by Lexi Ostrow
“Still though, lucky for you a few of my people married casters. Worked out well for keeping your ass safe and me from having to break the law and lie for you.”
Remy scoffed and scowled at his uncle. “Because you’re such an upstanding citizen?”
“In over seven hundred years, I’ve only been arrested a handful of times for disorderly conduct. That’s pretty damn good, Rembrandt.”
He flinched at the use of his full name. Only his parents ever called him that, and they’d been dead for nearly a hundred years.
“You’re testy.”
“I’m anxious, Uncle. It’s not the same.”
“Sure it is,” Louis ran a hand over his gut. “Both do bad things to your body.”
“I just,” Remy let out a sigh and raked his fingers over his scalp. “I wanted to see it happen. I was supposed to see it happen.”
“But you got caught and now you can’t.” His uncle rubbed two fingers together, mocking Remy as if playing a violin. “So, go ask one of my casters to brew you a glamour. Drink the potion and head back. Change your body chemistry just enough that you can pass through like any old schmuck.”
“You don’t think I hadn’t thought of that already?” Remy sneered. “If I do that, I’ll be human when the storm hits. I can’t shift or the potion would change with me and I’d be caught.”
His uncle burst out with laughter – the small room damn near shaking with the force of his amusement. “Boy, it’s a good thing you aren’t my son. You’re too short on brains to make me proud.” Louis wiped at his eyes before the chuckling settled down. “You really think if you shift in the middle of an epic hex, they’re going to be worried about you popping up on a locator spell? Naw, don’t be no fool.”
Remy said nothing. He can’t be right. By now, they’ve called in enough backup to focus on me and a hurricane. Still…
“What, nothing to say to that?”
Remy jerked his head. “What’s to say they haven’t called in thousands of casters as backup?”
“I’m certain they have. If they figured out the whooper you sent their way, the entire city is human, vampire, and shifter free with nothing but casters roaming the street.” His uncle’s grin turned predatory. “Which considering the last evacuation ended and everyone is back, those twits pro’lly think they’re safe.”
“That’s not helping.”
“ ‘Course it’s not. Hearing the hard stuff sucks. I promise you, fixing the storm and saving lives will be their primary focus. Everyone came home. The skies are clear, and hurricane season ends in three or so days. Unless the Council votes again to control everyone and force them out, there are hundreds of thousands of people in that city. Your storm cloud is going to open up right over top of ‘em. They’ll be focused on that. You’ll do fine to shift and get your ass happily swimming up Canal Street like it is a damn canal.”
Still, Remy said nothing. He didn’t need to see the city drown in person. He could watch it on the news – from any country if the hex did what it promised. Fifty feet of rain crashing down over the city in eleven hours would be more than international news. It would likely draw up international aide.
But you want to see it. Seeing it means you can take some comfort in the causalities knowing those left behind will be better suited. The country will come together. The killing will stop.
“Wondering if the outcome is going to be worth killing so many?”
“How could you know that?”
“I’ve watched you for years, Rembrandt. You’re not a killer, but you sure are about to kill damn near a million people. That’ll weigh heavy on anyone.”
“I’m not killing them.” Remy ground his teeth together.
“ ‘Course you’re not. You hexed two other people too, but your hand’s ain’t clean.”
Remy flinched. When his uncle drank, the man slipped into country bayou grammar, and it irked Remy. For centuries, people thought his family and kind were little more than ignorant rat catchers. What they were included nurses, lawyers, and day laborers. They were just as smart as anyone else with an education – and he made certain all his congregation went to college.
Or you did before you used all the cash for this hex.
Remy snarled at his thought.
“How quickly can someone brew a glamour?”
His uncle’s face lit up with a grin. “You don’t think I have casters in my congregation, and I don’t keep useful shit brewed in a storage locker?” He tsked. “Seems I’ll have a lot to teach you in the coming years. My brother – may he rest in peace – was a wonderful leader, but an iffy father.”
