Servants of the Storm by Delilah S. Dawson Page B

seriously. He’s a big guy in a black tricorn, frilly blouse, and vest, not to mention his buckled shoes, eye patch, and the green-and-red parrot bobbing on his shoulder. He might be crazier than I am. Or maybe, like me, he needs the magic of the stage to face such a dreary reality.
    “A mite lost, a bite cost, thar she blows,” the parrot says, dipping his head in a bow, and the pirate throws him a dirty look. I snort and think about walking away before they expect me to pay for the performance. But then I think that if anyone knows this city, it’s a carriage driver.
    “Do y’all know where Charnel House is?” I ask.
    The parrot squawks and ruffles his feathers, and the horse snorts. The pirate just leans back and narrows his good eye at me, considering.
    “Oh, you don’t be wantin’ to go there,” he says. And then he solemnly winks.
    I sigh and lean forward, at the end of my rope.
    “I do, actually.” The pirate shakes his head, and I add, “Pretty please with grog on top?”
    He throws his head back and laughs, which upsets the parrot, who starts flapping his wings, which makes the horse dance around a little. The carriage creaks, and I step back. I don’t have time for this crap.
    “I don’t know where it is,” the pirate says in a more normal voice tinged with a little bit of Southern. “But if you need a ride back to your car, we’d be glad to take you. Maybe even show you the safer sights along the way.”
    “Fetch her hither, eat her liver,” the bird squawks.
    With a groan the pirate transfers his parrot to a stand in the back of the carriage and mutters, “Never trust a bird. They’re liars.”
    The parrot draws himself up tall, ruffles all his feathers, and squawks, “Don’t insult the captain!”
    “Thanks, but I’m in a hurry,” I say, backing away. I feel lost and unsteady, but they’re clearly not going to help me and I’m no closer to finding Charnel House, whatever it is. I turn and walktoward my car, feeling like the world is playing an enormous joke on me. I hear a whistle, and bells jingling, and the horse’s hooves clopping away down the street.
    “Luck go with ye, wench,” the pirate calls in his original, ridiculous voice. I shake my head and very nearly flick him off over my shoulder.
    And then, from farther away, the parrot screams, “Broughton and Bull! Eat till you’re full!”
    It echoes down the empty street, and something twists in my memory like a key in a lock.
    I now know where I have to go.
    Walking fast, I take the safest and best-lit sidewalks to where Broughton Street intersects with Bull Street. This part of town got pummeled by Josephine and hasn’t bounced back like so many other areas have. I haven’t been here in years, not since my dad’s favorite restaurant closed. And I feel completely ridiculous, walking into a dark, dangerous part of a dark, dangerous town, following a parrot’s directions to a place that I’ve never heard of that I found on a note from my dead best friend beside a photo booth. But what choice do I have? Maybe I’m crazy. But if I’m not, Carly needs me, and this is my best clue.
    The closer I get to my destination, the worse I feel. I barely ate my lunch, and I didn’t even get a chance to drink my Dr Pepper at 616. My stomach crunches in on itself like an angry walnut, and acid rises in my throat. I feel eyes on me, and I feel exposed, and the air is sharp as a knife. But I’m in this far. I might as well keepgoing. And the fear is a little thrilling, too, for someone who’s been numb. I feel alive, my nerves buzzing, my eyes bright. And I’m almost there.
    I turn the corner from Bull onto Broughton, and all the streetlights are out, save one. It’s tangled up in a dead oak tree that reminds me too much of the ones from the cemetery in last night’s dream. A giant shadow almost engulfs the light and the tree, and I have to look away from the destroyed church that looms over everything, raging against the black