Someone is following me.

Just because New Orleans never sleeps doesn’t mean every street is packed like Mardi Gras 24/7. In the small hours of the morning between when the drinkers stumble back to their hotels and the lucky bartenders and shot girls count their tips at home, the streets empty. Anyone still out has a reason.

Mine was pure bad luck. Two of the three frozen daiquiri machines died mid-shift forcing us to use the remaining one until it was practically smoking. As the new girl, I drew the short straw and ended up with the task of disassembling the sticky machines and scrubbing the congealed corn syrup and cheap rum out of every crevice.

Such is the dream job of a shot girl.

Last call doesn’t really exist in this city, so the bars close up whenever people stop coming in. Tonight the final group of inebriated bridesmaids wanders back out into the street at half-past three.

“You sure you’re alright to finish this on your own, Grace?”

I look up from my spot on the floor, surrounded by metal parts in various stages of gooey to see my co-worker Talia staring at the mess, her brow furrowing as she mentally tries to reassemble the machines.

She unties the turquoise bandana that protects her long braids from backsplash from the drink machines and the hands of grabby tourists. I watch as she combs her fingers through the dark braids, untangling them and smoothing the few baby hairs that had escaped. She twists the simple gold band on her finger unconsciously, and I know that she is already mentally sliding into bed next to her husband to claim a few precious hours of sleep.

We’re just starting to blur that line between co-workers and friends, and no one wants to be friends with the needy girl who can't do her own damn work. I shake my head. "Thanks, Talia, but it's fine. They'll be good as new tomorrow. You have to get Sasha up for school in like five hours. Go home."

Rolling her dark eyes, she groans, "Don't remind me. Someone needs to open a school for the kids of bartenders and insomniacs that doesn't start until past noon." She shrugs into a grey hoodie and pauses at the door. "Lock up behind me, and be careful on your way home."

“Yes Mama,” I reply, heaving myself up to fasten the deadbolt behind her before returning to the mess on the floor.

By the time the ancient machines are clean and whirring again, it’s almost five and the streets are utterly deserted. Pocketing the keys, I yank on the door to make sure the building is secure and try to ignore the prickling on the back of my neck telling me that no matter how empty the streets might look I’m not alone.

Burying my hands in my pockets, I start walking. Parking is a nightmare around here, so I end most nights with a half mile trek to my car. Usually, the walk is a welcome time to wind down after a long shift.

But usually, I’m not acutely aware of the faint footsteps trailing a few blocks behind me.

Probably just another bartender that got stuck late. Or a REALLY late night partier.

Or you’re about to get murdered, my traitorous brain helpfully adds.

I quicken my pace, fighting the urge to look over my shoulder.

The steps speed up as well.

My hand closes around the pocket stun gun I bought my first day back in the city, the smooth plastic only slightly reassuring as the footsteps grow louder.

I can see my car in the distance, parked under a burnt out streetlight fifty yards away. Clenching my keys in my other hand, I run.

The clattering of my feet on the uneven pavement and the sound of my own heartbeat blocks out the noise of my pursuer, but I know he’s still back there. Frantically pressing the unlock button, I see the headlights blink, and I yank the door open, turning my head as the footsteps abruptly stop.

Nothing.

I’m alone on the street.

I shake my head at myself. Relying on caffeine and adrenaline rather than sleep has me perpetually on edge. I scan the shuttered bars and darkened storefronts once more before climbing inside my car and locking the door, the sharp scent of ozone filling my nose.

Just in case.

Morning comes far too early.

Even as a child, I’ve always been a light sleeper. Creaks from the old walls settling or wind that hopefully wouldn’t roll into another hurricane smacking against the shutters never fails to jerk me into awareness. Once my eyes open, that’s it. No more sleep for today.

New Orleans is a lot of things, but quiet definitely isn't one of them. I'd tossed and turned for the better part of an hour, hyper-aware of every noise and half convinced that my mysterious pursuer was creeping up my porch steps.