Remy couldn’t deny the claim, so he didn’t. “May I have it then? Seeing this, understanding the scope of my work in person, I want to.”
“No, you need to. And that’s okay. Sometimes we need to sit back and look at our handy work.” He pushed up from the wooden chair, not letting go of the porcelain jug in his grasp. “Let’s go then, might I suggest something in female?” He sniggered as if he’d told the funniest joke in the world.
Twenty-One
“Now this, is how you do gumbo,” Jay smirked over the steaming pot as the wooden spoon stirred through the thick roux. “Yes, Cherie. This.” He put his fingers against his lips and kissed them.
“You’re not even French, you loon.” Deidre chuckled and playfully smacked the werepanther’s arm. Drawing a deep breath, she grinned at Jonathon. “He sure can cook, though.”
“If he’s as talented behind a pot as he is behind a bar, I have no doubt.” Jonathon shifted his weight uneasily on the wooden patio.
The end of hurricane season neared, and the hex never completed itself. Unless you all just assumed you and Dee would be able to separate once the hex finished its run. He’d considered the implication that they were stuck together, and the hex was over.
It didn’t make sense. Even if he might not mind spending his life attached to the woman he barely knew at the start of summer, being forced to be within sixty yards of each other would make things messy.
“Just smell that seafood-y goodness, ya’ll!” Jay grinned and squatted to get eye level with the pot on the barbecue. “I told ya’ll cooking out here was better than in the house!” Jay dropped the ladle into the pot, having set down the wooden spoon when Jonathon was lost in his thoughts. “Now, who’s bringing me those bowls?”
“We’ll grab them,” Jonathon volunteered, lifting his gaze to Deidre’s.
“Who needs a refill?” Deidre asked, glancing at the pitcher of sweet tea.
They weren’t drinking. None of them had a drop in the three weeks since the tropical storm. Not even today when they’d all gathered, carefully tiptoeing around the elephant in the rooms – the anniversary of Gerard Adam’s death.
No one needed to rule it, they all just did it because drunk would get them nowhere, and many people killed.
“Me.”
“I do.”
“Sure do.”
Jonathon couldn’t keep track of who chimed in. He just grabbed the pitcher and grabbed the storm door, tugging it open. “After you.”
Deidre smiled, the light lingering in her eyes as she stepped by him.
Jonathon let the door close. “Are you certain you’re okay? Okay being at the house?”
Deidre flinched, her shoulders drawing together.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it as an insult.”
She blew out a breath but didn’t face him or continue to the kitchen. “It feels wrong.”
“What does?” Every instinct he had screamed at him to step around and look into her eyes, but he wouldn’t push her.
“Enjoying myself. With everything going on, and Gerard’s death a year ago.” Her voice broke, and she turned. “I shouldn’t be happy, but I am. Because of you.”
Jonathon caught her as she swayed against him. Deidre didn’t cry, but she didn’t wrap her arms around him, either. She just stood, leaning on him for support as the world continued on around them.
They were trapped together, locked in a vicious cycle that forced them to look at the world differently. And today is the one day she should have had to herself.
“You shouldn’t feel guilty about living. It’s been months since this hell began. If we didn’t find – or rather fight – for the moments like this, we’d lose ourselves in the blackness.” He didn’t address the issue of her dead husband, Jonathon didn’t know if he ever could.
“Once again, you’re far too wise for your years. The NOPD doesn’t know what they’ll be losing when this is said and done, and you put in for that transfer.”
It was his turn to flinch. He hadn’t thought about returning to New York in almost a month. She’d caused that. “And if I wanted to stay? To see where this goes before I decide there’s nothing good here in New Orleans?”
Deidre stepped out of his arm and looked up at him. Wetness lined her eyes from tears that hadn’t fallen moments ago, but a shaky smile spread over her lips. She truly was a sight to be seen when she smiled, even when her eyes held onto sadness.
