Free King of the Mutants by Samantha Verant

arrived, distracting Billy Bob for the time being.
    Snaggletooth popped his head out of the bag and begged for the sweet sausage. Billy Bob hand-fed him while patting him on the head, which I guess was nice. I pretty much dove head first into the Jambalaya, and it was so good, I licked my bowl. Freddie chugged a glass of water like his mouth had been set on fire. The tips of his ears burned red. Clearly, he couldn’t handle spicy food.
    After we ate, at a quarter to four in the morning, Billy Bob showed us to our room. The neon sign flashed right outside our window. I could hear zaps of electricity. Blinds hung on the windows, but they didn’t work. And everything smelled moldy—including the bedding.
    Freddie got the top bunk, I took the bottom, and Snaggletooth curled up at my feet, snoring away. Considering the fact our shoddy mattresses were sinking lower and lower like quicksand, Freddie got the better end of the deal.
    Although our less than stellar accommodations were stifling and humid, and the noise from the bar was loud, the second our heads hit the cement-hard pillows, we fell stone cold out.
    Tomorrow was a big day.
    We had things to do, places to go, and people to see—starting with Serafine.

CHAPTER EIGHT
     
    HOW TO EAT A LIVE CHICKEN
     
    If I never had to see Billy Bob or his rip-off-of-a-boarding-house ever again, that would have been fine by me. Freddie and I loaded up Cherry Pie, ready to set off on our quest to find this mysterious woman known only to me by her name. Serafine. For that, my tail tingled in a good way. But excitement was replaced with annoyance. Just as Freddie put the key in the ignition, Billy Bob barreled up to us.
    “Nice to have made your ac-quain-tance, kids,” said Billy Bob. He stood in front of Cherry Pie like a bouncer at the toughest of biker bars. “Before you boys take off, that’ll be twenty bucks for having your bike cleaned. Virgil, why he spit-shined it all night.”
    I knew I wouldn’t win by arguing no matter how hard I tried. “Fine,” I said, “but I need you to point us in the right direction to find this Serafine.”
    “Don’t know where that crazy lives, but I know someone who will.” He sucked on his big, bucked teeth. “Best bet is to visit Adelaide Bacchus’ House of Voodoo and Hoodoo on St. Charles Avenue. Head just that way.” Billy Bob pointed haphazardly down the road. “She’ll know where to find your Hoodoo queen.”
    I held out the twenty and Billy Bob’s grimy hand snatched it away. Freddie sneered at him and started up the engine. We rumbled off toward the heart of New Orleans’ famed Garden District, with Billy Bob’s voice trailing behind us. “Y’all come back now, you hear.”
    Unless you paid me a gazillion dollars, that wasn’t going to happen.
    On this leg of our adventure, Freddie handled Cherry Pie like an old pro. Thankfully, the humidity eased up and there was a nice breeze in the air. Camera-wielding tourists on a streetcar pointed at us, smiling at Snaggletooth as we passed it. He looked so cute wagging his tail, the wind whipping through his ears. I tousled his mangy head, sat back in the sidecar, and enjoyed the ride.
    Now as I mentioned earlier, circus folk are extremely superstitious, so I held my breath as we sped by the infamous Lafayette Cemetery and its massive above ground mausoleums. Rumor had it vampires haunted the place.
    Finally, we ended up on St. Charles Avenue. The tree-lined streets and the beautiful antebellum homes were a stark contrast to Billy Bob’s neighborhood. Huge wrought iron balconies decorated most of the mansions, some with impressive Greek pillars. I wondered how we were going to find this woman, Adelaide, but as it turns out, it wasn’t difficult. A trolley’s clatter diverted my attention to the left. When it passed, there it stood—Adelaide’s House of Voodoo and Hoodoo.
    Out of place and really run down, a smaller than small, ramshackle mess of a hut was squished in between