#its giving off kristof vibes so much

[belacottie]

[clansayeed]

Bound by Circumstance ― Chapter 20: The Guests of Honor

PAIRING: Nik Ryder x trans*M!MC (Taylor Hunter) RATING: Mature

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Circumstance ⥽

Taylor Hunter (MC) has made it good for himself in New Orleans; turns out moving to a new city fresh out of college to reinvent yourself isn’t as hard as people make it out to be. Things only start to get confusing when he finds himself the target of a malevolent wraith. Good thing someone’s looking out for him though — because without Nighthunter Nik Ryder as his bodyguard he definitely won’t survive long in the twisting darkness of the supernatural underworld he’s tripped into.

Bound by Circumstance and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the book Nightbound and the rest of the Bloodbound series. Find out more [HERE].

Note: Circumstance only loosely follows the events and plotline of Nightbound, and features a separate antagonist, different character motivations, and further worldbuilding.

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Circumstance/series tag list!

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

Locals, tourists, and travelers around the world over take to the streets of New Orleans for the biggest celebration of the year. The Council comes together at the Beau-Keyes House for their annual Mardi Gras party.

[READ IT ON AO3]

March 5th. Mardi Gras.

Behind him Nik announces himself with a loud and pointed cough. Taylor doesn’t acknowledge it but he enters anyway, keeps his distance.

Kristin’s vitals beep softly on the monitors beside the bed. Both fill the space between them and somehow make it that much wider.

“Don’t go sayin’ goodbyes.” Advice from a man who sounds like he’s said far too many — or maybe too few.

But he appreciates the gesture anyway. “I’m not. Actually I was just promising to make it up to her; missing Mardi Gras I mean.”

“I swear some people treat this party like a whole damn religion.”

Taylor throws a little grin back Nik’s way.

“We’ve been planning this for years. When she wakes up she’s gonna be so mad she missed it.”

When there’s no answer he fully turns and catches the look on Nik’s face; the sharp cuts of him softer, the crinkles in his eyes smoothed away.

There are people wait their whole lives for someone to look at them like that. Walls down and gates open and any other locked barrier metaphor he can think of. Honest and unguarded and…

And the sheer fact that it doesn’t vanish the moment Nik realizes he’s been caught means a lot of things that neither of them can talk about right now because it’ll feel too much like the goodbyes they just agreed not to say.

“What?” he asks; doesn’t miss the tiniest spark in the man’s eyes at how breathless he sounds. “What?”

“You realize you said ‘when?’”

Yeah, he did.

“Sorry, I —” shaking his head, Taylor stands, “— are they all finished up downstairs?”

“They’re finishin’ the papers now, but yeah they wanted me to get ya.”

“Probably shouldn’t keep them waiting then.”

“Yeah, prob’ly.”

He said he wasn’t going to say goodbye so he doesn’t — not out loud. Hopefully that thing about coma patients hearing the world around them applies for sensations, too, because squeezing her hand before they take off is the next best thing.

It doesn’t come as a surprise that Vera and Tonya are already in an argument when they arrive.

Even without the powers her Curse granted her, Lady Smoke smooths out a fresh pair of gloves along her upper arm. Must be wearing a spare of Vera’s since they probably didn’t plan on matching.

“I will not be looked down upon, Vera.”

“You’re takin’ it too seriously. Dr. Ramsey barely let you sign yourself out and that’s sayin’ something. Just stay in the damn chair Momma!”

Maybe at her full strength Tonya could have fought off the one-handed grip her daughter uses to keep her seated in the hospital wheelchair, but she certainly can’t looking like she’s a hop and a skip from unconsciousness.

But she’s a fighter. She tries.

Vera throws them a pleading look on approach. Probably why Ryder doesn’t shy away from hard heavy pats to the shoulder of the most powerful mobster in the city.

Former most powerful? He doesn’t know anymore — is sure that same uncertainty is the reason Momma Reimonenq is so adamant to leave on her own two feet.

But Ryder wants to savor it for just a little longer. “We all signed and ready to get movin’? Heard from Kathy on the way down — they’re almost there.”

Vera nods. Literally goes over Tonya’s head with the conclusion that ignoring her is better for everyone.

“The car is pullin’ around,” and with a twinge of worry in her brow, “anybody heard from Cal?”

