Free Forged in Fire by Juliette Cross

pulled out his usual half liter of Dr. Pepper and bag of Skittles, totally illegal to have in the library. Like he cared. Study food, he called it.
    We set about rereading and analyzing passages of old Milton’s Paradise Lost . After two hours of rehashing Lucifer’s fall, his angst and feelings of betrayal, I was done. Beyond done.
    “I’m sick of Milton,” I sighed, knowing full well I was simply exhausted from thoughts of angels, demons and their eternal war. Every aspect of my life was saturated by them. Malcolm slammed his book shut, definitively blocking out the hosts of heaven and hell. I wished I could do the same.
    “Ditto, Drake. Let’s get something to eat.”
    Malcolm had finished off his Skittles and DP an hour ago.
    “Not me, guys,” said Mary, adjusting her glasses and stuffing her books into her I-heart-Poe satchel. “I’ve got work in the morning. And in addition to Bennett’s torture device he calls a midterm on Monday, I’ve got one in Sociology too. I need sleep right now.”
    “How’s the coffee biz?” asked Malcolm.
    “Same ole, same ole. Everyone needs caffeine in a pretty cup with sugary foam on top.”
    I was only vaguely tuned in to the conversation as we packed and started walking to the door, my mind wandering somewhere it shouldn’t be. I couldn’t help myself.
    “How about beignets, Malcolm?” I asked, only half-concerned this might be construed as a mini-date.
    His eyes beamed. Uh-oh. “Sure. Awesome! There’s a new café over on St. Charles we could go to.”
    “Nah. Let’s get the real deal,” I said. “Café du Monde.”
    “The Quarter? On a Saturday night?” he asked, obviously surprised by my suggestion.
    “Peace out. Y’all have fun,” said Mary, walking toward her car across the lot.
    “See ya, Mary,” I called, looking back to Malcolm. “Yeah. Why not?”
    I tried to sound casual as I climbed into his Jeep Cherokee. I knew “why not”. Saturday night in the French Quarter meant a number of things—noise, drunks, aggravating tourists, street vendors looking for tips, drunks, bachelor parties gone awry, slutty women, drunks. Need I say more? It was far from what most students would want after several grueling hours of studying.
    “I’m in the mood for a little ambience,” I lied.
    “If that’s what you want, Drake, let’s go.”
    I settled back into the seat, belted myself in and tried to ignore the niggling fact that I wanted neither beignets nor Malcolm’s company. My mind registered only two facts in determining our destination. Café du Monde was perfectly positioned with a wide view of Jackson Square. And it was nearly ten o’clock.

Chapter Seven
    Thirty minutes later, we were parked near Jax Brewery and walking the few blocks to Café du Monde. Café Maspero’s had a line a mile long wrapped around the corner block of Toulouse. Those waiting for platters of fried seafood, overstuffed po’boys, and the best French onion soup in town sipped on dollar strawberry daiquiris as they waited. My mouth watered, thinking of cold, salty raw oysters with horseradish sauce, but Maspero’s was two blocks away from Jackson Square. Too far away.
    A cacophony of noise that was distinctly the French Quarter filled the night—sporadic laughter, plates and glasses tinkling, jazz music, car horns, random shouts, horses clip-clopping as they pulled tourist carriages along Decatur, and the distant horn of merchant ships on the Mississippi River. Café du Monde wasn’t as crowded as usual. A bearded man played an upbeat rendition of “When the Saints Go Marchin’ In” on his saxophone at the entrance.
    “Hmph. Wish they’d hurry,” I mumbled.
    “What’s that, Drake?”
    “Oh, nothing.”
    I squeezed past the smiling tourists dropping dollars and coins in his open case and beelined for a table on the outer edge of the awning. Malcolm followed. I winced as my stomach bumped the back of a chair right over my wound, but hid my grimace, not wanting