I finally drifted into a fitful doze close to dawn, filled with restless dreams of broken glass and black wings.

The loud sound of an irritated driver laying on a car horn peels my eyes open far too soon. Rolling over, I squint at the old silver alarm clock ticking merrily on my bedside table.

10:14 AM. Lovely. Four hours of sleep is going to make my shift tonight an absolute delight.

Groaning, I crawl out of the tangled mess of red sheets on my bed and pad to the bathroom, the creaks of the hundred-year-old floorboards comforting in their familiarity after last night. Turning the taps onto cold, the pipes moan loudly as the bracingly cold water pours into the white porcelain sink. Splashing the icy water on my face chases away the last dregs of sleep but does little to erase the bone-deep exhaustion that has settled into me in the last few days.

Last night might have been the first time I got scared enough to acknowledge it, but it wasn’t the first time I’ve been followed. Getting stared at is nothing new at my job, but the gazes from frat boys that never look up from my chest doesn’t feel like fingers digging into the back of my skull, demanding I turn around.

I’ve been ignoring those feelings for a week. Part of me doesn’t want to risk meeting the eyes of whoever can make my throat tighten with fear from just a look, but a much larger part knows that letting my stalker think I’m cheerfully oblivious to his attention was a much safer bet.

Easy enough to do in a crowd, but that cover is most definitely blown now.

A soft meow comes from the kitchen, and I half-sprint the short distance to the room, knowing what I’m going to see. I stand in the doorway, trying to will what’s in front of my face to disappear.

The window over my sink gapes open.

I dropped my keys twice last night, my hands shaking too much to fit the key into the lock properly, and when I finally made it inside, I tore through the house, checking and rechecking every window and door to make absolutely sure the house was secure.

I locked the kitchen window first and secured the inner shutter with the latch I rarely bothered to use. The humidity swelled the wood so much over the years that it’s a nightmare to open. Opening that shutter is difficult and above all loud. And there’s no way to do it from the outside.

Someone was in here while I slept.

The meow sounds again, and I absently bend down and pick up the orange tomcat that made his way into my kitchen. Gabriel is technically a stray, but I started buying him cans of tuna with my spare change the first day I caught him sunning his furry ginger body on my stoop. He follows my every step whenever I’m at home, so I’ve accepted my new role of cat owner at this point.

I sink down onto one of the kitchen chairs, my brain idly reminding me for the thousandth time that the red wooden chairs could use some cushions. My hand mechanically strokes Gabriel’s velvet soft ears, but for once the low rumbles of his purrs do little to relax me.

Sunlight and warmth pours into my kitchen from that open window, but I’ve never felt colder.

Someone was in here.

I have nowhere else to go. No one I can turn to.

And someone was in here.

There’s magic in this city, Gracie-girl, and there’s magic in women. A woman in New Orleans? There’s nothing we can’t do if we set our minds to it. . .

My mother’s words echo in my head as I stand in the street, staring at the bright yellow door and the peeling black sign above it that simply reads VOODOO in thick block letters. Carved deep into the yellow wood is a stylized heart with crosses and swirls radiating from the center.

Growing up here, the rituals seep into you as unquestionably as the humidity peels the paint and warps the wood. I never gave the dishes of salt and herbs left on the doorstep or the chalk marks drawn under tables a second thought back then, and this is far from the first time I’ve ever set foot in a shop like this.

I can see her, all messy golden hair and wide smiles, plucking the fresh herbs from the wild garden she dug in our small backyard and hanging them in doorways to dry into brittle green bunches. She’d pull down the bundles and trek into a shop like this and wait silently until the last tourist filtered out of the dim room before ducking into the back room with her basket of herbs, leaving me mesmerized by the bright trinkets and jewelry lining the counters to lure in the tourists.

Low voices and feminine laughter would filter from behind the curtains, and she would emerge a few minutes later, thick candles or red flannel pouches tucked in her hands. My mother always looked content and prepared when she left those rooms.

