Date: October 24, 1951

  Nestled between Saint Dominic’s Catholic and San Francisco Blessed Workers Spiritual churches, the Cat Felix Diner—with its flamingo-pink and white striped awning and swirling columns—should have been an eyesore. Instead, it radiated a warmth and vitality straight out of the Crescent City.

  Bypassing the line of waiting patrons, Whiskey stepped through the lavish French doors, CAT FELIX’S Est. 1920 etched in gold filigree across the glass.

  The diner’s warmth, a stark contrast to the crisp air outside, wrapped around him like a hug.

  The rich aroma of coffee, pastries, and an array of fried, creamed, and buttered foods filled the air. Brightly dressed servers wove through the pink-and-teal tables, delivering food and smiles with practiced ease, while the happy din of patrons mingled with the lively rhythm of New Orleans-style jazz pouring from the jukebox.

  Normally, a place this busy would swamp his aura senses with the greed, lust, rage, and fear that clung to higher life forms, but here, a subtle touch of Baptiste magic smoothed the chaotic swirl of overlapping auras, restraining the flood of emotion to a quiet trickle and creating a seamless, harmonious sense of contentment he’d rarely experienced before.

  It was like stepping out of a noisy preschool music class and into a refined symphony performed by master musicians.

  Passenger sighed.

  “I hate this place.”

  Ignoring its usual grumbling, Whiskey made a beeline for the bar, weaving across the checkerboard floor past walls adorned with an eclectic mix of religious symbols, all modified with feline elements, and framed photos capturing people of all backgrounds in moments of genuine joy.

  Three empty stools bore Reserved placards.

  Whiskey slid onto his usual spot on the right and caught the eye of a young man in a pink shirt, matching the walls, who greeted him with a bright smile that stood out handsomely against his dark umber skin.

  “Hey-a, Whiskey!”

  Whiskey placed the case file on the empty stool beside him and returned the grin.

  “Good morning, Duo.”

  Barely eighteen, Duo was tall and broad-shouldered, but still lean, only beginning to fill in with the muscle that came with adulthood. He nodded toward the coffee pot and plate of food he was carrying.

  “Be back in a jiffy.”

  Whiskey watched him cross to the far side of the bar, delivering the plate to a patron and topping off their coffee with practiced ease.

  Moments later, Duo returned, grabbed a clean mug from under the bar, and set it in front of Whiskey.

  “Looks like you’ve got your hands full,” Whiskey remarked as Duo filled the mug.

  Duo chuckled. “Yeah, well, it’s like Pops says.” Lowering his voice, he mimicked a Cajun drawl. “There ain’t no rest for the wicked, which means us Baptistes be extra sunk, ya hear?”

  He winked and set the coffeepot back on its heating plate before pulling a notepad and pencil from his apron.

  “Phew. Okay. What brings you in today? You wanna eat something, or here to talk to Pop?”

  “Both, if I can help it.”

  “Groovy. Want to hear what Raul added to the fall menu? Or sticking to the usual?”

  “Usual’s perfect, thanks.”

  Duo nodded and turned toward the bar’s service window to call in the order, but before he could, another young man, identical to Duo except for wearing a teal shirt, stepped in front of him and rattled off his own order instead.

  “Two grits, hold the fish on one, extra dirty on the other, a short stack with extra sauce, and pig on the side.”

  Task complete, the teal-clad young man turned, breaking into a wide grin when he saw Whiskey.

  “Whiskey! You eating in today? Raul’s got some great new—”

  Duo placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I got him, Tre. But he wants to talk to Pops. Why don’t you make yourself useful for once and go get him?”

  Tre raised an eyebrow.

  “Why? So you can loaf around? I swear, it’s a good thing I’m here. Ain’t nothin’ would get done without me!”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Duo said, rolling his eyes. “Praise the Light for you and your sacrifices. How blessed we are to witness such greatness.”

  Tre threw his hands in the air.

  “Finally! Somebody gets it!” He shot Whiskey his own wink. “I’ll have Pops out in just a sec, Whiskey.”

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” Whiskey said, allowing himself a smile.

  As Tre sauntered toward the back hall, another identical young man, this one in a white shirt, emerged carrying a crate of glassware.

  “Move it or lose it!”

  Duo pressed himself against the bar as his other brother passed, flashing Whiskey a grin.

  “Mornin’, Whiskey! You been helped yet, or has lazybones here been too busy clucking like a fat old hen? Raul’s got—”

  Whiskey raised a hand.

  “I’m being well taken care of. Thank you, Uno.”

  “Huh,” Uno said, shooting his brother a side-eyed glance before winking at Whiskey. “There’s a first time for everything, I s’pose.”

  “This coming from the boy who just spent ten minutes grabbing one rack of glasses?” Duo huffed, crossing his arms.

