Chapter One

Lucky Boudreaux lived for moments like this.

The roar of the crowds. The smell of hot dogs and wet pavement. The camera flashes catching the purple velvet of his perfectly tailored suit just so.

Gazing out at the crowd, he smiled like a king, despite the rainy New Orleans day sending many Carnival attendees beneath eaves and awnings.

A king didn’t hide from the weather…or from any enemies tucked in his cheering throng. He stood there, regally smiling and waving for his adoring followers.

He’d been waiting 364 days to climb onto this podium and experience the full force of New Orleans gazing up at him in rapture.

To kick off the Uptown parades, he faced the mob of reporters. Those gathered wore the triumvirate colors of the carnival—purple, green, and gold. From where Lucky stood, the crowd resembled a collection of animated lollipops. They shuffled their feet, exhaling warm breath into their hands and hugging themselves against the evening chill.

A fresh pattering of rain darkened the street, laying an ominous backdrop to the vibrancy of Carnival season. Yet the air remained rich with excitement and romanticism. Cheers and cries of delight—drunken revelry in its purest form—echoed around the streets nearby.

Lucky waited for a particularly raucous series of shouts to die down before speaking.

“For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Lucky.” The heat of pride and power warmed his chest against the chill as everyone laughed and cheered at his greeting. Born Lucien, he was known as Lucky. The nickname spanned from his personal to professional life.

A food-cart vendor waved to him enthusiastically.

He pointed at the vendor. “I see you, friend!”

The man applauded and shouted something back, but his words were lost in the celebratory hollering.

That’s all right. He knows I’ll swing by later for one of those hot dogs. Just gotta get through the glad-handing and ass-kissing first.

Motioning for the crowd to settle themselves, he continued. “I’m the captain of Krewe de Lumière. And as you’ll see soon, our parade, my parade, is the one you’re gonna remember most this Carnival. ‘For through our light, we lead.’” He addressed the slogan to the reporters and their cameras. They’d get his message out to a wider audience than the one gathered in front of him now.

But maybe some of the folks here didn’t know of his generous heart, of his charitable acts and selfless nature.

“New Orleans is the greatest city in the world. No other place on Earth has so much soul.” He paused, waiting for the crowd to cheer.

Instead, he was met with heavier raindrops on his shoulders. A few hands came together in applause, only to be drowned out by the obnoxious weather and even more irritating revelers, ones who’d already had too much Carnival cheer and were probably on their way to forgetting that the city and Lucky’s charity even existed.

He cleared his throat. “As you’re all aware, I’ve been a boon to this city.”

Cheers followed this time, along with a couple of whistles.

“I’ve made a point to donate from my hard-earned wealth.” More applause followed, and any hoots that came his way were the good kind. “I give to jazz foundations, libraries, schools, and historical societies. My contributions and immeasurable love for this city have led me here, to this position, standing before you.”

In the distance, brass and percussion breathed an energetic life into the setting as the floats made their final preparations for the parade.

A reporter took advantage of the distraction, of Lucky’s break in his speech. “I’m Alex Danville with Danville New Orleans.” He stepped forward.

Lucky recognized the up-and-coming young man. His reputation for exhaustive investigative journalism meant he excavated dirt and dug up wrongs, but he also, unfortunately, exposed the truth.

Alex flipped open a pocket notebook. “I’ve spoken to a source who claims you’ve invested in vulnerable neighborhoods and partnered with developers known for displacing longtime residents.”

The nerve. Some ink-slinger who’d barely cut his teeth in the business, standing here like he was the voice of the city. Lucky pictured the man’s name buried in the back pages where nobodies went to rot. The heat crawling up his neck wasn’t from the rain…it was the sting of being challenged in front of his crowd.

Fine. You want a story? I’ll give you one.

“Yes, but…” Lucky offered his most sincere smile, “those vulnerable neighborhoods, as you define them, are in ruin. The city turned its back on them, allowed them to crumble in on themselves. I’m investing to clean up and preserve, to revitalize.”

“Clean up what, might I ask?” Alex had the gall to smirk. “The residents? Because, Mr. Boudreaux, your plan sounds an awful lot like gentrification in the name of profit.”

A mosquito bite in human form, that one.

Lucky kept his smile fixed—kings didn’t flinch in public—but the urge to cut Danville off at the knees pulsed behind his teeth. He was already shaping the spin in his head when his gaze snagged on a familiar face in the crowd.

Broad shoulders. Crooked nose. Gerard McCoy. Gambling enforcer with the subtlety of a brass band.

McCoy made a quick gesture. Harmless to anyone else. Loud as a gunshot to a man who owed him money. A gesture that said we need to talk.

Why today?

First a reporter trying to paint Lucky as a villain. Now McCoy sending signals in front of half the damn city. This was supposed to be his night—his coronation—not a stage for every leech with a grudge to crawl into the spotlight.

