Making my way through the courtyard, I noticed that some of the vines were withering. I slowed my steps, walking up to the wrought-iron fence. Vines were hardy creations. They lasted all year usually, and I’d only seen them affected once during a severe drought. I scanned the length of the fence. The whole network of vines looked dull and frail. And that was weird, because just a few days ago they were flourishing and taking over everything.

I reached out, curling my fingers around a section. The plant immediately shrunk up and then broke apart, scattering into tiny pieces that slipped through my fingers until only a fine layer of dust remained on my hand.

~

After making a pit stop at Loyola to withdraw from classes, which was full of suckage, I called Brighton before I caught a ride over to the Quarter. She was still poring over the maps, and there were many according to her, but none of them were marked with helpful asterisks that identified the places of good and happy little fae.

She still hadn’t heard from her mother, and when I told her I was stopping over at Jerome’s, she hadn’t been exactly hopeful that I’d get any information from him.

I was praying I could prove her wrong.

What other choice did we have if she couldn’t find anything in the maps? Especially since her mom was MIA.

Jerome used to live in St. Bernard Parish, but his home was destroyed during Hurricane Katrina. Ever since, he’d lived over in Tremé, in a Creole cottage. Tremé gets a bad rap. Of course there were some grittier areas, but the neighborhood was ancient and beautiful and proud of its heritage. There was more crime over in the Quarter, and walking in Tremé wasn’t like you were in Little Woods—an area absolutely devastated due to the storm, and years later still forgotten—or Center City, which could get a wee bit rough.

Tremé had received minor damages during Katrina, mostly due to the raised porches on the old homes, but there’d been a decent amount of work done on the neighborhood. Or at least, that was what I’d been told.

Since I didn’t have homemade cake to bring him, I stopped at a bakery on Phillips and picked up a chocolate pie, which I thought was the next best thing, and then hoofed it over to his house.

Jerome’s place was small and white with a bright red door and a raised porch. I passed three kids chasing each other on the sidewalk, one of them carrying a basketball. The wood creaked under my feet as I climbed the steps. Shifting the boxed pie to my other arm, I knocked on the door.

“What?” boomed Jerome’s voice from inside, followed by a hacking cough.

My eyes widened as I turned sideways. “It’s Ivy.”

“So?” came the response, but it sounded closer. Kind of.

I bit back a retort. “I came to see how you were feeling.”

“Feelin’ like I don’t want visitors.” The door opened, though, and Jerome was standing there in a forest-green robe. He looked haggard as hell. We eyed each other for a moment. Then his gaze dropped to the box I held. Without saying another word, he shuffled aside.

Stepping through the door, I glanced around the living room. I’d known where Jerome had lived for a while, but I’d never been to his place before. The leather furniture screamed single man. So did the game playing on the flat-screen TV.

“Ya look like crap,” he said, squinting at me. “Thought ya should know.”

“Well, your house smells like dust and Vick’s VapoRub,” I replied.

Jerome snorted and then coughed as he made his way over to the recliner and plopped down. “Insultin’ me while I might be dyin’ is a new low even for ya, the red-headed demon.”

I rolled my eyes. “But hey, I brought you chocolate pie.”

“That goes some distance for makin’ up for your rudeness.” He adjusted his robe as he said, “Put it on the kitchen counter, will ya?”

That wasn’t so much of a question, but I decided not to point that out as I walked the small distance to his kitchen and placed it on the counter next to a sparkling clean coffee maker.

“Where’s that boy of yours?” he asked.

Pain pierced my chest as I walked back into the living room. “He’s out doing . . . guy stuff.”

Jerome shot me a look that was a cross between “are you stupid?” and “why are you wasting my time?” “Heard about Val,” he said.

“Yeah.” I cleared my throat, not wanting to go there. I sat down on the edge of the couch and placed my hands on my knees. “So, you’re not feeling any better?”

That look on his face increased. “Girl, I know ya ain’t here to check on my well-being.”

“I’m kind of insulted by your lack of faith in me,” I said.

“Shit.” He laughed and then coughed. “Why ya here? Did David send ya to tell me to get my ass back to the shop? Because ya can tell him to go shove that—”

“Yeah, no. David doesn’t even know I’m here. No one does, actually.”

That silenced him, but that wasn’t the only change. His right hand slipped off the arm of the recliner, inching toward the crease in the cushion, and I knew immediately what he was going for.

A dagger.

Or a gun.

“Jesus,” I said, throwing up my hands. “I didn’t come to kill you. What the hell, Jerome?”

His hand stilled. “Ya can’t be too safe these days.”

That was sad but true. “Look, I’m here for a reason. I have a question to ask you.”

Suspicion still clung to his features. “Uh-huh.”