No answer is an answer. She worries her bottom lip between her teeth.

“We should’a went with him, swung by the hospital after.”

If Tonya takes offense to sounding less important than the werewolf she doesn’t say it. She does fall quiet, though.

“He’s a big wolf, he’ll be fine.”

Getting a firm grasp on the handles of the chair Ryder swings Tonya around — with no lack of glee at her shouted protest — and starts pushing her out to the hospital curb.

But Taylor shares the same concern. Doesn’t write Vera off as she tucks herself against his side while they follow behind.

“He’s not wrong, but Cal isn’t alone, remember?”

She snorts. “Nothin’ against him personally but I don’t think sendin’ Cadence counts. I dunno if you noticed, Tay, but the wolves and vampires don’t exactly get along.”

“Really? I had no idea.”

“Don’t you gimme that lip. What if we just made it worse on him?”

And he feels for her, he does. Knows her concern is coming from a place of care and, if Taylor’s reading the vibes she’s putting out right, empathy for an ‘odd one out’ like herself.

So he reminds her, “You came here for your mom and lived to tell the tale. Don’t sell Cal so short.”

“Yeah… I guess.”

“We need Kristof for this to work.”

“An’ I know that! Just wonderin’ if it wouldn’t’ve been easier to tackle demons who weren’t our own.”

“Hey,” he wipes away a nonexistent tear in mock-offense, “speak for yourself. I gave mine the cliffnotes of Shakespeare.”

They’re both pretty sure the hospital wheelchairs aren’t things to be rented out, but neither of them have the guts to argue with Nik as he gives a shout of frustrated victory at maneuvering the folded frame into the trunk of their ride.

He slams the lid closed with more force than necessary; muttering to himself as they pile into the sleek black SUV.

“Here’s the address.” Ryder grunts, offers the driver a scrap of paper once part of Cade’s notes. The man doesn’t take it without shooting Lady Smoke query for approval first.

Her focus is ardent on something—maybe nothing, maybe anything but the indignity she feels—out the window but with the barest nod the engine rumbles to life, begins the agonizing process of navigating through the police-issued barricades for the forthcoming parade.

If this works, holy shit.

If it doesn’t…

He takes Nik’s hand in his and squeezes tight.

You’d think after living there for a few centuries the supernatural community — the immortal lives of the fair folk specifically — would have had some kind of effect on the culture of New Orleans.

On the contrary; the vibrant blend of ancestry that made the Big Easy so prominent had come out stronger, taken what was apparently a rather somber tradition-bred people and made them savor the beauty of a life that was not guaranteed to be forever.

Which helps give a little bit of contextual understanding to just how amazing the Beauregard-Keyes House looks?

In the entryway he catches glimpse of more than a few fae, the same citizens of Lamrian he saw carrying candle-lanterns and humming a solemn hymn of mourning mere days ago, flitting this way and that for final touches.

Lights without flame or fuel dance in soft orbs across the ceilings; colliding into one another with bright flashes of the traditional Mardi Gras purple, gold, and green. Beads hang on decorated furniture and lay spread out on tables for the taking.

There’s an entire wall of face masks ahead; ranging from just the eyes to full-on faces painted by delicate and skilled hands. No two masks are exactly the same, so bursting with personality they’re practically alive.

They pass a doorway where a young fae waves their hands exuberantly only for bright violet ivy to grow and flourish around the molding; still sparkling of morning dew that shouldn’t be there for hours let alone indoors.

If they weren’t setting an elaborate trap for a skeletal hellspawn by literally handing it everyone it wants to kill on a decorative golden platter it would be the kind of party to bring up every time someone mentions a good time.

Taylor catches a familiar laugh off to the right of the front parlor and, after a tug to Ryder’s arm and a jerk of the head, leaves him and Vera to finish explaining the machinations of said elaborate plan to Lady Smoke. Delves further and through a doorway that dusts golden glitter like falling snow. Before he can brush it off his shoulders it fades into nothing, because apparently even elves know glitter is an infectious disease.

Garrus is accustomed to working his magic at a larger bar top and it shows — doesn’t mean the magical mixologist isn’t working some serious moves on the antique bar hosting a freshly-stocked wall of selections behind him.