“I think that might be the best thing you’ve ever said to me.” She blew out a breath. “But do you mean it? Or is this the thing you’ve chosen to say to me because I’m throwing a party to remember Gerard when I should be at his grave, mourning properly?”
“Dee,” Jonathon started and paused. His took her hands in his. “This isn’t how it should be. You’re right. When this is over, we’re going to do everything in our power to do what this day should be. For now, let your friends help you. They’re all here, out there, because they know what today means.”
Deidre nodded, a tear sliding down her right cheek that she quickly swiped away. “You being here, today of all days, it helps.”
That warmed him. He’d known their attraction was more than physical, but hearing them both commit to it mattered more than he’d thought it could.
“Well, then, let’s get some of those giant teal bowls you have stacked on the damn top shelf.” Jonathon needed to diffuse the situation. He’d heard her crying early this morning, he couldn’t bear to see her in that kind of pain. Hearing it was bad enough.
Deidre chuckled. “Right, you carry those. I’ll refill this.” She lifted the pitcher from by her side and sniffled. “And then we eat.”
“Then we eat because that gumbo really smelled fucking amazing.” Jonathon agreed, stepping past her into the small kitchen. It fit two people, but not without the occasional brush of the hand. Something he enjoyed but likely would have hated if they’d stayed at her place when the hex began. Mid-City was charming, but Uptown offered just a little more space thanks to the condos in the large plantation homes.
“God, you have enough of these to feed a small army.” He teased as he opened the cabinet in front of him and saw six rows stacked three high.
“Well, it’s like a small army out there.”
Jonathon didn’t know when the guarding them became more like social gatherings, but they certainly had. Patrick, Tanner, Sam, Ivy, Elijah, and Jay came over nightly. Lita would have, too, if her mother hadn’t demanded they vacation in Europe to protect their grandchild from a possible killing storm.
Shaking his head, Jonathon grabbed the bowls two rows at a time and set them on the counter, stacked them, and then lifted both stacks.
“You’re going to have to get the door.”
Deidre gave him a side smirk and lifted the pitcher of tea. “Good thing I’m only holding this itty-bitty pitcher.”
“This is where you say something about how nice it is to have a man around since you can’t use your magic.”
Deidre snorted as she tugged the door inward and pushed the storm door out. “Keep dreaming, Johnathon.”
The gumbo smelled good before they’d gone in, now it seemed like downright perfection as the taste wafted over to Jonathon’s mouth. Cajun spices danced on the gentle fall breeze, and even the crawfish he usually didn’t like reminded him of fresh lobster as he inhaled. Lemon and herbs lingered on his tongue, and not for the first time, Jonathon truly understood why people loved gumbo – and he hadn’t even tasted it yet.
“I’ll give you this,” Jonathon set both stacks of bowls on the table. “It smells like heaven in a bowl.”
Jay smirked, his glitter eyeliner catching in the sunlight. “Everything about me is fabulous. I live to be the stereotype, and I take it all in.” Jay kicked his foot up in the air behind him. “But seriously, there is no better Cajun cook than me.”
Elijah grumbled. “I beg to differ. Nearly eight hundred years in the swamps out here have taught me a thing or twenty.”
“Pfft,” Jay carried the large soup pot without so much as an oven mitt. “You wolves like everything raw and flavorless. I’ve been to your parties, Elijah.” Jay set the pot down. “Now, everyone, dig in, but make sure I get the first bite!”
Jonathon nearly choked on saliva when he laughed as three different hands grabbed for the ladle to steal the first bowl full.
Last year, he didn’t fit in. Even three months ago he lived on the outside of the conversations, coming when invited but always leaving first if he bothered to show up at all. He’d lived the last few years in New Orleans like a loner, telling himself nothing would be better than home.
Only, the thought didn’t sit as powerfully as it once did.
Glancing around, Jonathon knew the crew around the table were more than leaders and co-workers. They were a family. One he hesitated to consider himself a member of, but knew every day brought him one step closer to permanency. Especially if he and Deidre continued down the path they moved down.