Perspiration slicked Lucky’s forehead, and he used his forearm to wipe the moisture away.

A woman shouted another accusation from the safety and anonymity of the crowd. “You should be ashamed of yourself! Standing here, boasting about how lucky you are. Celebrating excess when people are starving. When people have nothing!”

Her indictment tickled his neutered mind into gear.

Lucky flashed his most dazzling smile, the one that had smoothed over bigger scandals than this. “You’re right. They are starving…starving for entertainment. And I will feed them their fill tonight!”

The response was perfect. And it would neatly shift the focus back to the Krewe de Lumière. Or so he thought.

Except no one laughed. No one agreed.

Once again, only the blasted rain provided any kind of response.

Philistines. No sense of humor, no sense of occasion. Give them a crown and a parade, and they still find a way to piss on it.

Fed up, Lucky offered a few final remarks and exited the stage. Silently seething, he headed toward the warehouse where they kept the floats, his mind buzzing with the derailment. Who was Alex Danville to accuse him of gentrifying for profit?

And that faceless, nameless woman out there shouting from the shadows instead of standing in the light where he could see who she was. Wouldn’t be too hard to figure out which ward she lived in if he could identify her.

Be a real shame if her place got razed as part of next year’s renewal efforts.

The thought had Lucky smiling again, until it reminded him of McCoy’s tactics. He glanced over his shoulder, double-checking to make sure the debt collector lathered in muscle and checkered with scars hadn’t followed him.

Nothing but the rain—that constant annoyance—tagged after him.

Lucky slipped into the warehouse and marched to the signature float he’d be riding before long. The Light of New Orleans, glowing under the soft, almost ill overhead lights, cheered him immediately.

A massive rotating sun dominated the design. Within the heart of that magnificent supernova glittered a throne. His throne. Everything signified power and prestige.

Lucky climbed onto the float and caressed the jeweled crown held by an animatronic robed figure standing behind the gilded chair. When he sat on his regal perch, the mechanized Archbishop of Canterbury would coronate him. With Lucky crowned king, glowing as he paraded through his dominion, everything would be right again.

The thought went a long way to calm his pinging nerves.

A bejeweled scepter hovered in midair, held by the other mechanized arm of the robotic religious figure. They’d designed the contraption so the archbishop would crown Lucky just before lowering the imperial scepter for him to accept during the parade’s climax.

Transfixed by the item’s beauty, its implication, Lucky studied the work of art like a lover, recharging his confidence and spirit.

A viscid voice came from behind him. “It’s ready to go.”

Spinning on his heel, Lucky flashed a smile to hide his shock. His twenty grand worth of porcelains were working overtime today.

Tate Begnaud crossed his thick, scarred arms over his broad chest. He had rusty hair and pale skin. At six-two, he sported the bulk of an ex-athlete, as big as McCoy, if not bigger. But his gut sagged over his belt from all the time he spent holding down barstools.

Lucky nodded at Tate and returned his attention to the float as he imagined the crowd overcome with joy, cheering for him, adoring him. There’d be no microphone this time, no damn questions or taunts. Just the adoration he and all his hard work deserved.

He donned his regalia—a dark-purple velvet cape and strings of beads colored purple, green, and gold—and claimed his seat inside the glowing sun. The crown and scepter would be his soon enough.

Music blasted, pumping out soulful horns, rhythmic percussion, and vocals filled with energy. Beyond the music, the crowd roared in anticipation of their king’s arrival.

The float lurched, smoothed out, and rolled forward into the throbbing depths of Carnival. Verve and color surged around him, drowning out the earlier jabs, the debts, the gnawing reminders of anything but this moment. All that existed was his place here…center stage, in his rightful seat.

The sun rotated, defying the rain and the cloud-stained evening and allowing every bystander a glimpse of their shining king. As the float crept along the first street of the route, the moment neared—the mechanical coronation and the offering of the scepter with the climax of the music.

Nerves didn’t accost Lucky, but excitement filled him with humbling paralysis. Though he attempted to swallow, his throat caught around his heightened emotions. Had someone shoved a microphone in his face at that moment, requested he make a speech, he wasn’t sure he could’ve forced a syllable from his lips. The moment owned him.

Lucky had spent his entire life dreaming of this, of hundreds of eyes locked on him, adoring him, screaming for him. He didn’t see their faces, didn’t recognize them as individuals. To him, they were nothing more than calories, nourishment to fuel his ambition.

He wanted to laugh, to cry.

Instead, he simply smiled as the crown lowered onto his brow, fitting like it belonged there.

On cue, the scepter appeared before him, and Lucky, ever aware of his role, closed his hand around the symbol of sovereignty.

