House of Darken (Secret Keepers #1)(101)
I probably looked like a crazy person, standing in the middle of the Quarter, face lifted to the sky, my shoulder length platinum-blond hair no doubt sticking out in a million directions. Okay, so it was NOLA, I no doubt fit in perfectly, but for someone who had always tried to blend it was making me uneasy being in public like this. But for the first time in a long time I felt alive. I wasn’t sure if letting myself feel things was a good idea, but I couldn’t seem to stay away. I kept coming back here, to this center filled with life and vibrancy, watching the other tourists as they took their spooky tours and filled their bags with fancy masks, religious trinkets, and hot sauce. I envied them their laughter, and their ability to afford copious amounts of beignets. Those puffy balls of magic were everything. I'd had one my first day and since then I must have thought about their deliciousness at least seven times a week. I was addicted and was totally okay about it.
Mostly I envied them their happy moments and families. That existence was not for me, but at least being here I got to experience a small sliver of what they had every day. Glancing at my watch, I stifled my groan: 3.50pm. I’d already been gone for two hours, wandering the streets.
It was Wednesday. I was supposed to be at the farmers’ markets on Peters Street. My mom allowed me to make this once a week trip from our tiny condo in the Marginy to gather some groceries. I’d be punished for taking my time today; I always was. We had strict rules in my family – my mom and me – and one of the most important was that I never put us at risk of exposure. We were to always stick to the shadows and live like ghosts. Most days I felt about as substantial as a ghost, so she had achieved one of her goals.
With reluctance, I turned away from the square and started my trek back toward the market area. It was only a few blocks, but in this million-percent humidity it would feel longer. I really wasn’t in any rush to get back to our tiny condo. So even though it felt like I was striding through a sauna I did my best to enjoy the journey. Heat didn’t bother me normally, but I hadn’t quite understood the true scope of “sweating like a pig” until we arrived here.
I let my eyes roam across the streets, waiting for the next new and crazy sight. One literally never knew what was going to happen day by day. We’d only lived in New Orleans for a few months. To the locals I’d always be a tourist, but I was okay with that. I would take that title in exchange for getting to experience this world. I was fascinated with it all. This city was hard to truly describe; a place like no other, and considering I’d moved two to three times a year since I was born, that was really saying something. Its French influences, not only in architecture but food and culture … I loved them all.
I’d started hoping each night, before I went to sleep, that nothing would spook my mom into running again. Two months was usually the shortest time we remained in one place, so we should still have at least another two months here. But I wanted forever.
Far too quickly I arrived at the market, hurrying about to finish my shopping before it closed. The walk back to our condo would take forty minutes, but I’d brought some bags with cold packs for anything that could spoil in this hot weather.
My mom didn’t work – she told me that neither of us could leave a paper trail, which included social security numbers and tax declarations – we lived off a huge settlement payout from my father’s death. He was killed in a hit and run when my mom was pregnant with me. It had been a very big deal, something to do with unsigned roadworks and safety issues. Whatever the cause, I lost a parent, one who might have actually loved me, and in exchange we got enough money to live like nomads.
The money was almost gone now. Eighteen years of being on the run was pretty expensive, even if we did live in rundown-no-names-asked rentals.
A group of kids pushed past me as I left the market, yelling and throwing a football around. School had started up again; they’d probably just gotten out and come straight here with their parents. I’d been homeschooled. Sort of. I wasn’t sure there was an actual name for what my mom did, which was teach me the basics, lecture me incessantly about the dangers in our lives, and fill my young innocent mind with the sort of scary stories that not even adults should hear.
“Callie!”
The shout had me spinning on the spot, heavy bags swinging against my legs. There were only two people in this town who knew my name. One was my mom, the other was a pain in my butt.
Turning away again, I yelled over my shoulder. “Not in the mood, Michaels. I have to get home.”
Jason Michaels was a persistent bastard, I’d give him that, but even after he’d challenged me and I’d kicked his ass in the gym, he still hadn’t given up. What his end game was, I had no idea. He never asked me out, or even hinted that he wanted to go on a date. He just … asked too many questions and was always around. If my mom got any hint of his consistent presence in my life, my one other piece of freedom would be yanked away from me.
Along with New Orleans.
I was not letting this tenacious bastard take this place from me.
“Are you training this afternoon?” he asked, falling into step beside me.
“No,” I replied shortly.
He just laughed. “You always say no, and yet you’re always there.”
Spinning on my heels, I swung back in his direction, startling him enough that he blinked wide eyes at me. Michaels was a good looking guy, tall, broad shouldered, bleach-blond tousled hair, the same as I’d seen from surfers when we lived in California – but in manners and speech he was all Southern.