Ivy continues to laugh unabashedly at Krom and now Taylor can see why. His stony face lips and eyes squeezed shut and puckered up in some form of resistance.

And if that wasn’t a silly enough sight on its own the flurry of tiny fizzing dragonflies that erupt from his tusked maw when he burps definitely is.

They lift up into the air as little bubbles, popping and crackling like the top of a freshly poured cola. Collide with one another in midair to make miniature fireworks that leaves Krom staring in in horror and Ivy clapping exuberantly with cheers of “Encore, encore~!” while Garrus bows.

“Thank you, thank you,” and more sincerely to Krom, “Your never-ending patience is something I will never be worthy of, darling.”

Krom who gulps down a nearby glass of water, voice wavering. “I’m happy to—to try things out. Just nothing that flies out of me next time, please?”

“I’ll try, but I make no promises.”

And they all know what that’s code for. Of course he promises. He cares too much about the softest Stone Troll to do anything else. But points for keeping up the bravado.

Taylor doesn’t get the chance to speak before he catches Katherine’s eye where she sits with a tumbler of something honey-colored and smelling strongly of the last vestiges of a bonfire at dawn. The huntress downs her liquor like a shot and slides off her stool.

“Ryder?”

He nods to the doorway through which he’d come and gets a passing pat on the back as his only thanks. Better than nothing.

By the time he takes up her place Garrus already has a replacement soda with a speared cherry resting on the rim sliding his way.

And Taylor’s happy to take the offer; only he stops just shy of bubbling carbonation touching his lips.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Excusez-moi?” Garrus clasps a pale hand to his chest. “Are you implying I’ve somehow tampered with your beverage, sir?”

“Obviously.”

The elven man wilts dramatically and with a number of expressive hand gestures. Braces himself first against the bar then the shelves behind him while lamenting over the pain of accusation like his neck is on the line.

He’s just the usual Garrus, silly with a touch of sass. And judging by some of the looks his kindred throw in their direction they ought to try and be a bit more serious given the circumstances but no—no they won’t.

Everyone could use a genuine laugh right now. Garrus is doing more for them all than he knows.

The soft “ah-hem” of a cleared throat drags Taylor’s focus off and aside — where a familiar wave of gossamer hair lingers inside a doorway.

He may not be in a wheelchair or sport stitches or wrappings but Elric is still recovering from the attack at the theatre. Each step a little less graceful and fluid, his eyes alight only because he’s looking at Taylor.

Krom stops Garrus mid-word with an outstretched hand.

The fae lord reaches out a touch that Taylor doesn’t shy away from. The hairs on his arms stand up but that’s only because Elric exudes an aura of power even when weakened.

“May I borrow my son, Garrus?”

And though there’s considerably less mirth in the bartender’s voice when he answers— “that’s something you should be asking him” —it isn’t the same cold dismissal as before.

Elric clearly means to, but Taylor nods before he can.

The only place they can find to be alone is a closed-off office space. Deemed not worth the decoration the doors are drawn closed but remain unlocked.

A wave of Elric’s hand brings a pale pink fire whispering to life in the hearth across the room. Fills the room with a warmth Taylor can’t quite put his finger on and casts both their faces in undulating shadows.

“Thanks for pulling this off so quickly,” Taylor goes first only because he’s had it on the brain ever since the end of their call. “Guess some stereotypes aren’t just myth huh?”

“Pardon?”

“Elves and parties.”

“I do not understand.”

A sigh. Of course he doesn’t. “Nevermind — just… thanks.”

He reaches out a hand for Elric to grasp, or shake, or whatever odd greeting the fae may have he’s yet to learn.

And Elric accepts — goes one step further. Before Taylor knows what’s happening he’s in a crushing embrace, can feel the man’s sharp features on the top of his head with arms pinned at his sides.

Hugging has never been his forte. Purely a body dysphoria thing — he can’t not be conscious of the way his body feels against another.

Then he feels the way Elric is shaking like a leaf. Just this once, then.

When they part pale hands cup his cheeks. A critical eye surveying him for the smallest cut or remnants of a bruise. The relief when he finds nothing flows from Elric in waves.

“Had I the strength left to conjure a glamour I would not have abandoned you.”

Oh, he hadn’t even thought about it. “You got flattened by a giant heap of metal for me. I’d hardly call that abandonment.”