Pain as bright as lightning across a dark sky shot up his arm, locking his grip around the scepter. His mind screamed at his hand to let go—drop it, damn you, drop it—but it was like his thoughts hand been severed from his body, his fingers only clenched harder. Sharp agony blitzed to his armpit and turned in to his chest…a wrecking ball straight to his sternum.

Air. He couldn’t get air.

Was his heart…?

As the torture heightened, rising along with the intensifying climatic music, the crown turned on him next, scorching his brow. He could hear his skin sizzle, feel it bubble, smell it burn.

Confusion, fear, and pure torment clouded his mind.

Something terrible had happened—was happening—and he couldn’t process anything beyond the ever-present screaming pain stampeding through his body.

In the crowd, faces shifted, contorting into masks of horror…or maybe laughter as he faced the justice of all his dirty dealings.

They pointed at him.

Were they screaming or howling with amusement?

The stench of burning flesh and hair filled his nostrils.

A single voice, ripe with panic, ripped through Lucky’s senses. “He’s on fire!”

Chapter Two

Special Agent Claire Legacy stood a dozen feet from the Light of New Orleans, wedged among the other Carnival goers. One moment, Claire had been smiling at Bea’s excitement. She’d actually been more than a little awed herself, drawn in by the golden glow of the float.

Bea had clutched her arm, urging her to look as the towering sun spun slowly, scattering light over the crowd, while jeweled waves rolled at its base and the animatronic Archbishop of Canterbury lifted a glittering crown high.

Claire had been marveling at the engineering—the seamless rotation, the precision timing—when Lucky Boudreaux’s grin stalled mid-arc. The expression held for a beat too long before hardening into something jagged and wrong. Seizures riddled his body. His shivering was real…unnatural.

A seizure, maybe. Or a stroke. The thought flickered in her mind…until smoke curled from the crown.

Lucky was dying before their eyes. And not from natural causes.

Bea looked up at her, eyes swimming with confusion. “Cee, what’s happening?”

“I don’t know.” Claire knew, but she didn’t want to seed panic in her big sister, not when she had to respond to the situation. “It’ll be okay, though. Wait here.”

Claire stepped through the onlookers seated in front of her. Their cheers had allayed, replaced by murmurs of confusion. She scanned the cleared parade route, searching for the yellow vests that denoted parade wardens.

When she didn’t spot anyone, she cupped her hands around her mouth. “Security!”

A large man, standing closer to seven feet than six, loped forward. He didn’t wear the customary yellow but a black rain slicker.

Without waiting for him to address her, Claire pointed at the back of the float. “Shut down the generators! Now!”

The man hesitated, shifting his gaze to the float. It took too long for his neurons to fire. He’d probably just witnessed someone die—had maybe never so much as seen a dead body until a moment ago.

Unwilling to wait for him to comprehend the situation, Claire sprinted across the way and flashed her FBI badge. She had to get to Lucky and didn’t dare waste time making a call. Instead, she shouted a sharp directive to the security guard. “Call an ambulance. Now!”

Given a clear command, the man snapped into gear. He nodded and fumbled with his phone.

On top of the float, another member of Krewe de Lumière, a stocky man with a square jaw and a bald head, approached Lucky.

Claire hopped onto the platform and was assaulted by the smell of singed flesh. “Get back!”

Another parade warden appeared beside her, this one dressed in the expected yellow.

“Everyone get back until they turn off the generators.” Claire glared at the member of Lucky’s krewe before panic from the crowd stole her attention.

Parade officials swarmed the area, fighting the chaos to assert a semblance of control. They formed a barrier as they shouted, but the blaring music from the float’s speakers swallowed their voices.

Claire scoured the area for Bea and spotted her clinging to a metal railing, her almond-shaped eyes wide. Offering a subtle nod, Claire raised her hand, motioning as if pumping brakes. She and Bea didn’t have a secret sign language to communicate, but she hoped her older sister understood her intention.

The music abruptly ceased as the generators died. The sudden silence was shocking.

Lucky’s body, which had twitched and trembled before the power died, slackened, and he slumped in his throne.

Claire bolted toward him. She pressed her fingers into the soft of his neck, searching for a pulse and finding nothing.

“You!” She turned and pointed at the squat, bald man, who remained rooted in place. “I need your help. Get over here.”

The authority in her voice must’ve snapped him out of his trance. He hustled over.

“What’s your name?” An easy question that might give him a handhold to climb out of his stupor.

“Wesley.”

“Okay, Wesley. We need to lower him so he’s flat on his back. Can you help me?”

They worked together, hoisting Lucky’s dead weight from the throne and laying him on the carpeted platform. Once he was horizontal, Claire began chest compressions.

The crowd had fallen silent again—or maybe Claire was so focused on her task that she’d tuned them out.

She counted the compressions, employing her training.

But she knew the action was futile. She was too late.

Rain kissed her cheeks, her neck, cooling her body temperature as she put direct and consistent pressure on Lucky’s chest.

