13. Vivian

13

VIVIAN

JANUARY 1, 1:00 A.M.

When we get to the address Milford gave us, I'm starting to think we might've been punked.

"Are you sure this is it?" I ask, looking up at the old brick building. It's classic French Quarter–style, with tall shuttered doors and windows, wrought-iron balconies on the top two stories. The door is bright green, and a lantern hangs above it, lighting up the hand-painted sign below: LAGNIAPPE LAND .

Turns out we might have lied to our parents and snuck off to the Quarter after midnight to go to a gift shop. One that doesn't even look open.

"It's the address he gave me." Even beneath her mask, I can tell Piper is pissed.

We're all wearing the same masquerade kind, sparkly and ribboned, like that one episode of Gossip 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 hunts children at night, hungry for human blood. So, you know, an obvious creature 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 a WILL FLASH BOOBS FOR BEADS T-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 in The 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, the what ? 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, definitely cult 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.

Piper eyes the staircase like she's worried it might fall apart under us. "Is this safe?"

"Y'all are the ones who begged to come here," he snaps. "Look, from here on out, don't ask questions. And don't talk to anyone unless they talk to you first. Okay?"

We all stare at him, silent. Apparently satisfied, Milford turns and starts up the winding staircase. I get a creeping feeling, but I try to shake it off. This is a Krewe of Deus thing. The group is made up of people like our dads and their friends. Plenty of Mardi Gras stuff is culty. How bad can it really be?

The velvet muffles our steps, and as we get closer to the top, I can hear muted jazz. We end up at a small landing with another door, this one manned by a guy who could be a waiter at a fancy restaurant, except for the mask. It's black, with a nose that curves down into a long beak, like one of those old-timey plague masks.

I swallow, trying not to show how skeeved out I am. It's like a game, I tell myself. And if there's one thing I know about winning, it's that you can't let your opponent see your confidence slip.

"I'm here for the feast," Milford says again. "I've brought guests."

The masked man's eyes drift over the three of us. Then he nods, pulling open the door to reveal another small room. This one's lined with the same plush carpet as the staircase, only much darker, almost like blood. Victorian-style wall sconces cast it in fake candlelight. The jazz is louder in here, too. I can almost feel it in my teeth, like drums during a Mardi Gras parade.

We follow the man inside. Without a word, he disappears into an alcove to our left and comes back with three garment bags draped over his arms.

"You can change in there." He nods at the velvet curtain on our right. "One at a time."

Another cult alarm bell goes off in my head, and I shoot Milford a look, but he's fidgeting with the cuff of his jacket. No one else moves, so I step up, taking a garment bag from the man and going through the curtain. Behind it is basically a normal dressing room, only with a weird gothic-vampire feel. Two more wall sconces throw shadows on the long mirror.

I unzip the garment bag and hold my breath. The dress inside is gorgeous, emerald green silk with a slit up one thigh. When I slip it on and catch my reflection, the breath whooshes out of me. It's perfect, bringing out the red in my hair, hugging my curves in all the right places and making me look like some kind of movie star. It's not until I slip on the black heels that come with it, a half size too small, that I stop to wonder why it fits so well, how the man knew it would. Who I'm really getting dressed up for.

This is for Lily, I tell myself. We're doing this to find her. But as I step back out of the dressing room, I don't feel any more confident.

Piper goes next, coming out in a sky-blue chiffon dress with a lacy snowflake pattern. It's perfect for her, turning her into some kind of winter princess. April's next in simple black satin, nineties-style with spaghetti straps. She could be the bad-girl star of some grungy teen TV show, if she didn't look like she wanted to dissolve on the spot.

"Shoes," the masked man orders.

April looks down at her feet, the ratty Converse she's still wearing. She swallows.

"We have a dress code," the man adds sharply.

Milford shoots April an anxious look. "Just put them on."

April disappears back through the curtain. When she comes back again, she's wearing black kitten heels, but somehow, she looks even shorter.

"Phones," the man says, holding out his hand.

I grip mine tighter. This is almost definitely the next step in the whole cult thing, but at this point, I know it's not a match we can win. Either we follow the rules or give up on this whole thing. And even though the second option is starting to sound better and better, it's not really a choice, not when that message is still burned into my brain.

We all know how hard it is to keep a body underground in this city.

If there's even the slightest chance that this place has something to do with Lily disappearing, then there's only one thing we can do.

We hand our phones over, and the man slips them into what looks like a row of mailboxes on the wall. He locks them in and then gives us another once-over, seemingly satisfied.

"This way." He leads us to the door and whatever's waiting behind it.