Darkness Becomes Her Read Online Free Page A

hotel and back parking lot disappeared from view. Either the hotel staff or guests didn’t call the cops on purpose, or gunshots in the middle of the night were the norm near The Rim. That might also explain why Crank didn’t seem fazed by the weapons I’d brought onboard. But none of those thoughts made me feel any better.
    Once Crank drove around to the back of the post office and reversed to a loading dock, she climbed into the rear of the truck, opened the door, and dumped all the mail bags into three large bins. She snagged two bags marked for New 2 from the loading zone and tossed them inside, and then we headed toward Route 190.
    Part of the southbound exit was barricaded, but three faded orange barrels had been moved to make a driving space.
    We drove for what I guessed was ten miles or so before officially passing over The Rim. There was nothing to mark the occasion except an aging road sign that read: UNITED STATES BORDER. DISASTER AREA AHEAD. PROCEED AT YOUR OWN RISK. And thenanother sign a few feet down: PROPERTY OF THE NOVEM. PLEASE RESPECT OUR LAND. WELCOME TO NEW ORLEANS.
    Besides the bumps and noise of the engine, the ride was long and full of silence—the kind of silence you see, not hear. A silence that stretched across the flat landscapes to the black silhouettes of ruined towns, abandoned fast-food restaurants, gas stations, and vehicles. The road became worse as we progressed, the cracked asphalt riddled with holes and large, random patches of weeds.
    “Nothing much out there anymore,” Crank said, glancing over at me and following the direction of my gaze. “Most folks live in or around New 2.”
    “Why would anyone stay?” I asked under my breath. The government had washed its hands of the city and the surrounding land after the devastation, declared it a disaster area, and moved everyone out who wanted to go. The entire city, state, and federal infrastructure in New Orleans collapsed along with its economy. If anyone stayed, it was with the knowledge that America didn’t exist there anymore.
    Nine of the oldest families in New Orleans had formed an alliance, the Novem, and they bought the ruined city and surrounding counties in a landmark deal that seemed a win-win situation for everyone. The government didn’t have to deal with New Orleans. Some of the $8.2 billion the United States earnedfrom the sale went to all the displaced and affected people. And the Novem got something they obviously wanted—a city to call their own.
    For a while, the media had been all over the Novem, lured by the intense speculation behind the group’s unexplained purchase of a wasteland, and attracted by their wealth and the power that came with owning and running an entire city. There was even a book written about the families and their long history in New Orleans. They gained a kind of celebrity status that grew into something of a legend. The odd characters dotting their family trees only added to the mystery—tales of witches and vampires and voodoo queens.
    The Novem never confirmed or denied any rumors. They never gave interviews, never stepped into the spotlight except to make the purchase. And then they retreated into their ruined city, leaving the rest of the country to wonder. It wasn’t long before they joined the ranks of Area 51, Roswell, the Loch Ness monster, and all the other conspiracy theories and paranormal speculations out there. The undercover reporters and truth seekers who’d come out of the city later on with grainy photographs and accounts of monsters and murders only added to the speculation. And now, thirteen years later, a large percentage of the country believed New 2 was a sanctuary, a hot spot, for the paranormal.
    Crank shrugged, her cheeks jiggling as the truck’s tires hit a succession of potholes. “New 2 is home,” she answered my quiet question. The springy seat bounced her entire body, drawing my attention to her feet, which rested on wooden blocks attached to the