She kept at it until an EMT arrived and took her place.

As Claire stepped back to let them work, Lucky’s head lolled to the side, and his glassy eyes stared at her. Blistered burns marred his scalp where the crown had rested on his head. The scepter had caused all the skin from the palm of his left hand to transfer, sticking to the rod like an egg in an ungreased pan.

Claire assessed the scene, rain dripping from her hairline into her collar. On a night like this, water could’ve turned any exposed wire into a death trap. She scanned the throne, looking for frayed cables, loose connections…anything the downpour might have shorted out.

She replayed his death in her mind, moving through each frame like a movie in slow motion. The crown had settled over his brow. Then Lucky had grabbed the scepter. When his fingers curled around the metal shaft, his body had turned epileptic.

If the weather hadn’t caused it, then someone had.

Between the crown and scepter and the timing of his seizure, questions bubbled in Claire’s mind.

Who knew of the float’s design?

Were there any security gaps?

Was Lucky’s death simply a freak accident?

Her gaze drifted from the ineffectual efforts of the EMS team to the krewe, now gathered on the street a dozen feet from their float.

Their attention remained on the EMTs, the compressions, the medical practices that couldn’t revive the dead. They all shared similar slack-jawed expressions.

But were they all surprised by what had happened?

Claire couldn’t tell as she scanned their darkened faces. Though streetlights towered overhead, the illumination created heavy shadows, disguising whether one of them might’ve been expressing delight or satisfaction at the tragic event.

She shifted her attention back to the throne.

Tilting her head, she crept toward the mechanical religious figure, where she inspected the arms holding the crown and scepter. They were hinged at the shoulders and elbows.

Had the krewe designed it to release the items once Lucky accepted them?

The wind picked up, slapping her clothes against her body and shifting something loose beneath the royal chair. The object skittered and rattled.

Claire knelt at the base of the throne.

Tucked beneath a front leg lay a porcelain mask, a Velcro strap securing the visage to the chair.

“Excuse me.” Claire turned to one of the EMTs—a handsome young man with a sleeve of tattoos—who waited to help transfer Lucky Boudreaux to a gurney. “Can I borrow a pair of gloves?” She held her FBI badge in one hand.

He nodded and produced a crumpled set from a pouch on his belt.

Claire slipped them on and unclasped the Velcro strap to remove the mask from beneath the throne. Half of it was so black, it appeared oily. Horizontal stripes in Carnival colors covered the other half.

Claire flipped it over, exposing a white underbelly.

The word purity was written across the inside of the mask in big block letters.

Beneath that, in ornate handwriting on a scrap of taped paper, was a message. The city that loses its soul will burn in its own light.

As she reread it to fully grasp its meaning, one thought stuck out.

Lucky’s death wasn’t an accident.

Claire turned to the crowd, trying to study the hundreds of faces gathered like an audience at a Colosseum match, infatuated with death and blood. Hundreds of cell phone cameras stared back at her.

And somewhere in that sea, somewhere among those people, a killer likely watched her every move.

Flashing blue and red lights painted the evening as local officers arrived on the scene. Two of them approached Claire—one a man in his early thirties with the beginnings of an experimental mustache that didn’t serve him well. Claire knew him as Officer Rafael Herrera. The other was a Black woman around Claire’s age with an athletic build. Detective Tasha Brook.

“You okay?” Detective Brook rubbed her wrist. “How can we help?”

Though Claire knew both officers, she pulled out her badge again. She wore casual clothes, like Brook, and she’d only met the arriving officers a couple of times on her first case. “We need to lock down the scene. No one leaves until they’re dismissed.”

Herrera turned to the task, speaking into the radio pinned to his shoulder.

Detective Brook nodded. “Detective Mercier’s next on the schedule. I can help with whatever you need right now, though.”

“Right now, crowd control is the big thing.”

Brook accepted the assignment and went to help Herrera.

Claire fished out her cell phone and dialed Supervisory Special Agent Gavin Iverson to inform him of the evolving situation.

“You have two responding officers there?”

“Yes. One’s off duty, though.”

“Yeah, off duty like you’re off duty. I want you to remain in charge until the assigned detective arrives. Make sure you secure the scene. No one comes in or out without showing identification and talking to someone.”

After they ended the call, Claire stood on top of the platform and surveyed the spectators again.

They wore rain-dotted, Carnival-colored slickers. Their numbers had swelled despite the poor weather. Some of them spoke among themselves, some to the security sweating to keep a semblance of control. Most of them just stared up at the empty throne—rubberneckers holding up traffic to get a glimpse of the accident on the highway.

Claire sought to discern details on their faces against the rain, shadows, and hoodies. The night and the weather covered them like the mask she’d discovered beneath the throne.

But among the plethora of eyes lurked the spirit of a murderer. That much she knew.