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Copyright © 2013 by Michelle Zink
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Zink, Michelle.
This wicked game / by Michelle Zink.
p. cm.
Summary: Seventeen-year-old Claire Kincaid, a descendant of Marie Laveau, is forced to
embrace her voodoo heritage when mysterious strangers threaten to use an age-old curse to destroy her family and the boy she loves.
ISBN 978-1-101-59339-4
[1. Voodooism—Fiction. 2. Blessing and cursing—Fiction. 3. Faith—Fiction. 4. Revenge—Fiction. 5. New Orleans (La.)—Fiction.] I.Title.
PZ7.Z652Wic 2013 [Fic]—dc23 2012039102
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Version_1
For Nancy Conescu,
who has made me better in so many ways
Contents
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ONE
Claire was at the front of the store, uploading a new batch of photographs while a pot of wax melted behind her, when the woman entered through the unmarked door.
It wasn’t unusual for customers to use the private entrance. Other than the staircase leading to the house, the door was the only way in, and there were plenty of people in New Orleans who had a key.
But Claire had never seen the woman before, and that was unusual, especially since she had been working in the store since before she was tall enough to see over the counter.
Claire turned down the temperature on the wax and closed her laptop as the woman approached the counter. She was startlingly beautiful, her milky skin contrasting with the red lipstick that shaped her full mouth. Her clothes were expertly tailored, the white button-down nipped in at the waist, the hem of her navy trousers just grazing the floor as she walked.
Claire wiped her hands on a towel. “Hello. May I help you?”
“Good afternoon.” The woman’s voice was low and gravelly. Claire figured her for a heavy smoker. Either that or a 1940s film star. “I have some things I’d like to purchase.”
“Sure.” Claire pulled out the yellow notepad they used for orders.
The woman opened her slim black handbag and pulled out a folded piece of paper. She pushed it across the counter with one neatly manicured hand.
Claire opened it, glancing at the long list of items. It was a big order, and Claire immediately started transferring the woman’s list to the notepad.
“This is your family’s establishment?” The woman asked the question with the certainty of someone who already knew the answer.
“Uh-huh.” Claire had to resist the urge to add “unfortunately” at the end of the sentence.
Frankincense, black cat oil, aniseed, aloeswood powder . . .
“It’s quite a store. It seems you have everything.”
“Just about,” Claire said. A strand of her long blond hair fell forward. She tucked it behind one ear and continued transcribing the woman’s list.
“And how long does it usually take to fill an order?” the woman asked.
“It depends on what you need. Let’s see . . .” Claire scanned the list. Everything on the front page was in stock. She turned the paper over to the back. “We should be able to do this while you . . .”
The words stopped as she came to the last item on the list.
Two (2) vials black Panthera pardus plasma.
She felt her face flush as she searched her memory.
“Is there a problem?” the woman asked.
Claire didn’t know if it was paranoia or something else, but she thought there was something new in the woman’s voice. As if she’d known all along that the Kincaids wouldn’t have the plasma and had enjoyed putting Claire through her paces.
Claire shook her head, resisting the urge to call out for her mother. Pilar Kincaid had little patience for Claire’s “lack of commitment” to the family business. Calling her would only highlight Claire’s inability to handle the store on her own. Besides, her knowledge of the craft wasn’t exactly encyclopedic. Maybe she was wrong, but as far as she knew, black panther blood was only used for one thing.
Killing people.
“Um . . . not a problem. But one of these items might take us a while to get in. I think it’s a special order.”
“And which item would that be?”
“The black panther plasma. We don’t keep it in stock.”
No one keeps it, Claire thought. As far as the Guild was concerned, there were some things you just didn’t mess around with, even if you were an experienced practitioner.
The woman tapped her manicured nails on the wood counter. “How long do you expect it will take to get it?”
“I’m not sure . . . Maybe a week?”
The woman didn’t hesitate. “Fine. I’ll take the rest of the items now.”
Claire nodded. Everything else on the list was in stock, and she busied herself filling vials with the powder and herbs and wrapping roots in brown paper. She could feel the woman’s eyes on her while she worked. It made the tiny hairs at the back of her neck stand on end and caused a prickling sensation behind her eyes.
Once the order was filled, she turned around, half expecting the woman to have transformed into some kind of monster.
But she was just the same, her gaze unflinching, her eyes so dark they were almost black.
