Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Ghost
Phoenix sleeps tangled in the sheet beside me, her bare back rising and falling in slow, steady breaths. A single beam of morning light cuts across her shoulder, catching the edge of the tattoo curling over her spine. The Phoenix. The namesake. The fire. Mine.
I should let her sleep. God knows she barely does. But I can’t stop staring. There’s peace in her face that I rarely see. No blood on her knuckles. No steel behind her eyes. Just skin and lashes and the softest frown, like even in sleep, she’s on alert.
I lift a hand, trace a slow line down her spine with my fingertip. Her body arches in response, lazy, not fully awake.
“You’re staring again,” Phoenix mumbles, voice rough and perfect.
“You’re worth staring at.”
She doesn’t smile, not exactly, but her lips curve. Her hand reaches back, fingers brushing my thigh like an invitation and a dare rolled into one.
I roll over her, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand, bracing my weight with the other. Phoenix’s legs part easily, instinctively, and her dark eyes blink up at me, sharp even half-asleep.
“Planning something, detective?” she teases.
I dip my head, brush my mouth along the curve of her neck. “Thinking of conducting a thorough investigation.”
“Better hurry,” Phoenix whispers against my jaw. “Before the world decides to fuck us over again.”
I move slowly, deliberately. This isn’t about friction or speed. It’s about reminding ourselves we’re still here. Still tethered to something real.
Phoenix’s legs wrap around my waist. Her breath hitches. And for a few minutes, there’s no war. No spirals. No traitors. Just her skin under my hands and the sound of her saying my name like a secret only we share.
She’s humming in the shower when my burner vibrates across the nightstand.
A local unknown number flashes across the screen. I answer, already bracing.
“Mercer?” The voice is gravelly and regretful. “Weller. Need a word. In person.”
Captain Weller. My old precinct commander. We haven’t spoken in years.
“What’s this about?”
“Just come in. It’s... better if you see it. Off record.”
“Weller.”
“District morgue. Half hour. Trust me.” He hangs up.
I stare at the burner like it might offer more answers, then toss it on the bed and scrub a hand over my face. My gut’s already tightening.
The bathroom door opens, and Phoenix steps out with a towel wrapped low around her breasts, another twisting her hair up. Water beads glisten on her skin, and under any other circumstances, I’d be dragging her right back to bed.
But she sees me, and immediately, her eyes narrow. “What happened?”
I shrug, half-assed. “Old contact wants to meet. Something weird.”
“How weird?”
“Morgue weird.”
She’s across the room in two steps, digging through her duffel for clothes. “I’m coming with.”
“You’ve got your own lead to chase, remember?” I stand, start pulling on jeans. “Voodoo bar. Spirals. That woman, Mama Dusk?”
Phoenix doesn’t flinch, but I see the tick in her jaw. “Viper says she’s the real deal. Not street corner tarot. Old blood, old magic.”
“Fitting for Halloween,” I mutter, grabbing my hoodie.
She moves toward me, fingers looping into my waistband, eyes on mine. “We check in every hour. You miss one, I come find you.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She kisses me slowly and deeply, and almost bruising. I feel it everywhere. I kiss her back like it’s the last time, because with our luck, it might be.
New Orleans on Halloween is a fever dream with a death wish.
Every block's packed with devils and angels, skeletons and queens.
The air smells like sweat, sugar, and something rotting underneath.
Kids scream over funnel cake. Grown men in skull masks scream louder.
A second line parade weaves through the Marigny, brass band blaring twisted jazz while a man in a top hat tosses fake bones at the crowd.
I don’t see costumes anymore. I see cover.
A witch glances at me. Her face is painted like a Día de los Muertos skull, but the spiral drawn in eyeliner under her eye makes my pulse spike.
Just a coincidence. Right?
Weller’s already pacing the hallway outside the morgue when I arrive. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days.
“You look like hell,” I say.
“I live there now.” He doesn’t smile. “Come on.”
We head inside. The morgue's colder than I remember. The fluorescent lights flicker. I glance at the drawers, my cop instincts already on high alert.
“This guy came in last night,” Weller says, pulling a drawer open. “Found outside the old courthouse. No ID. But you’re going to recognize him.”
He peels the sheet back.
My breath leaves my lungs like I’ve been sucker punched.
“Baker.” I stare at the face. “He was working with Vale. I saw him two days ago. He handed off files near Lafitte Greenway.”
“Right,” Weller says. “Except the coroner says he died last night. And get this, his fingertips are burned, like someone torched them one by one. Mouth sewn shut and a spiral carved into his chest.”
My stomach turns. “He was alive two days ago. I’m sure of it.”
“I believe you,” Weller mutters. “But... look again.”
I lean in. Study the waxy skin, the bruised lips. Nothing moves. I glance at Weller. “What am I supposed to…”
The corpse blinks. Once. Slow.
I stumble back. “Jesus Christ.”
Weller grabs my arm, pulls me away from the table. “You saw it too, right?”
“Yeah.” My hands shake. “That’s not possible.”
“None of this is. But it’s happening anyway.”
Out in the alley behind the precinct, I light a cigarette with shaking hands. Smoke fills my lungs, but does nothing to stop the spiraling in my head. The body blinked. I saw it. Weller saw it. But if I admit that out loud, then I’m not just chasing ghosts, I’ve become one.
My burner buzzes.
Phoenix: This bar is wrong. The kind of wrong that breathes. Check in soon. —P
I don’t reply right away. I can’t. That fucking body is burned behind my eyes. It blinked, and I know what that means.
Whatever we’re chasing? It’s not just cartel money and MC betrayal anymore.
It’s deeper. Older. Smarter.
Weller’s voice echoes in my skull. “This isn’t a case. This is a message.”
I stomp out my cigarette with the heel of my boot, wishing I had a drink right now. It’s time to find Phoenix and Viper and fill them in.
I find them near Bourbon Street, pressed into the shadows between a jazz bar and a tarot reader’s stall.
Viper is scanning the crowd. Phoenix is pacing, She smells like dried herbs and smoke.
Something clings to her that doesn’t belong to this side of the world.
Her lip is split, and her knuckles are scraped. Something went sideways.
“What happened?” I ask.
Phoenix looks at me and shakes her head once. “Not here.”
She grabs my hand and squeezes. Her fingers are ice cold. We step into the crowd, swallowed by music and screams and strobe lights.
Someone pushes past me dressed like a plague doctor. Another laughs, splattered in fake blood. But none of it feels fake anymore, everything feels too real now.
And then I see him. A street performer crouched on the pavement, painting something in what looks like blood.
The spiral. Big and deliberate.
He’s chanting under his breath. Low and wet. Like the sound of dirt being poured into a grave. The performer looks up mid-stroke. His eyes are cloudy. Blind. But he sees me.
I look at Phoenix, and she’s already watching me. Viper’s gone still. Something's here.
Halloween’s always been masks and madness in this city. But this year? The masks don’t come off. And the madness doesn’t end at midnight.