Page 30 of Mostly Shattered

He does a little dance, slapping an imaginary ass as he sings, “Costin’s gonna take my sister down to funky town.”

“I don’t even know what this means.” I crumple the letter.

Anthony is clearly entertained. “It means we’re going out tonight to party like supernaturals at theend of the world, little sister. Time for an adventure into the darkness, aka the supernatural city beneath New York.”

“Marcheur…why does that sound familiar?” The name tickles my memory.

“Marcheur de Nuit.The nightwalker crypt in lower Manhattan. You remember. Our parents made us pay our respects at that ghoul ceremony.”

“Oh, gross.” I shake my head and cover my nose. The memory of that smell is as potent as the day it happened.

Ghouls live underground and dig their way into graves, desecrating them to eat the flesh of the unembalmed. During the ceremony, they did it from above. It was some important magic dude’s dying wish. That is one supernatural event I wish they would have banned me from.

“Have fun with that,” I say. “Tell Costin sorry I’m never going anywhere with him, let alone into the catacombs to play inside the supernatural realm.”

There is no way I will meet a vampire in an underground graveyard filled with ghouls in the middle of the night.

No. Fucking. Way.

Chapter

Eight

“I hate you,” I mutter to my brother as he forces me to walk next to him down a dark cobblestone path toward theMarcheur de Nuit Mausoleum.

Yes. It’s by force. He put a spell on my shoes.

“You love me,” he denies. As Anthony and I approach, I notice a low stone wall with iron posts towering above us, separating us from the lush grass on the other side. The iron posts are not just for decoration; they’re meant to contain any ghouls or other supernatural beings within the enclosed area. No one wants them out adventuring in the city. With a wave of his hand, Anthony conjures a shimmering magic that envelops the fence before physically pulling me through the solid brick to the other side. “And you need me.”

“Debatable.”

Old-fashioned lamp posts with flickering gas flames line the edges of the enclosed graveyard. Cloudy glass attracts white moths, which flutter around the lamplights like ethereal spirits. I recall a tutor who likened these nocturnal creatures to butterflies of the night, drawing a fascinating parallel between their activities and those of their diurnal counterparts.

“I’m a delicate butterfly in a world of fiery dragons.”

Grandfather George had taught me that saying when I was little, his warning to be careful in a dangerous world. The insects remind me of my birth mother. She has a butterfly tattoo on her chest and thinks of me as her little butterfly because of a butterfly mobile she put over my crib when I was a baby. Not that she remembers telling me that.

Anthony threads his arm through mine, forcing me to walk beside him. “Would you, honestly, rather be in the penthouse of broken dreams waiting for Uncle Mortimer to bring over your future husband, Chester, to negotiate betrothal agreements and breeding obligations? Or would you rather hide out with your amazingly awesome brother, partying until dawn in the supernatural underground?”

Are those my only two choices?

Tourists can freak themselves out in the catacombs beneath the Basilica of St. Patrick’s Old Cathedral in lower Manhattan for a forty-dollarticket. Although these catacombs are in the same part of the city, this is not the same thing. There is no discernable way in or out of the yard, even though you can peek through the iron bars. The only way through is with magic.

I’ve seen the outside of the nightwalker mausoleum, but I’ve never been inside. It’s the secret entrance to the catacombs underneath. And I’d put the word secret in air quotes since there are a lot of supernaturals who know about it.

Anthony and I make an interesting pair. I’m in my fuck off T-shirt and sneakers. He looks ready for a VIP table at the hottest nightclub. No one will ever accuse Anthony of being out of style. The sequined pinstripe black velvet shirt feels a little showy for a graveyard party, but what do I know?

“Hey.” Anthony stops and cups my face, forcing me to look at him. “If you really don’t want to be here, Tam, I’ll take you home. I just thought we could both use a little forgetting. I promise I won’t let anyone hurt you down there. The ghouls won’t bother the living.”

He doesn’t need to say more. I see it. He feels alone, like me.

Anthony acts protective. As much as I love his company, I can’t help but feel he’s clinging to me because he needs me to comfort him, not the other way around.

Conrad and I spent our childhoods sticking beside each other—two mortal children against the supernatural world. Only after Conrad’s death did I begin to see that maybe Anthony could have used membership in our little club. As the favored child, Anthony received all the parental attention and had all the cool friends. It never occurred to me that he might need my support. All the constant attention came with its own set of problems for him.

I’m not sure which is worse—being forgotten or never being left alone.

Like most of his serious moments, this one is fleeting. Anthony lets go of me and shoves his hand into his jacket pocket, only to pull out a joint.

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