“Even with the creature gone, I should have stayed.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” and when the man recoils, “it gave you a chance to recover. To get all this going.”

He gestures to the decorated house beyond.

Elric quickly accepts that his guilt doesn’t need an excuse; good, too, because they don’t have a lot of time to spend on heart-to-hearts.

“You have dedicated yourself to this plan, then.”

It catches Taylor by surprise. “If you mean this is what we’re going with? Then yes. We all agreed it’s worth the risk.”

Well, not all. Not Tonya — she had no choice. Not Isadora or Kristof or even Elric. But Isadora had come.

Elric was here, in front of him. And he’s giving his son a look of scrutiny that feels a little too judgmental for their current predicament.

“Something has changed about you.”

“I mean, I could use a shower.”

“Not about you,” like that’s not what he just said, “but about you. A change clings to your soul.

“It says…” his eyes widen with realization, “you truly believe this can work?”

He’s not questioning Taylor’s resolve. That he somehow knows unspoken. But it makes sense… up until now (and really still, only with a little more coffee and a lot more planning) he’s been Mister Negativity, Mister Ready-to-Die.

Why wouldn’t he be? No clue, no hope, no faith — no power. And not much is situationally different, yet still.

He chooses his words carefully. “I think we have a better chance this time around.”

“Time to plan, perhaps. Yet these same numbers you gather here could do nothing to it before. Unless you’ve found the creature’s weakness.”

“Jeez, Dad, can you just trust me on this?”

The words come out of him at an unnatural angle. The way they feel habitual but definitely aren’t — that first time you fuck up and call a teacher ‘Mom’ in kindergarten.

They’ve got the same dumb look on their face, haven’t they?

Catching scaffolding with his back isn’t enough to suddenly make Taylor want to look into every other weekend and major holidays with the man but it’s certainly not nothing.

Nor is his exclamation, not kind or pleading by any means but filled with frustration sometimes only a parent can bring bursting forth.

He steps out of arms’ reach just in case.

Because Elric looks like he’s about to start weeping.

“I do. And I am sorry for not… for conveying that improperly.”

“Apology accepted.”

But the deed is done; their dynamic forever changed. For some reason the first thing Taylor thinks of is Elric taking him to sit in the nosebleeds at a football game — in full Lamrian splendor but with a Saints hat covering his ears.

And the only protest his dumb brain can come up with? That he hates football. Like nothing else is wrong with that mental image.

Focus, Taylor, focus.

“We know things now that we didn’t before. We’ll be expecting an attack this time.”

“You are certain it will come?”

“I’d stake my life on it.” Poor choice of words.

“You will do no such thing.” His expression going dark, Elric’s jaw clenches firm. “I do not regret my attempts to stay out of this battle for my people, or those to try and keep you safe by whatever means kept you from the fight.

“But I watched my son turn his back on me — a braver soul than I and in so few years. For the past I will do whatever can be done in the present.”

“Yeah yeah, heard it all before.”

But it isn’t dismissal for dismissal’s sake — says that enough in the long look they exchange.

In Lamrian he remembers with clarity; had seen standing before him a coward.

And that may very well have been true. But Taylor isn’t the only one who has a change about him, clinging to him like a thin film.

He’s trying. And that’s all any of them can do.

You know who’s not so keen on trying?

Three guesses. Go on.

“Go over it just one more time for me.”

“There’s nothing more to add, Ryder.”

“I mean I ain’t questionin’ your memory but…”

“For once I’m inclined to agree. But that’s really all there was to it.”

Beside them Cal adjusts the thawing T-Bone higher on his face. “Speak for yourself.”

Taylor snatches a peek of the swollen, purpled eye beneath it and cringes. “Are you sure there’s nothing Ivy can do?”

“Nah,” the wolf’s sigh is a little too heavy, “was my damn fault for thinkin’ I could call an Alpha’s honor into question anyway. I jus’ got caught up thinkin’ about the stakes, and seein’ Donny, and all that energy he was puttin’ out…”

Vera shushes him, manages to get a more sanitary solution to the wounds with small dabs of antibacterial paste. “This — men don’t do this, Cal. Animals do this.” And even with only one good eye the look he gives her says it all. “You know what I mean.”

“There’re some things that just gotta be settled with the wolf.”