“Here you go.” Claire pushed the package toward the woman and turned to the calculator, wishing for the millionth time that they could join the twenty-first century and get a computer system for the store. She consulted the notepad, her fingers flying over the keys. “That’ll be $357.42, without the panther plasma.”
She had a hard time even saying it. Questions were drumming through her mind. She needed to get upstairs to her mother. She would know what to do.
The woman nodded slowly, pulling a wallet from her handbag and removing fo
ur hundred-dollar bills.
Claire took the money and made change from the lockbox they kept under the counter. “Would you like us to call you when we find out about the special order item?”
“That won’t be necessary. I’ll see you one week from today.” She took her change and picked up the package. “Good-bye, Claire.”
The woman turned and left through the private entrance. Claire watched the door shut behind her, listening for the click of the automatic lock. For a minute, she was rooted to the floor, wondering if she’d imagined the whole thing. Then she looked down at the list of items.
Two (2) vials black Panthera pardus plasma.
She took the stairs two at a time.
The Kincaids’ living quarters were separated from the store by one floor and a two-level staircase. Just a few months ago, the door between the two spaces hadn’t even had a lock, but after a rash of break-ins, the Guild families who had stores on-site had taken measures to protect their private quarters from the customers who had access to the supply houses.
The world was changing, Claire’s mother had said as the locksmith installed a heavy dead bolt on the door that separated the store from the two floors above it. Once a secret, old-school voodoo society, the Guild of High Priests and Priestesses had become too large for them to know each and every member. Now, it was up to the regional leaders to vet and approve applicants based on lineage and practice.
Claire reached the top of the stairs and fumbled through her keys for the one that fit the new lock. When she found it, silver and strangely shiny compared to the old ones that were for the house and store, she unlocked the door and hurried into the main hall of the house. “Mom? Where are you?”
She checked the drawing room first. The floor to ceiling windows were open to the terrace, the sheer draperies moving slightly in the barely there July breeze. The room was empty.
There was only one other place her mother would be if she wasn’t in the drawing room, going over the accounts for the store or writing notes to Guild members who lived outside the city, and that was upstairs.
When Claire reached the second-floor landing, she continued down the hall, past her bedroom, her parents’ room, two guest rooms, and an extra bathroom.
She stopped at a closed door at the end of the hall, listening to the gentle murmur of her mother’s voice. The smell of burning incense drifted through the crack under the door.
Claire hesitated. She’d been about four years old when she’d first come upon her mother in this room. She had been wearing a white floor-length garment that Claire would later learn was standard ritual garb. The simple cotton tunic made her mother look taller and younger than she did in her everyday clothes. Her dark hair was long and loose around her shoulders as she kneeled in front of the altar, covered with burning white candles, wax figures, and dried herbs.
Claire had been afraid. The strange words that came from her mother’s mouth frightened her, however softly they were spoken, and the flickering candles cast unfamiliar shadows.
Claire had avoided the room ever since.
But she couldn’t avoid it now, and she rapped softly on the door, turning the knob and pushing the door open.
Her mother was there, in the same position Claire had found her all those years ago, kneeling in front of the tea table that served as an altar. This time she was in her regular clothes. The altar was alight with purple candles that meant her mother was either working a spirituality rite or trying to channel her power more effectively. Two sticks of incense burned on either side of a Bible, their smoke rising into the air in abstract swirls.
Her mother didn’t look up or acknowledge her daughter’s presence in any way. Claire waited a few seconds before she finally gave up and started talking.
“Mom, I—”
“You know I won’t speak to you until you come in properly, Claire.” Her mother didn’t look away from the altar. Her hair, still long and black as a raven’s wing, tumbled down over one of her shoulders. “Besides, aren’t you supposed to be working the counter?”
Claire stepped into the room, but just barely. “I was, but—”
Now her mother looked over at her. “Then what are you doing up here? You know you’re not supposed to leave the store unattended.”
Claire crossed the room, her throat closing against the heavy scent of amber. She held out the piece of paper with the list of ingredients the woman had ordered.
Her mother took it, her gray eyes scanning the first page.
“These are all basic ingredients, Claire.” She turned it over. “Surely you know how to . . .” Her voice trailed off. She shook her head, her face two shades paler than it had been when Claire had entered the room. “Where did you get this?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” Claire said. “A woman just came in. She gave me this order to fill.”
Her mother rose to her feet, pacing to the fireplace. “Which client was it?”
“That’s the thing,” Claire said. “I’ve never seen her before.”
