The bus I stepped out of drove off, leaving me on the sidewalk. I surveyed my surroundings. “So, this is the famous French Quarter,” I whispered. I felt as if I was in an entirely different country because the environment was a world away from Falls City, Nebraska.
Blowing an exhausted breath, I tied my coat, which wasn’t necessary for the balmy New Orleans air. What was supposed to be about a day’s bus drive here took three days. A few times, I’d gotten off the bus at the scheduled stops and spotted someone dressed similarly to or moved with the same air as the man who attacked me in my motel room.
Taking no chances, I hid and got left behind several times. I’d have to pay for another ticket to continue my journey. I’d finally reached my destination, but I was out of money and so sleep-deprived I thought I’d topple over at any minute. Tugging at my coat, I frowned. I was also desperately in need of a proper shower.
As I looked around, my shoulders sagged. Where did I even go from here? Nothing in my aunt’s and mother’s letters told me specifically where to go in New Orleans. It wasn’t like I could go up to a random person and ask where to find a werewolf pack. I most certainly couldn’t go to the police and tell them I was being chased by insane people who claimed to hunt supernatural creatures. I’d likely be institutionalized.
Scrubbing a hand over my face, I started to walk. Standing in one spot looking around might make me look crazy, too. I wandered aimlessly for a few minutes, barely even able to admire the city and people because I was so lost in thought about my next step. My stomach grumbled, reminding me the only thing I’d eaten in two days was a chocolate bar.
A commotion up ahead brought my attention to what looked like a restaurant. A man stomped out of the building, followed by a woman with brown skin and the most amazing head of curls I’ve ever seen. She wore a white apron over a traditional waitress uniform, so I assumed she worked in the restaurant.
As I got closer, she flipped the man off and yelled, “I don’t need you! You’re a terrible cook, anyway!”
“Screw you, Macy!” the man returned.