Cadence makes a conscious effort to keep his pat to Cal’s back on the gentler side but the man still winces, sore. “Well I had every confidence in you. It was rather fascinating to watch, actually.”

“Wait wait —” all eyes on the vampire who blinks owlish; innocent, and Taylor can’t believe what he’s hearing; “— you just stood and watched?”

And though the blond splutters a number of protests, the group’s collective sympathy is lacking.

“The same man who broke a Minotaur’s spine in six diff’rent places for that same pack of wolves.”

Only maybe because he’s a vampire his face can’t blush red — no, no he’s seen it. So why then does Cadence go pale all the way to the lips?

“That was a… unique situation.”

“Relax, guys, there was nothin’ he could’a done anyway.” There’s an unspoken irony in Cal being the one to call off the dogs, but it works.

But it’s not like their group vampire hasn’t been strange from the beginning. Taylor’s still not convinced it wasn’t someone else, like an evil double, who threatened his way into Persephone’s cage to fight on Donny’s behalf. He certainly can’t imagine the man in front of him doing it — plaid sweater aside.

When Taylor catches Cade catching him stare he fumbles, doesn’t really have an excuse but thankfully doesn’t need one. Not when the entire House can hear Kristof shouting somewhere unseen, something about “Who do I gotta see about gettin’ a six pack around here?!”

By process of eliminating who Kristof wouldn’t immediately attack it’s Vera who sighs and pushes onward. Taylor would go himself but he hangs back instead — gently grabs for Cal’s arm and attention.

So much of their plan rests on every single person the Coven Elders are targeting being in one place tonight. They can’t risk Kristof leaving in a wild stampede.

But he never meant for this — for every grunted effort as Cal’s body actually puts conscious effort into healing in time.

Because it isn’t a matter of if Reimonenq the Wraith will come — but when.

“I know that look Taylor, you’re overthinkin’,” the smile Cal gives him isn’t betrayed by his pain — or maybe just stronger than it, “I knew what I was doin’ and I’d do it again if need be.”

“You mean for that to be reassuring but it’s not reassuring Cal, it’s not.”

“We all played our part.”

“Yeah, but we all didn’t have a dick of a guy play Whack-a-Mole with our faces.”

Cal throws his head back and laughs until it physically hurts. He insists he’ll be fine after a few drinks and some rest. Taylor just hopes they can afford to give him that time.

When they finally move to join the others he offers his shoulder for the wolf to prop himself up on. The pride in his eyes says no but the arm that seeps lava-like warmth through Taylor’s clothes acts otherwise.

“I wasn’t so keen on the beating,” Cal mumbles just before they reach the garden doors, “but I’d take a lot worse to go back there for longer.”

He doesn’t need to ask why. They both know. “Donny holding up okay?”

“He’s a Lowell — he’ll be just fine.”

He will be, though, that’s the implication and it makes his heart sink.

Remember what The Fate said. He’s alive — that matters.

There’s only one ward this time — the point already proven that it’s more for decoration than any real use. But trying to keep something out is the exact opposite of the point.

The noise from the hustle and bustle of the French Quarter fills in in lieu of music. Gives a boisterous abandon to the air where otherwise it hangs like a noose around their precariously balancing necks.

It’s a party worthy of dozens; crowds of people from all walks of life — Pack or gang or family it didn’t matter with the celebration at hand. Or it would if there were more than the bare essentials; than Taylor and the rest, those left making up the Council that aren’t actively trying to kill them all or, in the Mayor’s case, woefully oblivious.

Then Ryder is at his side, flask in familiar hand. He tries—and fails—to cover up when he reaches for Taylor like holding on to any part of him will get them through this unscathed.

Mostly because in the process of faking a yawn he just swallows a mouthful of liquor.

“You look like you’re overthinkin’ this.”

Of course he is. Aren’t they all? “Actually, I was just admiring how much they were able to get done. This place looks like an actual celebration.”

Because it doesn’t matter how many attendees the party is worthy of. All that matters is the one they need to show up.

Nik’s eyes sweep the garden with a satisfied nod. “Definitely the most gussied-up trap I’ve ever taken part in. You’ve got a real eye for this, Rook.”

“Does that mean if I decide to go into the oddly specific party-slash-hellspawn-trap planning business you’ll join me?”