Her mother turned to face her. “Then how did she get in?”
“With a key,” Claire said simply.
“Are you sure the door was latched? That it was locked when she came in?”
Claire sighed. She didn’t blame her mother for doubting her. She wasn’t exactly attentive on the job. But still.
“Yes, Miss Julie was the last person to place an order, and the door locked behind her, just like always.”
“Did this woman give you a name?”
No, Claire almost said, but she knew mine.
She didn’t say it though. The woman had probably been told about the Kincaids by whoever referred her to the store.
Claire shook her head. “And I didn’t ask. You’ve always told me not to. That if they have a key, I fill the orders, and that’s it.”
Her mother consulted the list again before looking up to meet Claire’s eyes. “But this is . . . this is impossible.”
She was still standing there, a look of shock on her face, when the phone rang.
“I’ll get it.” Claire left the room and picked up the phone that sat on a table in the hall. “Kincaid residence, Claire speaking.”
“Hello, Claire.” She immediately recognized the voice on the other end of the line. “May I speak to your mother or father, please? It’s urgent.”
“One moment.” Claire covered the mouthpiece and went back to the ritual room, holding out the phone to her mother. “It’s Aunt Estelle,” she said quietly. “She says it’s urgent.”
Estelle Toussaint wasn’t a blood relative to the Kincaids, but all the women in the Guild were Claire’s “aunts,” just as her mother was “Aunt Pilar” to the other Guild members’ children.
Pilar smoothed her skirt, as though the caller could see her through the phone. “Hello, Estelle.” Her mother paused, turning her back on Claire. “Well, I . . . When?” Another long pause. “Today?”
She didn’t say anything else for a couple of minutes. Claire was beginning to wonder if her mother was still on the phone when she murmured a few quiet words into the mouthpiece. Then she turned around, avoiding Claire’s eyes as she finished the call.
“Yes, I understand. We’ll see you then.” She hung up the phone, staring at it like it was something she’d never seen before.
“Mom?” Claire said. “What’s going on?”
Her mother looked up like she’d just realized Claire was still there. “We weren’t the only ones who received a troubling order today.”
“What do you mean?” Claire asked.
But her mother was already rushing from the room. “An emergency meeting has been called. Be ready to leave at six.”
TWO
Unlike the other kids in the Guild, Claire had never wanted to be invited to a meeting of its leadership. It was tradition for
the firstborns to be brought into the fold sometime after their eighteenth birthday, but since Claire wasn’t eighteen until April, she’d hoped to put them off long enough to escape to college.
But now there was no avoiding it. An alarm had been sounded that echoed through the Guild, and a few hours later, Claire was in the backseat of their Lexus as her dad drove toward the Toussaint house, her mother silent and tense in the front seat beside him.
Claire was looking out the window, wishing she hadn’t been the one working when the woman placed her order, when her phone vibrated in her pocket.
She pulled it out, fully expecting to see a text from her best friend, Sasha.
WHAT’S GOING ON?
Sasha always wanted to know what was going on inside the Guild, probably because her parents never told her anything. Christopher and Pauline Drummond wanted their daughter to focus on the craft, not the politics of the organization that supplied it. That would come with time, they told her. When she fully understood the importance of her heritage.
NOT GOING TO BELIEVE THIS, Claire typed. ON WAY TO GUILD MEETING.
Sasha’s response came less than a minute later: ????!!!!
SOMEONE PLACED AN ORDER FOR AN ITEM ON THE BLACKLIST. I WAS WORKING THE COUNTER WHEN IT CAME IN.
WHAT WAS IT?????
Claire hesitated, wondering if she could get in trouble for telling Sasha. She started typing a second later.
BLACK PANTHER PLASMA. WILL GIVE YOU DETAILS LATER.
Claire put away her phone and looked out the window as they entered the Garden District. Her eyes swept upward to the great oaks that rose above them on either side, practically meeting in the center of the street.
She loved the Garden District. With its majestic old houses, massive trees, and old-fashioned streetcars, it was a throwback to a gentler time. That the Toussaints, the most powerful family in an underground organization devoted to the craft of voodoo, lived in one of the mansions on First Street was an irony few would appreciate.
“I hope Estelle doesn’t blame us for this,” Claire’s mother was saying from the front seat.
“Why on earth would she blame us?” Claire could almost see her dad rolling his eyes. “We weren’t the only ones who got an order.”
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