy it was here.”

I grunted. She was right about that. Wasn’t that it was a mess, no. Everything—all Laveau’s oddities—were neat as a pin. Untouched.

“Used to be more full of life,” I admitted.

Rosa gawked at the pickled body parts. “What is she?”

“One who trifles with things no mortal should.” I said it as a warning, though I wasn’t sure Rosa caught on.

“Yet you brought us here? To a witch?” Guess she hadn’t.

“She ain’t a witch,” I said. “She’s got a good heart. She’s a healer. But just because she does good deeds with dark mysteries doesn’t mean others will. Best not to dig deeper than that.”

I moved to the door. Rosa gave my arm a firm tug.

Her voice got even lower. “James, can she—”

Irish made smoochy noises with her lips and interrupted us. “Oh, take her behind the feckin’ bushes already, would ye?”

“Irish!” Rosa scolded, cheeks flushing a shade of purple.

A retort got caught somewhere in my throat.

“What? I can smell the musk from here,” Irish said. “Sickening. Harker, tell me I’m wrong.”

Harker cleared his throat, purposefully avoiding us. “You’ve got the grace of a bull stomping a field mouse. That mouth will get you into trouble someday.”

“At least my mouth’s doing somethin’.” She made more kissing noises.

“Enough of this,” I groaned. “We’ll talk later, Rosa, alright? For now, make sure those two don’t get into trouble. And try and get some rest.”

Her lips twisted, but she didn’t say anything more than a soft grunt of acknowledgment. Embarrassment was an excellent way to end that particular conversation. Soonest done, soonest over.

I knew where Rosa was going, wondering just how deep Laveau’s abilities went. Places where only those with complete clarity of mind should dare cross, and Rosa, strong as she was, was still grieving.

But what did it mean that she didn’t hide her embarrassment like I had?

She shuffled over to the books, running her hand along the spines. Light reading, none of it was. Most likely not written in English.

I left her that way and headed outside. Because unlike Rosa, I was hiding. I leaned on a column out front, imagining my heart racing when it couldn’t. Why did Irish have to say that? It’d been easy to toe the line with Rosa. To pretend I was indifferent.

Strange how a few simple words out loud can change everything. And I knew it too. Intuition was never a gift of mine, but in this, I was clear. In a breath, Irish unleashed into the world an impossibility. And some doors, once open, can’t close. They just wear down until the wood crumbles and falls off the hinges.

Timp whinnied from her spot on the hitch, taking a break from slurping water from a trough.

“Not you too,” I said, giving her a look.

Why’s everyone always gotta have it in for me?