“Jesus, Jay.” Sam practically purred. “This is amazing. Why in the hell have you never insisted you cook for me before?”
“I seem to remember up until a year ago a certain cop was too good to be caught dead near Supernaturals of any kind.”
Sam flushed, but everyone else laughed.
“Well, that’s done now, so I fully expect this all the damn time. Not just gumbo weather season.”
Jonathon hated some of the silly things they said down here – like gumbo weather. It was code for the first few days of the New Orleans’s fall in late October. Then it vanished, and it was just called fall or winter.
Still, if that’s the worst thing you can say about New Orleans now you’re on a completely different track.
“Would you guys serve yourselves quicker? I haven’t had Jay’s gumbo since last fall.” Ivy teased. “Damn dampeners, or we could’ve just served it all at the same freaking time.”
Again, they laughed.
Jonathon couldn’t remember the last time he’d ever felt so at home, so relaxed, with any group of people except his family. He let his hand cover Deidre’s and gave it a small squeeze. She glanced at him, but turned her attention back to the table. Jonathon didn’t mind. He’d never understand what this day every year would mean to her, but he’d be damned if he ever begrudged her for anything on it.
“I might need this to help me when I’ve pissed a good woman off,” Tanner teased.
“So every damn day?” Sam ducked as Tanner went to punch him the second the words left his lips.
“I’m turning over a new leaf. All you damn couples are making me realize bed-hopping has its downsides. I’m only thirty-four, I shouldn’t care about that, but I do!”
Jonathon would never totally understand Tanner. The man was attractive, smart as shit, and had money from his parents. Instead of finding a good woman, he liked to see how many bodies he could sink into during a given week. Player didn’t cover it, because he didn’t offer the women more. Slut came close. Jonathon assumed Tanner was running from something, but he wouldn’t ask what.
A tickle started in the back of his throat. Coughing, Jonathon sputtered to clear it. Then the heat began to start. No. God damn it, no.
“Deidre?”
She tilted her head sideways. Either he was the only one feeling this, or she couldn’t speak.
“Thr
oat,” he winced, putting his hand over his throat. His fingers damn near burned on contact.
“You haven’t even eaten it yet!” Jay gasped.
“Not…that,” He closed his eyes, realizing that the dampener wasn’t enough. You couldn’t stop a hex by any means other than completion, death to the caster, or marriage if it were a Death Hex.
Jonathon’s throat might very well have begun to melt or seemed to be before Deidre’s hand covered her right arm, and she squeaked in panic. She was up, nearly knocking the wooden table over. In moments, she’d start rushing through the streets in an attempt to find what she needed because it wouldn’t be inside.
There were no transport potions within an eight-hundred-yard radius of the house. No ingredients or wands of any kind on the inside. Her arm would blister and burn, and his throat would rip open if he didn’t speak the words.
“Patrick! Tanner!” He wished he could say more. “Sam, Elijah! Get out!”
Blackness crept around the edge of his vision as the pain in his throat mounted. Tiny razor sharp pricks came at him from the inside out. He might as well have swallowed the fucking sun.
“Deidre, I have to tell you something.” He rasped, knowing she deserved to know the truth before it happened. “This won’t happen. This hex won’t go further. The minute I start to cast a weather spell, a Death Hex will destroy me.”
The secret was out.
He’d hexed himself last week with Patrick’s help after realizing he couldn’t do it alone while Deidre cooked just rooms away.
Realization struck, and Deidre quickly tore her white sweater off. Impromptu remained far better than the alternative. Every thought scrambled save for one. Save Jonathon.
“Anemos!” Jonathon screamed, his head tilting backward. If the others didn’t understand a moment ago, they did then, jumping up and moving to get off the patio. They were supposed to have frozen Jonathon or her, but now the magic wouldn’t find it’s way in. Not with them on the patio.
Deidre didn’t care about the fucking wind racing over her or the fact that they likely had seconds before they both died, anyway.