Puffballs of white and spotted gray clouds drifted lazily across the sky, periodically blocking out the hot summer sun, giving Charlie brief respites from the narrow rays that seemed determined to focus on her, even though she was cloaked in invisibility. The humid Louisiana air hung thick as molasses, making every breath feel like swallowing cotton.
Normally, the intense heat wouldn't bother her, but it came with the added bonus of a sheet of sweat cascading down her alabaster-shaded face. Her bangs were usually plastered to her forehead, helping to keep the sting of sweat out of her eyes.
However, shortly after arriving in town, Cassie had suggested using black hair ties of equal length to make her hair more manageable. Before, she had only ever used one hair tie at the base of her neck, but she ended up brushing out more tangles and knots at the end of each day than she liked.
Cassie's idea proved incredibly effective in keeping her hair in check. While hunting, she could conjure the bands away as a flowing mane would appear more intimidating for scaring off villains. However, she quickly learned to control her hair movement, because having waving strands in her mouth while letting out a banshee scream was far from frightening.
Embarrassed, she never told Angel about that moment.
Charlie drew her palm across her brow, gathering the buildup, and wiped the stickiness away on her ripped blue denim jeans, which clung uncomfortably to her legs in the oppressive heat.
Tapping her foot gently as she scanned the crowds, Charlie was pleased she had insisted that Angel buy her the cotton slip-on shoes. They worked just as she had hoped, concealing her cloven hooves, which would have clicked loudly on the cobblestone sidewalks and asphalt roads—a dead giveaway that would send tourists scattering and locals crossing themselves. She didn't want to attract attention or give any credence to the existence of the supernatural.
But maybe for All Hallows' Eve, she mused, Angel might let me have some fun?
She moved swiftly through the city, checking off street after street from the center of town outward toward the east, each one adding weight to her worry. But Angel had warned her not to get too excited about finding anything because, unlike the movies they had watched in their hotel rooms, discovering the villain's hideout wouldn't follow a third-act plot. No, this would require a bit of energy and a lot of luck.
Slipping carefully onto the sidewalk, Charlie cautiously maneuvered through the waves of tourists flowing along the narrow paths on either side of the busy streets. Even though she knew how crowded the French Quarter could become as the day wore on, she still felt frustrated. Navigating among them to scout each block proved more challenging than she had anticipated.
What made it worse was the overwhelming blend of smells and sounds that created a sense of white noise—pralines burning in shop windows, the musty scent of old buildings, jazz bleeding from open doorways, and the constant chatter of a dozen languages—forcing her to rely primarily on her eyesight.
She cursed her lack of wings. She imagined soaring above the crowds, hunting her prey with the precision of a bird of prey circling its target.
Charlie shook off the distracting thought and sharpened her senses, continuing along the sidewalk until she reached the corner. The familiar weight of her protective amulet pressed against her chest beneath her shirt, a comforting reminder of who she was and why she was here.
Turning left onto a quieter side street lined with antique shops and art galleries, she halted suddenly. Despite her invisibility, she pressed against the sun-warmed bricks of a nearby storefront and narrowed her eyes, peering down the sidewalk. About twenty yards ahead, three FBI agents in crisp, dark suits were inspecting what appeared to be an abandoned Creole cottage, its green shutters hanging askew and paint peeling like old, dry skin.
Moving carefully on the uneven brick pavement, she quietly approached, listening in as one of the agents—tall, lean, with sweat stains already showing through his jacket—called in an update.
"Agent Jones to Commander Tucker."
His voice carried the flat professionalism of someone who'd been doing this job too long.
There was a moment of static on the radio, and then a voice responded through the crackling connection. "Tucker here. Report."
"Nothing to report, sir."
Jones's tone was bland and devoid of any hint of disappointment as he wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.
"Just more empty housing. Looks like this one's been vacant for months—newspapers from March still on the porch, mailbox stuffed full. We're moving on to the next grid. Over."
"Roger that," Tucker responded, equally deadpan, carrying the weight of a long, fruitless day. "Report at the end of your next grid search. Over and out."
Charlie's anger flared as she listened to the dullness in the agent's voice. There were kids in danger—real children with real families waiting for them to come home—yet these men acted like this was just another day on the job, another box to check on their endless bureaucratic forms. How could they be so nonchalant when every passing hour meant those children were still in the hands of a monster?
Glaring at Jones, even though he couldn't see her, Charlie stepped around them and continued down the sidewalk, brushing past a flowering jasmine vine that released its sweet perfume into the thick air. She headed toward the outskirts of town and into the warehouse district, east of the shopping district. Perhaps she would have better luck among the larger buildings and expansive parking lots, where the industrial landscape made each target feel more isolated from prying eyes.
Before heading out, Angel had informed her about New Orleans' intricate network of waterways. The Mississippi curved like a great brown serpent, the Industrial Canal cut through the city's heart, and countless bayous threaded through the surrounding parishes. Any warehouse or abandoned structure along the river would be a prime location to investigate.
"While I think Amanda's boss is wasting time conducting grid searches of the city," Angel had explained while unfolding a detailed street map and placing it on their hotel room's small kitchen table, his finger tracing the blue lines of waterways, "it'll keep the FBI off your back while you search the river's structures. However, it's still wise to start from here and check any abandoned structure until you're out of town."
Charlie had been tracing the streets on the map with her finger, following where he pointed, her nail clicking softly against the paper as she nodded along. The map depicted the city's layout like a spider's web, with the French Quarter at its center and the river cutting through everything.
"When I start, which direction do you want me to head?"
