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“Except for the ones you treat to room and board,” he sniffed. “You let that old fat one get too close. You call him harmless, but maybe he thinks like you do. Maybe he watches you send telegrams, or pass messages to me or Chester. Maybe he sees a scrap of paper in the trash, or overhears us talking some night. Then you’ll sure as hell find out how far you can trust your resident Texian, won’t you?”
It was something she’d privately wondered about sometimes, upon catching a glimpse of Fenn Calais’s familiar form sauntering through the halls with Delphine, Ruthie, or a new girl hanging on his arm … or drinking himself into a charmingly dignified stupor in one of the tower lounges. Occasionally it occurred to her that he could well be a spy, sent to watch her and the ladies. Spies were a fact of life in New Orleans, after all—spies of every breed, background, quality, and style. The Republic of Texas had a few, though as an occupying force, they were all of them spies by default; the Confederacy kept a number on hand, to keep an eye on the Texians who were keeping an eye on things; and even the Union managed to plant a few here and there, keeping an eye on everyone else.
As Josephine would well know. She was on their payroll, too.
She dropped the last of her cigarette before it could burn her fingers, and she crushed its ashes underfoot on street stones that were slippery with humidity and the afternoon’s rain. Her house slippers weren’t made for outdoor excursions of even the briefest sort, and they’d never be the same again—she could sense it. Between her toes she felt the creeping damp of street water and regurgitated bourbon, runny horse droppings strung together with wads of brittle grass, and the warm, unholy squish of God-knew-what, which smelled like grave dirt and death.
“I don’t like it out here,” she said by way of changing the subject. “And I don’t like you being here. Go home, Rick. Go back to the bayou, where you’re safe. ”
“It’s been good to see you, too. ”
“Just … stay away from the river, will you?”
“I always do. ”
“Promise me, please?”
Down by the river and roaming the Quarter’s darker corners, monstrous things waited, and were hungry. Or so the stories went.
“I promise. Even though I’m not afraid of a few dusters. ”
“I know you’re not, but I am. I’ve seen them. ”
“So have I,” he declared flippantly, which meant he was lying. He’d only heard about them.
“They aren’t dusters,” she muttered.
“Sure they are. Addicts gone feral, like cats. And you worry too much. ”
She almost accused him of lying, but decided against starting that particular fight. If anything, it was good that he was ignorant of the dead—or that’s what she told herself. She’d be thrilled if he went his whole life without ever seeing one, even though it meant that he wrote them off as bedtime stories, designed to frighten naughty children.
He last lived in the Quarter ten years ago, before he’d headed off to fight. Back then, there hadn’t been so many of them.
Deaderick didn’t want to argue any more than Josephine did. “I’ll stay away from the river, if it’ll make you happy. And maybe I’ll head out to Barataria myself, one of these days soon. We hit them up for discreet mechanics and supply fliers every now and again. While I’m there, I’ll see if I can’t spot any potential pilots for you. ”
“All right, but if you find anyone, be careful what you tell him. It’s dangerous work we’re asking for, but anybody we have to trick too badly won’t do us any good, when push comes to shove. That?
?s why I’m sending another few telegrams tonight. I’ve got somebody else in mind. ”
“You do?”
“I know of a man who might be good for the task. If I can find him. And if he’s still alive. And if he can be persuaded to come within fifty feet of me. ”
Deaderick grinned at her. “Sounds promising. ”
“It’s not promising, but it’s better than nothing. We have to get that thing out of the lake. We have to get it out to sea, to the Federal Navy. Once they get a crack at it, it’s just a matter of time. Ganymede could change everything. ”
“I know,” her brother said, putting his arms around her. “And it will. ”
In the distance, a cheer went up and so did a small flare—a little rocket of a thing that cast a pink white trail of burning fire into the sky. A second cheer followed it, and the clapping of a crowd.
“Goddamn Texians,” Josephine said wearily, the words garbled against his shoulder.
“What are they doing?”
“Tearing up the cathedral square, gambling on livestock, and shooting off fireworks. It isn’t right. ”
Deaderick nodded, but noted, “You haven’t been to church in half a lifetime. ”