Never afraid.

Maybe that’s why I’m finding myself in front of this store instead of at the police station. Some part of me knows that whoever is trailing me won’t be concerned with a badge or a gun.

I push open the door and step inside the shadowy building.

Like every other occult shop in the city, the air hangs heavy with the thick scent of incense and herbs mixed with just a hint of smoke. Every spare inch of the shelves and counters are crammed with bottles and jars of various mixtures and hand-poured candles, as well as the cheaper mass-produced variety papered with brightly colored images of saints.

“I know what you’re here for.”

Startled, I turn quickly and see the woman standing behind me, the deep blue beaded curtain separating the main store from the back room flowing around her like water.

She takes another step into the room, her eyes raking my form and I get the distinct feeling she recognizes me. Striking is the only word I can think of to adequately describe her. Taller than me by at least half a foot with smooth, her dark skin seems almost luminous in the faint light of the store. Her black hair twists into a braid that wraps around her head, and a deep gold dress formed out of a cascade of ruffles swirls around her feet as she walks.

She barely looks older than I do, but something in her eyes tells a different story.

"You don't believe quite yet," she says, her low voice drawing out each word as she takes my hand and leads me through that blue curtain, the beads cool as they slip over my shoulders. "You will soon enough, Grace."

“How do you know my name?” I stammer, breaking the trance.

She chuckles, the soft sound almost musical. “Of everything that’s happened to you in the last few days, that’s what gives you pause?”

“I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

"Sit." She motions to the simple folding chair set up next to a small round table draped in shades of red and gold and lit by two fat white candles. I sit on the edge of the chair, feeling like that same wide-eyed child following her mother into these shops and wondering what went on behind the curtains.

“I can’t tell you everything I’d like to, child. There are rules with this sort of thing, you see,” she flutters one of her hands dismissively, the gold rings on her slender fingers glinting in the candlelight. “Not my rules, by any stretch, but we all have our parts to play. You’ve been through so much already. . .”

She grasps my hand, flipping it over so that it rests palm up on the table, and she stares at my palm with laser focus.

Almost as an afterthought, she adds, “I knew your mother.”

I try to tug my hand away at her words, but her grip holds me like iron. When she looks up at my face, her dark eyes are sad.

“You’re afraid. You should be. I know what hunts you.”

No part of me is surprised that she said what instead of who.

One long, bare nail traces a line down the center of my palm. I shiver. "The world has many more layers than you imagine. Good isn't always good. And the blackest evil can be the only light that can cut through the shadows." The low cadence of her voice and the sweet, heady scent of the candlewax makes her words feel like a dream and I can feel my eyes growing heavy. I blink the haze from them, forcing myself back to awareness.

"Why the riddles?" I can’t hide the flare of anger that sparks in me. A few days ago, the only thing I had to worry about was an overdue electric bill, and now I’m apparently being hunted by some supernatural creature. I came here for answers, but instead, I’m just getting more and more questions.

"The world was built on riddles and stories, Grace," she says, her tone growing far less languid and more clipped. "You'll meet him soon enough. Every cell in your body will scream at you to run. Don't. He's the only thing that can protect you now that you're the Last."

"The Last?" I echo, furrowing my brow as I try to make sense of her words. "Who am I supposed to meet?"

She shakes her head, her expression as immovable as the braids wreathing her skull. Rising from the chair, she pulls a small red bag from the folds of her skirt and presses it into my hands. I grip the soft flannel.

“I don’t need to tell you what to do with a mojo bag, do I?” Her eyes glimmer with just a bit of amusement as she pulls me to my feet. “Keep it close, and it will buy you a bit of time. It can’t protect you forever, but that’s where he comes in. You both might just save each other.”

She squeezes my hand before ushering me through the front door and back to the street. I find my tongue just before the door closes and ask, "What's your name?"

She hesitates for a moment, and I almost expect her not to tell me.

“Erzulie,” she replies before shutting the door and flipping the sign in the window to read CLOSED.