"East. Follow the river toward the industrial areas—that's where someone like Bible would set up shop. When you reach the outskirts, give me a sitrep, okay?"
"Will do!"
Eager to start, Charlie had grabbed her cotton shoes from beside the bed and slipped them on.
While she did, Angel retrieved an earpiece from their gear bag—military-issued, encrypted, and nearly invisible when worn—and handed it to her.
"Remember: Stay invisible at all times, except when you can find a secure location to check in. The last thing we need is some tourist's vacation video going viral with a mysterious floating voice."
Clipping the earpiece in place behind her ear, Charlie nodded solemnly. "Right."
There had been a brief pause between them, the weight of the mission settling over the room like morning fog, until Charlie stepped forward, gently pressed her lips to his, and voiced what she knew he was thinking: "I promise I'll stay safe."
Tasting her lips on his, Angel whispered with the confidence of someone who'd seen her in action. "I know you will. Good luck."
Now, having reached a point where she could do as he'd requested, Charlie stopped in the shade of a massive oak tree whose branches stretched like ancient arms across the sidewalk, Spanish moss hanging in ghostly curtains that swayed in the occasional breeze off the river. The tree provided blessed relief from the blistering sun, which seemed determined to permanently tan her natural alabaster skin.
Once again, she drew her arm across her forehead to wipe away another budding layer of irritating, salty sweat and clicked a button on her earpiece.
"Charlie to Angel, do you copy? Over."
Only a couple of seconds ticked by before she heard his cool, calm voice echo in her ear, clear as if he were standing right beside her. Any sense of discomfort from the day washed away, and a smile crossed her lips when he spoke.
"Go ahead. Over."
Charlie enjoyed the military lingo he had taught her, appreciating how it made her feel professional and helped her manage her emotions more easily when the stakes were high.
"I've cleared the grids in the middle of town, skipping the ones already cleared by the FBI. I even saw Amanda in one of the northern sections—she was interviewing an antique shop owner who kept shaking his head. She's very pretty, Angel."
She had never met Amanda before, but Charlie recognized her voice from the phone call and matched her features to what little Angel had shared in some of their conversations. But why did her thought spill out for him to hear? It didn't matter to the mission.
Quickly, she brushed over it and got back to her report. "I listened in on some of the FBI reports. They've had no success in town, either—lots of abandoned buildings, but all just empty shells. How's your research going? Over."
"It's frustrating," Angel responded, and she could picture him running his hands through his hair the way he did when he hit dead ends.
"We're encountering obstacles at every turn regarding this Bible character. I'm starting to worry that he has someone high up in the government on his payroll. The dead ends I'm encountering feel like systematically erased data from the internet—too clean, too thorough. Cassie is communicating with The Frequencies, but isn't finding anything, either. Even the underworld contacts are staying quiet, which is never a good sign. What's your twenty? Over."
Charlie was disheartened, the weight of responsibility settling heavily on her shoulders. She'd hoped they'd have found a few leads to help her narrow the search area instead of wandering through a city of nearly 400,000 people searching for the proverbial needle in the haystack. She looked around to gauge her surroundings: the industrial landscape stretched before her, all concrete and steel under the punishing sun.
"I'm at the check-in point, east of the French Quarter, along the riverfront by the railroad tracks. I can see the port cranes from here, and there's a whole stretch of warehouses ahead. Over."
"Roger that. As I recommended this morning, run the tracks east to north along the river. Those areas house industrial parks, warehouses, and factories—some dating back to the early 1900s. Some of them are abandoned and would make perfect hiding spots for someone who wants to stay off the radar. So far, the FBI has been moving west and south, thinking Bible's gang may be in similar zones, which means you'll be completely on your own out there. Over."
"Roger that, and good. This morning's been tough with all the people out and about. I need to be able to open up all my senses without getting overwhelmed. Over."
"I understand. What's your plan? Over."
"Please hold."
Checking to see if anyone was around, Charlie dropped her invisibility cloak and pulled a map out of her pocket, marked with precise grids in Angel's careful handwriting, and briefly consulted it. "I'll report again after I clear up to the Florida Avenue bridge. It should take me about two hours if I'm thorough. Over."
"Excellent," Angel's voice was full of pride and affection, warming her from the inside despite the oppressive heat. "That'll clear most of the river structures within the city limits. If it turns out empty, return here, and we'll head out together after dinner to check the parishes. Over."
"Roger that. I'll begin now. Over."
"Be careful, Charlie. Trust your instincts—if something feels wrong, get out and call for backup. Over and out."
The earpiece went silent.
For a brief moment, Charlie stood still in the industrial quiet, so different from the bustling Quarter behind her. Here, the sounds were different—the distant clang of metal on metal from the port, the low rumble of river traffic, and the rhythmic clack of a train somewhere in the distance. The sudden silence felt deafening, leaving her alone with the weight of her mission.
Folding the map carefully, she slipped it into her pocket and vanished from view, shimmering like heat waves before disappearing entirely. Now, free from the chaotic sounds of the city and tourists, Charlie could fully utilize all her supernatural senses. Her hearing sharpened until she could distinguish individual conversations from the port workers a quarter mile away. Her sense of smell expanded to catalog every scent carried on the river breeze—diesel fuel, rust, muddy water, and something else… something that didn't belong.
Clutching her new amulet under her shirt, Charlie sprinted along the train tracks heading east. Her invisible feet found purchase on the worn steel rails as she silently prayed with all the desperation of someone who knew time was running out: Please! Please let me find them before it's too late!