Chapter 15 Laissez Les Bon Temps Rouler

It wasn't the first time Scarlett had stepped through a portal. After all, portals had been her father's primary area of academic interest. But portals required a great deal of magical labor to create. They didn't just crop up at random.

Until now, apparently.

Across the street to her left, Scarlett spotted a group of street punks pottering around outside a grocery store. They were all tattoos, piercings, and Doc Marten boots, lost in a haze of patchouli and disaffection. And there among the punks was Nate. He was sitting on a case of champagne and drinking straight from one of the bottles.

She crossed the street and plonked down on the sidewalk beside him.

Nate handed Scarlett the bottle without speaking. She took a sip and handed the bottle back.

After a while he said, "We're in New Orleans."

Scarlett shrugged. "Seems like."

"I went into the walk-in . . . and now I'm here."

"Me too."

"Is this because of what happened at the grove last night?"

"Reckon so," she replied. "One tree was infected, and we had a few magic problems. Now all the trees are, and—"

"And magic is now just . . ." He made an explosion-like gesture.

"In anarchy," she said. "Yep."

He rolled his eyes. " Cool ."

They sat in silence for a long time, just listening to the music. The band was a motley collection of beat-up trumpets and trombones, accompanied by weathered banjos, a dented tuba, and a broken accordion. Kids with washboards and spoons kept the beat, more or less. The cumulative effect was sort of Dixieland apocalypse —which, Scarlett thought, felt appropriate under the circumstances.

Apocalypse. Her mind flashed to the magic supply room in Nate's store, and she winced. Oh no . . . all those enchanted materials . . . He's sitting on the witchcraft equivalent of enriched uranium. "Nate? How is your store? And all that magic in the back? Is everything . . . okay?"

"It ain't great. This morning, I heard all these banging noises coming from the back room, and then there was a sort of squelch, like if you dropped an octopus? Then I'm pretty sure I heard cats? I mean, a lot of cats. Followed by a sort of rrr, rrr, rrr -sound, like a car that can't get into gear. After that, let's see . . . oh yeah, after that came a screech—sort of a caaaawwww! —like an angry pterodactyl. I didn't dare even open the door—I just locked up and walked away. I figured your mom was going to be in trouble with all the guests showing up, so I picked up this champagne from the market and took it over there. She said, take it to the walk-in, so I opened the walk-in and . . ." He finished the champagne.

Scarlett wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry . . . maybe both. "Nate . . . I just . . . I don't even know what to say. I'm so sorry. I came back to Oak Haven to help and instead I've absolutely ruined everything."

"Oh, shut up."

"Pardon me?!"

"Sorry, I'm a little drunk. But still. I knew—when I saw all those dragonflies get loose last night, I knew today we'd be sitting here—well, not here , exactly, but we'd be sitting somewhere—talking about ohhh boo hoo, Scarlett does everything wrong . Just like with what happened to your father. You didn't cause that mess. But you, like, volunteered for crucifixion anyway. Exiling yourself for ten years over an accident."

"Okay, you are more than a little drunk."

"Absolutely. But I'm also right. Everything isn't all your fault, Scar. C'mon, I've got eleven more bottles of champagne here. Get drunk with me and stop being a martyr."

It was a more tempting offer than she wanted to admit. But Mama's words danced around in her brain. There they were, feelings later and guests now , doing a little tarantella to the sound of a Dixieland apocalypse.

Scarlett got up. "We can't. There's a bunch of guests at the hotel, and we have to take care of them first. Maybe later you can continue your dissertation on everything that's wrong with me."

Nate gazed up her, squinting into the sunshine. "I don't think everything is wrong with you, Scar . . . I think nearly everything is right with you. I mean . . . don't you know that?"

Your timing sucks, Nate Williams, she thought.

Scarlett held out her hand to pull him his feet. "Come on, time to go home. A bit of portal travel should sober you right up."

***

She led Nate through the tree-lined Jackson Square—past the fortune tellers and jazz combos and kids tap-dancing for quarters—to a narrow cobblestone alley. As soon as they stepped into the alley, the sun seemed to turn away, as if it didn't want to see what would happen next.

"What are we looking for, exactly?" he whispered.

"My father studied portals. Didn't you know that?"

"What kid knows what their friends' parents do all day?"

She smiled. "Fair enough. Well, Papa couldn't do magic, but he was a scholar of it, with a particular interest in portals. And he told me a story about this place—it's called Pirate Alley. The pirate Pierre Lafitte used to conduct business here."

"Wait," Nate asked. "Does this story involve my relatives?"

"Afraid not, no. This happened in the early 1800s—Earl One had long retired by that point. Anyway, Pierre's brother Jean would remain in the bay with their fleet of ships, while Pierre would come into town to make deals." She approached a nondescript wooden door, partway down the alley. "According to the story, Pierre got sick of traveling back and forth from the city to the bay. So, one of his many deals was with a local witch . . ." Scarlett rapped on the door with her knuckles, banging out a complicated rhythm "...to create a permanent, secret portal."

The door began to shimmer like a sidewalk in extreme heat.

"Your dad taught you how to do that?"

"He just told me the story." Scarlett smiled. "Mama knew the technique. Hold an image of the inn in your mind as we step through. Be very specific—we don't want to end up somewhere else by accident."

"Wait, portals work by thinking about where you'd rather be?"

"It's a big part of it. So do me a favor and hold a nice clear picture of the inn in your mind."

"Do we have to?" Nate wrinkled his nose. "I'd rather go hang out with Jean Lafitte."

"Nate!"

"Okay okay, just picturing the world's greatest hotel now . . ."

***

When their surroundings shuddered back into view, Scarlett and Nate found themselves standing in a luxurious, glass-enclosed shower. The shower head featured a state-of-the-art design with a dozen settings, ranging from mist to firehose. Scarlett hadn't been inside one of the inn bathrooms in a decade, but this level of luxury sure didn't feel right.

She gingerly opened the shower door to study their surroundings. Gold faucets. Gold toilet. The most enormous crystal chandelier she'd ever seen in a bathroom . . . well, the only crystal chandelier she'd ever seen in a bathroom.

In the distance, a male voice bellowed, "MELANNNNIAAAAA!"

She slammed the glass door so hard it nearly shattered. "Wrong hotel, wrong hotel—"

She turned to find Nate, laughing his ass off.

"Wait," she said. "Did you do this . . .? On purpose ?"

"I can't believe it actually worked!"

" Oh my God . You're not funny!" Scarlett began furiously tapping Mama's rhythm on the gold bathroom tiles. "Like, not even a little bit funny. If I can't get this open again, we are completely—"

From outside the bathroom, the bellow came again. "Dammit, Melania, are you upstairs?!"

The gilded wall shimmered, and Scarlett let out a relieved sigh. "Oh phew, here it is." She glared at Nate. "I should leave you here—you know that?"

He winked. "With this face? Nah, you couldn't."

Scarlett grabbed his arm. "C'mon, let's get out of here."