Page 8 of Cheater Slicks

“I have a huge favor to ask you both. No hard feelings however you decide. Promise.” I linked my fingers at my navel. “Would one of you be willing to come to New Orleans with me?”

From my constant handling of their souls, they had developed a unique bond to me and were able to travel farther than they would have otherwise. They couldn’t roam more than a dozen miles from my location, but they wouldn’t have trouble if they wanted to sightsee without me when it was over and done.

“Are you serious?” Pascal let out an ear-splitting whoop. “Count me in.”

Already picturing the amount of trouble he could get himself into with that gleam in his eyes, I nearly wept tears of relief when Pedro speared his little brother with a hard stare and said, “I’ll go too.”

“I call dibs on Matty.” Pascal folded his arms across his chest. “Right, Francita?”

“We don’t know how long this will take or what we’re up against. I’ll take all the help I can get.” The gentle crinkle of Pedro’s smile betrayed his amusement over how swiftly I embraced a twofer rather than taking Pascal on solo. “Have either of you been to New Orleans?”

“Not like this.” Pascal swept a hand down his translucent form. “But I went plenty when I was alive.”

“A few times,” Pedro said, his gaze fixed on Pascal as if blaming him for those trips.

Out of the three brothers, Pascal struck me as the most likely to be found on a bench sleeping off a night spent on Bourbon Street. Either because he was too drunk to secure a room before conking out or too broke after drinking his paycheck. His stories reminded me of Matty in the way he had lived his life to the fullest, like he was on borrowed time. Probably why I had such a soft spot for the youngest Suarez.

“Then you’re in for a treat.” I winked at Pascal, really trying to sell my angle. “The dead party harder than the living in NOLA.”

With a sigh, he caught my meaning. “You’re not letting Matty out of your sight, are you?”

“Trust me.” I ignored a pang for dashing his hopes, but this wasn’t a vacation. “You won’t need a body to have the time of your afterlife. The best parties are held in St. Louis Cemetery No. 1, and the Fontenots own a mausoleum there. Vi has tons of interred family who can show you around and make intros.”

“I’ll take the nightshift with Matty.” Pedro raised his eyes to the heavens. “Pascal can work days.”

That arrangement was the best possible outcome, and I was doubly grateful for Pedro making it happen.

Pascal was now free to clock out at dark and go party while Pedro kept Matty safe during the night.

“You’re not going to round us out?” Pascal squinted at Paco. “This could be a family vacation.”

Hadn’t I just been thinking itwasn’tone? Oh, yeah. I would owe Pedro big time when this was over.

He was definitely taking one for Team Talbot by volunteering to help me wrangle his little brother.

“Too much has been happening lately.” Paco scuffed his foot. “I’d feel better about Frankie being gone if someone kept an eye on the shop.” His gaze slid past the gate. “And on Bonaventure.”

“Me too.” I hoped he read how much I meant it in my expression. “We’ll miss you, though.”

“I’ll be here when you get back.” He chucked me on the chin. “Be safe,jefa.”

To make the transition easiest on Matty, we all returned to the god cart, and Paco reclined on the bench seat.

Palming his forehead, I murmured the soft words to release his spirit, and he rose above Matty in a blue-limned outline of the man he had been.

The alien stillness in Matty urged me to grasp the nearest Suarez and shove him into my brother before I could think too hard about why he remained static. I couldn’t tear my gaze from Matty until Pascal, who happened to be closest, sucked in a huge breath. As he settled into his borrowed skin, he pulled himself into a seated position using the front top strut.

Pedro, unbothered by the springs erupting from the backward-facing seat behind me, mimed sitting.

After a round of goodbyes to Paco, I cranked the god cart, backed out, and began the drive to the shop.

With Matty’s body beside me, cutting up and joking with Pedro and me, I could almost convince myself this was any other trip home after a long day at the shop, but playing pretend wouldn’t get my brother back, and I wasn’t leaving New Orleans without him.

Vionette Fontenot lived in a two-story townhouse on Chartres Street. It was painted a rich eggplant with black trim that matched the elegant wrought iron decorating the gallery upstairs overlooking the French Quarter. Beneath a dozen stained glass art panels some folks had the gall to simply callwindows, curling planters overflowed with herbs and edible flowers that were in bloom. Strange ivylike vines grew from cracks in the sidewalk to climb the walls, their leaves purple and their spikes tipped crimson.

“I always wondered who lived here.” Pascal leaned over the front bench seat, right between Kierce and me, to gawk up at the house. “It’s got such…vibes.”

There was a tangible weight to the air in New Orleans, and I don’t just mean its oppressive humidity.

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