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  The brothers exchanged identical looks of mock offense.

  “How dare you!” Duo exclaimed, just as Uno shouted, “You wound me!”

  In perfect unison, they brandished their fists like vaudevillian boxers.

  With exaggerated flair, they launched into a dramatic boxing match, ducking and weaving like old-school prizefighters.

  It ended when Uno dodged a wild haymaker from Duo and retaliated with a towel snap to his brother’s backside. Duo yelped in mock pain as Uno raised his arms in triumph like a heavyweight champion.

  The bar erupted in applause and cheers as the boys took a bow.

  “That’s quite enough, you two!”

  Whiskey turned to see a middle-aged woman.

  Plump, radiant, and with a face made for smiling, Jasmine Baptiste’s green-and-white dress and matching headscarf complemented her warm brown skin.

  “This ain’t no theater!” she admonished, her expression equal parts affection and exasperation. “Want me to tell your father you’re bothering the customers with your antics?”

  “Ah, but Momma, Pops loves our antics,” Uno protested.

  “He’d only be jealous he missed out,” Duo added.

  Jasmine shot Whiskey a familiar wink, then planted her hands on her hips.

  Clearing her throat, she arched a single brow.

  The young men swallowed before, in unison, they broke into the Keystone Cops theme.

  The patrons around the bar erupted into laughter and cheers as the brothers tripped over themselves, scampering off with exaggerated haste.

  “Oh, don’t you start,” Jasmine said, waving her towel about as she stepped in behind the bar. “It’s enough that I gotta live with the circus clowns. Don’t you go encouragin’ them, too!”

  The line only spurred the merriment on further, and by the end Jasmine had made sure everyone within reach had received some measure of her “wrath,” whether by a playful swat with the towel or a mock glare fierce enough to make even the toughest patron laugh.

  Once the commotion finally settled, she turned back to Whiskey with a warm smile.

  “Mornin’, Kin. I hope the boys have been taking good care of you?”

  “Not at all. What does a guy have to do to get a little service around here?”

  Jasmine’s laugh was as refreshing as a spring rain.

  “No faster way to age than raising triplets, I can tell you that. But they’re good boys.”

  Whiskey felt his smile fade. The pride and love radiating from her aura was a steady, comforting warmth, like a hearth fire on a frosty night.

  It wasn’t the first time he’d noticed the contrast.

  Her familial warmth was genuine, effortless. And being so close to it sometimes felt like stepping into a home that wasn’t his.

  “Yes,” he agreed quietly.

  Jasmine gave him a once-over, her brow furrowing.

  “Hmm. Your gri gri’s running low.” She touched the beaded bracelet on his wrist. “Don’t let me forget to get you another one before you leave.”

  Whiskey shrugged.

  “No need—I’m fine.”

  “Oh, really?” Jasmine gave him the same look she’d just given her boys, her hand settling on her hip. “So what happened a few weeks ago was just random happenstance? A touch of bad luck? A trick of fate?”

  “I—uh,” he began, glancing around the bar.

  Several patrons had paused to watch the exchange. Jasmine cleared her throat and the gawkers returned to pretending they were eating. Then she leveled her gaze back on Whiskey. He raised his hands.

  “I’m much more careful these days.”

  Jasmine rolled her eyes, ignoring his response entirely as she steamrolled ahead.

  “And where have you been these last few weeks? Felix said he called after you were released from the hospital, but you never called back. You know we worry when we don’t hear from you. How many times do I gotta tell you? You’re family, Kinichiro Mononobe. And I’m a busy woman who doesn’t have time for your nonsense. You’re not leaving today to face gods-know-what without proper protection. You get me?”

  “Tell me, Kinichiro,” Passenger interjected, “what age is too old to be treated like a lost cub?”

  Whiskey was about to say something to that effect when he noticed an intense spike of emotion radiate from Jasmine’s aura and froze.

  Was that fear?

  Carefully, he quested his senses toward her and realized she was worried… about him.

  He blinked and opened his mouth to say something, but the words stuck.

  She didn’t have to be—gods knew she had enough on her plate—but he felt it. She cared about what happened to him.

  And that realization made him feel…

  He wasn’t sure.

  “I’m sorry,” he finally said. “You’re right. I’ve been preoccupied with work, and it’s kept me away. I should’ve come by sooner. And thank you for the offer. I won’t leave without a new bracelet.”

  Jasmine’s expression softened, and she patted his hand.

  “That’s a good boy. Now, you got a birthday coming up, don’t you? Make sure you stop by so we can celebrate you proper.”

  Whiskey started to protest, but bit the words back when he caught the look in her eyes.

  “If only someone had warned you that sharing such details would come back to haunt you,” Passenger said. “Wouldn’t that have been nice?”

  Ignoring the comment, Whiskey bowed his head.

