Knight Shift by E. A. Copen

Author:E. A. Copen [Copen, E. A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-08-13T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fifteen

The number burned into my arm changed twice on the drive over to Pony’s house in the Algiers. Also known as the fifteenth of New Orleans’ seventeen wards, Algiers was practically wiped off the map during Katrina. Flooding and high winds destroyed house after house, most of which were never rebuilt. The area was one of the most impoverished in the city, thanks to the Jim Crow laws of the South and a fire back in the 1800s that destroyed the neighborhood. It never really recovered for long before another disaster hit.

But Algiers was also the birthplace of jazz, a place steeped in rich history and its own distinct culture even within New Orleans. Growing up in Algiers as the only white kid on my block hadn’t been an easy upbringing. It never is when you start out as an outsider, but I had more opportunities than most. Pony was good to me, kept me off the streets or from falling in with the gangs that ran the area now. I owed him more than to go and get my ass thrown into prison, but that didn’t mean he had to turn his back on me while I was on the inside.

I understood why he’d chosen to distance himself. The magical community in New Orleans was secretive, tight-knit, and had a long memory. You didn’t survive in New Orleans if you had magic without friends. Pony had to make a choice between being emotional support in my time of need and his own survival. He chose to survive. For that, I couldn’t fault him. Didn’t mean I had to forgive him.

While every other house on the block got wrecked during Katrina, Pony’d put up enough wards and spells to keep his four walls and a roof standing. The roof tiles got ripped off, and the patio had to be repaired, but he’d kept the old abode together. It was a small place, little more than two bedrooms, a kitchen and a bathroom, but whenever I thought of home, Pony’s place was where my memory took me.

I pulled the stolen truck up the driveway littered with cracks. He must’ve had the outside light hooked to a motion sensor because it kicked on as soon as I put the truck in park. To my surprise, the front screen door popped open, and the stout old man stepped out, wearing a stained white t-shirt with red suspenders to hold his jeans up. His fading white hair had gotten long enough to wave in the wind.

Watching him on the stoop, arms crossed, an impatient glare staring down the truck brought me back to my high school days. How many times had I stayed out past curfew in the hopes of getting into Beth’s pants? I’d come home, expecting to catch hell from Pony for breaking the rules, but he never did yell. He’d work me hard the next few days, but not much else. We didn’t even talk about it unless I brought it up.

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