“There’s prob’ly better money in it.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

They laugh. They lock eyes.

They both know it would be the perfect moment if absolutely everything about it was different.

Taylor inhales to keep from smelling the whiskey on his breath as Nik leans forward — places a firm kiss right at his hairline.

Okay… maybe not everything needs to be different.

“Last chance to veto the plan.”

He murmurs it into the sweat and dirt on the man’s skin; knows that with all they’ve rushed to put together in the final hours of the final days he can’t possibly smell any better.

It takes Nik a pause to respond; to keep his tone steady and certain and rock-solid. One of them has to be.

“Do you want me to?”

“Only if you have a better one.”

And they both know this plan is it. The last chance, the only thing they have left up their collective sleeves. If it doesn’t work…

If it doesn’t work then at least Taylor knows he did his best, and that his last moments were ones like this.

“We could always make a run for it,” but before he can pull back, before he can tell Nik it isn’t a funny joke, he’s held closer; almost painfully so, “jus’ you an’ me on the open road. Doubt they’d come after us once we’re clear of here… An’ yeah, means we could never come back but I ain’t exactly Mister ‘Community Ties.’”

“You’d really leave our friends behind?”

“Fine, they can come too.”

“Are we all piled on top of your motorcycle in this scenario?”

“Nah… maybe a trailer or somethin’. I know a couple of lifers who live at RV outposts off the beaten path.”

It isn’t the idea of leaving New Orleans—the Council—the whole shadow community to their fates that’s the appeal. The appeal is a happier time; a better way. Even if it’s rough and a little uncomfortable and quickly pushing aside thoughts of Wolfman Cal and an RV that never doesn’t smell like wet dog… it would be their life. One they carved for themselves.

No intervention (or lack thereof) from higher powers to speak of.

“All right—you’ve convinced me. Let’s scram.” Taylor teases. Neither of them moves an inch.

Not even when they start to squeeze one another so hard it hurts.

“Should leave before anyone notices.”

“Probably.”

The two men part. Because he’s not meant to notice the single wet streak down Nik’s cheek, he doesn’t.

Calloused fingertips tickle the barely-there hair on his chin; coax Taylor to lift his head where he catches the last light in the Nighthunter’s eyes before a single bottle rocket goes off behind him and showers his dark head in a halo.

“This is a good plan, Rook. I’ve got a good feeling about it.”

“That’s because you’re not used to having a plan.”

“You… well you ain’t wrong.”

Eventually the fireworks begin to go off near the Mississippi — sparkling showers a brighter white than the moon itself, dazzling configurations in spirals and spheres and one memorable golden fleur de lis — and there’s a shift to the air within the garden walls.

It’s nearly midnight.

It’s time.

“Is everyone gathered?” asks Elric of his son, suddenly at his side — joining him in looking to the sky to admire human handiwork.

He knows the answer but quadruple-checks anyway. His heart picks up a few beats with every familiar face taken in.

Bring everyone together. Draw the Elders out of hiding.

Kristof. Elric. Isadora. The Coven’s final obstacles.

Do whatever it takes to force their hands; to bring the bloodwraith Derek Reimonenq down on them like a final reckoning.

Cadence. Tonya. The bloodwraith’s personal vendetta.

And hope this works.

Just there, behind Vera’s forced smile under the glowing apples of light on a garden tree — a face half-hidden in shadow. A young man, probably around Taylor’s age; burdened with the knowledge of how this will end and only able to stand witness.

He looks away from The Fate and finds a little bit of that hope he needs so desperately in the way Elric looks at him with pride.

“Take it down.”

This time Lord Elric takes the duty on his own shoulders rather than those of his subjects. Raises his hands high to the dark sky and begins to unravel the threads of his strongest wards.

Fresh night air prickles gooseflesh down his arms. They are coming.

Then the earth is warm beneath his shoes. The smell of fresh blossoms and fae-ripened fruits replaced with the embers of an all-consuming inferno.

They’re here.

Across the garden Taylor and Elder Daniels lock eyes and are held, bound, by something more than magic. Something that permeates the material world around them and isn’t easily defined.

But if he had to pick he would only need one word: conviction.

He thrusts his soda can out at her in toast. Gathers up all of his voice and shouts with a face-splitting grin.

“Laissez les bon temps rouler!”