The Casquette Girls (Book 1)

4. Gris-Gris

October 10th

The engulfing obsidian made me momentarily panic, but as soon as I became conscious of the muggy air around me, I remembered I was home. I waved a hand in front of my face. Nothing. The storm boards on the windows blocked even the slightest crack of light from entering, masking any hints about what time it was. I had agreed to sleep in the living room to appease my father's fear that the back of the house might have structural damage, although I wasn't sure it would have made a difference where we slept if the house did cave in. Now, lying in a heap of blankets and cushions on the floor, I felt better than I had in weeks. Just being home brought on a small smile.

The smile induced a groan. I reached for the bandage on my cheek. The entire right side of my face throbbed when I moved.

"Stupid bird."

Based on how stiff I was, I guessed I'd slept for at least ten hours. My phone told me twelve. Nice.

The quick glow from the screen also showed me I was alone. My father was no longer snoring on the love seat. How did I sleep later than him, especially considering I am on Paris time?

Curiosity pulled me up and to the front door. I squinted as the morning light poured into the cave-like foyer. Stepping out onto the stoop, I let my forehead rest on the iron gate. The metal was cool. A breeze pricked my skin. Has the season already turned? Maybe we'll have a cold Halloween . . . ? If we even have Halloween this year. The only thing harder for me to imagine would be a year without carnival season.

A wave of guilt swept over me. There were tens of thousands of families who had lost everything, including each other, and I was worrying whether all the hours I had put into my costume would be in vain. I pushed the thought away, double-checked the bolt on the gate, and left the door open to maximize the natural light.

***

The sliding doors separating my father's bedroom and studio were wide open. A squirrel bounced across the room, scavenging through the wreckage. I chased it through the gaping hole and out into the courtyard.

It looked like a tornado had spun through. I guess one kind of had.

Hundreds of sketches, inks, paintings, and brushes littered the studio space. Colorful dried pools of paint, resin, and other chemicals patched the wooden floor. A large oxygen tank had smashed into a wall and cracked the plaster all the way up to the ceiling. Iron patio furniture and a mass of leaves and other garden debris had blown inside. Then there was the culprit: the giant column lying in the middle. How the hell are we going to move this thing?

"Zeus, I think you dropped something," I joked halfheartedly. A small smile made my claw wound ache beneath the bandage.

My father was sleeping on an old couch in the corner. My nose turned up, considering how the upholstery had surely been drenched. At least he had bothered to put a blanket down first. He rolled his back to me, revealing a half-drunk bottle of whiskey wedged between the cushion cracks.

"Ugh, Dad . . ." I yanked the bottle free.

He barely stirred.

The only thing that truly seemed to make my father happy was his art. His schedule was erratic because of the bar, so it was hard for him to meet people outside of the nightlife, which he tried to avoid since he was solely responsible for me. Looking around the room again, I decided to let him sleep it off. I pulled an afghan to his shoulders and tiptoed back to the kitchen to sort out more pressing things. Coffee.

Thank God we had a gas stove, and thank God we used a French press—I had to leave the broken kitchen door open to let in light—but no electricity was required for the brew.