courtyard when she returned. He held his ground as she approached, as if he thought any sudden moves might spook her again, but his eyes were bloodshot and every muscle in his body appeared to tense with each step she took in his direction, as if she were a fearsome wind he was determined to lean in to without loosing his balance. The tiny building behind him looked too forlon to be harboring such an earth-shattering secret, and for a while she studied it as Ben studied her.
“Come inside, Marissa,” Ben finally whispered. “Come with me. Please.”
And then she felt him take her hand, and together they stepped out of the cypress-filtered sunlight and into the shadows.
FROM THE JOURNALS OF NIQUETTE DELONGPRE
Last night he asked me to drive him to the Luling Bridge, and I said yes, even though I knew the risks were high. It’s possible someone could have recognized him, although he more closely resembles what he looked like as a teenager than the man they’ve been showing on the news constantly since the accident.
It’s funny what he remembers, and as much as Ben and I have tried to outline some logical process to figure out which memories are returning first, we can’t seem to identify one. The guilt over keeping him a secret from his family started to go away when he didn’t recognize any of his brothers in the photographs we showed him. That’s part of why I agreed to take him to the bridge, because I knew it meant he wanted to see the ships on the river. Another memory returning.
The bridge feels monumental for being so far from a densely urban area. At its height, you can see the entire sweep of Jefferson and Orleans Parishes to the east, and the great black bowl of Lake Pontchartrain to the north. The river banks directly below it are sparsely populated, lined by a smattering of grain docks.
It was the middle of the night and he leapt from the Jeep as soon as I slowed down, even though he was shirtless. Dressing him isn’t the easiest. He is almost seven feet tall. And there are some other concerns. By the time I stopped the Jeep, I realized what he was about to do. By the time I called out his full name, he had leapt up onto the railing and the wings at his back had extended, two smooth flaps of flesh with slender, exposed ligaments securing them to a ridge along his spine that inflated almost like parachutes as he dropped over the side and into the darkness.
Of course, I’d seen him fly before, but never by dropping from such a great height, and my heart was in my throat as he shrank in size, plummeting toward the dark river. There is much of Anthem in him, but this split-second, wordless impulsiveness is entirely new. Or at least it’s not the Anthem I remember. That Anthem announced everything he planned to do, and often didn’t do very much of it. There are aspects of this creature, this being that are entirely different. And then there’s the physical. The impossibly perfect muscles. The incredible height. The idealization of his teenage features.
It was not just my words that created him—my hero, my God, my angel. It was the marriage of those words and the collective images they inspired inside his imagination each time I whispered them to him over the years. And in that fateful instant on the old push boat in Madisonville, my words met the history of his dreams, and he was reborn.
By the time I saw him rising up from the darkness, it was too late for me to move, and in a dizzying instant, he had taken me in his giant arms and we were rising up alongside one of the bridge’s massive copper-colored towers, until we had passed the blinking red light at its very top, and I could see New Orleans aglow on the dark, watery horizon. And as my screams turned to laughter, I thought of Ben and the work he and Marissa would begin soon.
He has asked me to help, and even though I have asked for time to consider it, I know I will say yes for one reason. I have learned that magic withheld gives birth to nightmares, and so I have no choice but to stand back, open my heart and let the heavens rise.
This novel exists in its current form largely due to the generosity of a man named Cory F. Heitmeier. Cory is a pilot with the New Orleans–Baton Rouge Steamship Pilots Association, an organization that hasn’t always been treated kindly by writers in the past, and even though he’d never read any of my books, he agreed to take me out on a ship with him. We traveled the exact same journey Anthem and Marshall take in this novel, only no one got shot or transformed into a great winged beast by the time we reached the relief pilot in Chalmette. I’m eternally grateful to Cory, his Coast Guard commander and the other pilots at Vessel Traffic Control who took the time to answer my technical questions.
As always, I’m grateful to my best friend, business partner and cohost of The Dinner Party Show, Eric Shaw Quinn, who demanded that I get over my terror of boarding and disembarking a giant, moving ship by way of a glorified rope ladder and a swaying platform atop a crew boat. It was one of the scariest experiences of my life but I’m glad I did it and I think the book is all the better for it. (And if you haven’t listened to our Internet radio show, you should, because we’re funny. It’s always streaming at TheDinnerPartyShow.com. Special thanks to our team who kept the show running so smoothly while I was working on this novel’s revisions: our sound guy, Brandon Griffith; our computer genius, Brett Churnin; and our guest- relations dudes, Billy McIntyre and Nick Cedergren.)
New Orleans is a profoundly changed city as a result of Katrina, and I moved away several years before the storm hit. I was able to get a fine-tuned sense of her new, bruised spirit from friends who opened their homes and their hearts to me during the multiple visits I made there to research this novel. The book is dedicated to two of my good friends, Sid Montz and Christian LeBlanc, because they both played a major role in this process. But I also owe similar debts of gratitude to Spencer Doody, Phin Percy, Joyce Hunter and Ralph Mascaro, who did a wonderful job of driving me up and down the rivers and bayous of Lake Pontchartrain’s North Shore while I searched for the right location for Elysium.
I wrote several drafts of this novel before I submitted it to a publisher, and those drafts were given invaluable, probing reads by my agent Lynn Nesbit and my friends Marc Andreyko, Gregg Hurwitz, Becket Ghiotto and Eric Shaw Quinn. This was the first time my mother read an early draft of one of my novels and it was an interesting experience for both of us. Thanks, Mom. I hope I wasn’t too difficult. Thank God for email, huh?
I’m incredibly grateful this book found a home with Mitchell Ivers and Louise Burke at Gallery Books, two individuals who have made great contributions to my career as a novelist. With the gentlest of hands, Mitchell guided me through one of the most challenging processes a novelist can face—the total elimination of two major characters I had tried, in vain, to keep alive through various drafts.
I am also profoundly grateful to my attorney, Christine Cuddy, and my film agent, Rich Green at Resolution.
I’m blessed to have over 100,000 Facebook followers and whenever I post anything about my writing, they’re incredibly supportive. According to their various posts, they’ve been waiting for this book for quite a long time; I thank them for their patience and I hope it meets their expectations. I wonder if they’ll let me call them “mind monsters” now.
CHRISTOPHER RICE is the New York Times bestselling author of A Density of Souls, The Snow Garden, Light Before Day, Blind Fall, and The Moonlit Earth. The son of author Anne Rice and award-winning poet Stan Rice, he lives in Los Angeles, where he is the cohost of the internet radio show, The Dinner Party Show with
