July 24, 2016

My name is Sayeva Reardon. Two weeks from now I will begin compiling and publishing articles for a New Orleans Supernatural Weekly.

It began with the Sabertooths.

With all that was happening in the world, it was odd that an accomplished and sought-after freelance journalist would choose to follow a drum corps on part of their annual tour across the country. A woman with so much clout could have been anywhere in the world, reporting on major events as they unfolded, in the thick of it, saving lives, unraveling political intrigues. Instead she was on a bus with a bunch of young horn players.

Life had made a wary creature out of Sayeva Reardon. She had already seen much of the world, and after settling in the city of New Orleans, she had decided she had seen enough. The world came to New Orleans anyway; if she wanted to experience some different culture for a change, there was likely a restaurant or club a short streetcar ride away.

One thing she had never done was join a marching band. She could play most of the brass instruments and was a decent drummer. Marching bands had not exactly been a thing in her youth, though, so she experienced it a bit vicariously as the Sabertooth corps made its way across the South and up the Eastern Seaboard.

The Sabertooths had been a small, little-known group in Dallas, Texas until Graham Knight took over as director and grew that group of young musicians into a world-class corps. Director Knight was infamous in the drum corp community. She had intentionally started using her middle name as her first name and her first name, Lisbeth, as middle so as to be mistaken for a man until someone actually met her. That had opened doors for her and her corps, as sad a commentary on the sport as that was.

When Sayeva learned that New Orleans would hold a drum corps competition for the first time and that the Sabertooths would be part of it, she contacted Graham and suggested she use her journalism skills to document the corps’ whole tour that year. Easily spotting the opportunity for exposure, Graham accepted, and additionally arranged their competitions so that the corps would spend three days in New Orleans instead of just passing through.

The corps worked hard and performed well, earning finalist status in many of their early competitions. Once they reached New Orleans, they were ready for a couple of days of relaxation before the actual competition.

“Don’t go too crazy now,” Director Knight warned as the players bounded off the bus and into the hotel. She had planned two extra days because she knew her students: they would go crazy the first day, learn their lesson by the second, and be in proper playing form on the third.

She was right. The hotel rooms the corps had reserved emptied out almost completely that first night. As usual, Sayeva had dinner with the director and her assistants. Then, after taking that small group for a little tour of Frenchmen Street, where they listened to music and drank a bit, they headed back to the hotel for some rest. At their return, around one A.M., the students’ rooms were still mostly empty.

Sayeva had a room to herself, as she always did when the corps actually stopped in a city. The woman had a clear preference for privacy, and since she paid her own way most of the time, no one begrudged her that. She would have preferred to sleep in her own bed, in her Garden District home, but that was a bit far away. Another hotel room would have to suffice.

She was awakened at nine A.M. along with everyone else as the drum instructor went down the hall tapping out “Good Morning” from Singin’ In the Rain on a cowbell, which of course he thought was hilarious (but which the hotel’s manager had a talk with Graham about later). The group, instructors and students alike, were to meet in the lobby, where they would then head to a pastry shop on Magazine Street for breakfast. But the usually well-prepared students were slow in arriving.

“Is this everyone?” Graham did a head count and then a roll call, which fortunately found that everyone was indeed present. “All right. I have to say, you all look lousy. Long night?”

The students all grumbled responses to the effect that yes, it had been a “long night.”

Sayeva frowned. She was very accustomed to seeing hungover people. Some of the students seemed actually ill, not just hungover. She glanced at Graham; the director also looked unhappy, but whether for the same reason Sayeva could not guess.

She made sure to take the director aside, and the two women shared a table alone but with a view of the rest of the group.

“I’m thinking we cancel the sightseeing we had planned for today and just let them all rest.” Graham sighed. “They should have known better.”

“This city does things to people. To their minds, their inhibitions.” Sayeva nibbled at a muffin. “I think maybe they ate or drank something bad. That’s all.”

“If you say so. You’re the one who knows this place.” Graham glanced at the journalist over a mug of coffee. “And you seem to have a sense for these things.”

Sayeva nodded. Her senses were telling her that she was wrong. But about what? How much could go wrong on a night out, given that no one seemed harmed physically? She sniffed the air lightly, but got not much more than baked goods and caffeinated drinks.

The two women did not say much more after that, each lost in thought. Once everyone seemed to be finishing their breakfasts, Graham stood and announced the cancellation of activities for the day. There was much murmuring among the students, but some of them sounded relieved.

They returned to the hotel. In the lobby, most of the students headed up to their rooms, but a few, mostly from the color guard, decided to go out shopping, as they were feeling better. As Sayeva considered what to do, a hand came to rest on her arm.

She turned and looked up at the young woman, who she recognized as one of the mellophone players. Before Sayeva could speak, the young woman said, “You know what happened, don’t you?”

Backing away instinctively, Sayeva studied the young woman, and quickly recalled her name. Mercy Evans. “What happened when?”

“Last night. I know you’re different. And I saw you talking with Ms. Knight.” Mercy folded her arms. “What do you know?”

Sayeva measured her response with care. This young woman had never been one to cause trouble, but at the moment she seemed more volatile than usual. “At the moment, I don’t know anything about what happened last night. I only have suspicions. Care to fill me in?”

“I would, but I don’t remember it.” Mercy arched an eyebrow.

The words were almost accusatory. Sayeva inhaled sharply. “You remember absolutely nothing about last night?”

“I remember heading out to

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