  “Thank you, Jasmine. I’d be happy to.”

  “?a c’est bon,” she said, patting his hand again.

  Suddenly wishing he could escape to wherever the boys had gone, Whiskey cleared his throat and gestured toward the bustling diner.

  “Another packed morning,” he offered lamely.

  Jasmine narrowed her eyes but allowed the subject to change, glancing around the restaurant.

  “Sho’ nuff. Everyone’s out and about, soaking in the festive atmosphere ahead of the Carnaval.”

  “There’s a carnival coming to town?”

  “Not carnival, Carnaval,” she corrected. “The Carnaval de Oto?o.”

  “Ah,” Whiskey replied, nodding as if he understood. “The Carnaval de… what?”

  Jasmine rolled her eyes.

  “I swear by Bondye and all the Saints, Kin, it’s all anyone’s been talking about. The whole town’s been in a tizzy for the last month! Have you not noticed all the traffic and the gigantic signs saying Under Construction—Designated Carnaval Site? They even closed down a few of the trolleys to make sure they don’t run through some of the new structures.”

  He shrugged.

  “Guess I missed it.”

  “Folks are already calling it the Mardi Gras of the West, if you can believe that. They’ve been planning it for over a year—millionaires throwing money around, working with churches, neighborhoods, the whole shebang. Between that and the holy celebrations we’ve been organizing, we’re burning candles at both ends. Even Gar’s been swamped.”

  Whiskey nodded. Garfield, their eldest son, handled the night shift and weekends, freeing Felix and Jasmine to focus on their ministry at the Blessed Workers Spiritual Church.

  “Now, I’m not complaining, mind you,” Jasmine went on. “It’s a blessing. Extra business means we can hire a few more hands and help folks fatten their pockets.”

  The call bell dinged behind her.

  “Be right back, shoog,” she said, turning to grab plates from the service window.

  Pretending to study the twisting tails carved into the counter—forming a Christian cross beside a Taoist Taijitu with cat’s eyes for inner circles—Whiskey shook his head, sighed, and took another sip of coffee.

  The Baptistes had that effect on him.

  Their kindness was contagious, their joy unshakable.

  In a hard world, they made softness look easy.

  It made him wonder where he fit in a world like that.

  “Oh, I know that look,” came a familiar rumble behind him. “No one carries his worries like ol’ Whiskey the Wolf.”

  The corner of Whiskey’s mouth lifted as he turned to face Felix Baptiste.

  Tall, broad, and barrel-chested, if his boys were identical acorns, Felix was the oak they’d fallen from. A well-groomed beard, flecked with salt and pepper, framed his face, and his amber eyes twinkled with warmth. Three scars ran from his right eyebrow to the lower left of his jaw, creasing deeper as he smiled. Despite the years, he still carried himself with the vitality of a man half his age.

  As usual, he pulled Whiskey into a bone-crushing hug.

  “Been helped yet?”

  Whiskey inclined his head.

  “Many times over. The hospitality of your family continues to live up to its legendary reputation. I’m humbled and grateful.”

  Felix snorted. “I swear to Legbha, Kin. You could just say, ‘I’m good,’ you know.”

  “And deny you the chance to complain? Never.”

  Felix’s booming laugh filled the diner, drawing smiles from nearby tables.

  “Kin,” Jasmine called, bumping her husband with her hip, “you tell me if this old cat gives you trouble, ya hear? I’ll see he’s punished proper.”

  Felix’s grin widened. “Careful, wife. Keep talkin’ like that, and we’ll end up with son number seven.”

  Jasmine’s smoldering glance as she passed had Whiskey clearing his throat and suddenly finding a Star of David with leopard spots deeply fascinating. Seeing his discomfort, Felix laughed even harder.

  “So,” he said, wiping his eyes, “what’s on your mind, cuz?”

  Whiskey hesitated. The warmth in the room made what he carried feel heavier.

  “I’ve been assigned a case,” he said quietly. “One you may be familiar with.”

  The couple’s smiles faded.

  “Best you two talk in your office, Felix,” Jasmine said. “I’ll send Kin’s food there.”

  Felix nodded once. “Come with me, cuz.”

  “Mmm,” Passenger murmured appreciatively. “I do love a good mood killer.”

  Whiskey gathered his file, drained the last of his coffee, and followed his friend toward the back. The laughter faded behind them, replaced by the low clatter of dishes and the hum of the neon sign outside.

  He’d come here for answers.

  Now it was time to get them.

  Ruins of Dara by TiltedPanda.

  Shout Out:

  Ruins Of Dara

  by TiltedPanda

  What To Expect:

  - Atmospheric scenes with frequent action

  - Powerful abilities

  - Initially weak MC who must progress and grow beyond his limits

  Upload Schedule:

  - Advanced chapters and discord available through Patreon