This Wicked Game

by Michelle Zink

  “What are you doing?” Xander asked.

  “Looking at the pictures I took of those letters.”

  She scrolled through the photos, but the screen was too small and enlarging only made everything blurry.

  “This is impossible,” she sighed. “I’m going to have to upload these to my laptop.” She put her phone away and turned to Xander. “Maybe we should bring in the Guild.”

  He shook his head. “No way. Not yet. Not until I know what my mom was doing with that guy, Maximilian.”

  “This is serious, Xander. They have pictures of the Guild firstborns.” She hesitated. “And I’ve been thinking . . .”

  He turned to her. “What?”

  “What if those photographs are tied to the house break-ins?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “Think about it. There were Xs drawn through some of the pictures, right?”

  “Allegra, the Valcours, Daniel, Laura . . .” he murmured, meeting her eyes. “All the families who’ve had break-ins.”

  “Exactly. And if it’s true, it means that the photographs that didn’t have Xs—”

  “Like mine,” Xander interrupted.

  Claire nodded. “Yours and Sasha’s. If I’m right, your houses could be next.”

  “I guess,” Xander agreed. “But we all have antiques, art, electronics. Nothing was taken.”

  “Exactly.”

  Xander thought about it. “You think whoever’s responsible for the break-ins was looking for something personal?”

  “Why else would someone go to the trouble of breaking in to all those houses—houses that are part of the Guild—and not take anything while they were there?”

  Claire might not be a believer, but she knew that personal items were collected to create love spells, protection, or hexes.

  And she was pretty sure they could rule out protection and love.

  “I don’t know . . .” Xander said.

  “Do you have a better idea?”

  “No,” he admitted.

  “Which is why we should tell the Guild.”

  He looked into her eyes. “I thought you didn’t believe.”

  “I don’t. But . . . I don’t know.” Claire turned her head to the window, thinking. “The fact that someone’s trying to hurt you—to hurt the Guild—worries me.”

  “And what if there’s more to it than that?” Xander asked. “What if there’s something my mom has done that could hurt my dad?”

  Claire knew what he was suggesting. The conversation between Estelle Toussaint and Maximilian behind the carriage house had felt oddly personal, even intimate.

  Claire reached for Xander’s hand. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say. I’m just worried.”

  She thought of Sasha. Of her goodness and the accepting way she looked at life that made it easier for Claire to accept things, too.

  “It just doesn’t seem right to keep quiet,” Claire said softly. “What if something happens to you? To them?”

  Xander turned his face toward hers. “If you don’t believe, you have nothing to worry about.”

  She sighed. “But if these people do and they’re out to hurt someone, they could find another way to do it.”

  Xander looked ready to argue her point, but a second later his shoulders sagged.

  “You’re right. I don’t want anyone to get hurt, either. I just . . . I need some time to get my head around this. To get a better handle on what my mom has to do with that guy, Maximilian.” He stopped talking, and Claire could see the wheels turning in his mind before he started up again. “What if we figured out the letters first? See if there’s something in there that will help us?”

  “Xander . . .” she started. “Look, I’m as curious about them as you are. I just don’t know what some old letters could have to do with your mom and Maximilian.”

  “Probably nothing, but at the very least, we’ll have more information for the Guild when we take everything to them.” He paused again. “Please, Claire. It will give me a couple more days to figure out how to tell my dad.”

  She was torn. Could she live with herself if they waited and something happened to the other firstborns? If something happened to Sasha or Xander?

  Could she live with herself if she forced Xander to go public and his family imploded because of it?

  “Okay,” she finally agreed. “I’ll upload them tonight. But at least let me tell Sasha.”

  Xander shook his head. “I don’t want anybody else from the Guild to know yet.”

  “I get that, but I have a bad feeling about this, and I think we’re both too close to it. Besides, we might need help. The letters aren’t the only piece of the puzzle.There’s that group photograph, too.”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “Sasha’s my best friend. I owe it to her to warn her. If I tell her not to say anything, she won’t,” Claire continued. “Plus, she might know something we don’t. Her family’s been a member of the Guild almost as long as ours have.”

  “You sure we can trust her?” Xander asked.

  “Positive. We’re meeting for yoga tomorrow. I’ll tell her then.”

  He nodded, the worry in his eyes transforming him from the Xander she knew who could handle everything to someone who wasn’t sure about anything. He knew his mother wasn’t perfect, but he’d always held Estelle on a pedestal. The possibility that she might not deserve his adoration was something he wasn’t prepared to deal with.

  “Hey.” Claire leaned over, touching her lips gently to his. “Everything will be okay. We’ll figure this out.”

  She reached for the door handle, stepping out of the car.

  Xander’s voice pulled her back. “Claire?”

  She ducked down, meeting his brown eyes across the leather seats. “Yeah?”

  “Speaking of bad feelings . . . Don’t you think it’s a little weird that you’re the only one of the firstborns whose picture wasn’t on that wall?”

  Claire swallowed the dread in her throat. “Yeah, but until we know what it means, there’s no point stressing about it.” She smiled. “Now stop worrying about me. I’m fine. Text me later.”

  She shut the door before he could say more.

  She started walking, knowing Xander would follow her in the car until he knew she was home safely.

  His words rang in her ears. Even with Maximilian and Eugenia, Claire was set apart from the other firstborns. The question was: Did it mean she was safe or that she was in more danger than anyone?

  “Claire? Is that you?”

  Claire followed the sound of her mother’s voice into the living room. Pilar was sitting in a chair by the window, reading by the light of an old fringed lamp on an end table that had belonged to Claire’s grandmother.

  “Hey,” Claire said. “Where’s Dad?”

  Her mother waved her hand in the general direction of the rest of the house. “In his study, I think. Was that the Toussaints’ car I saw out front just now?”

  Claire’s pulse stuttered while she scrambled for a reply. “I have no idea. I walked home.” She was immediately ashamed of the lie, both because it was told to her mother and because it was a blatant denial of her relationship with Xander.

  “Hmmm.” Her mother’s brow furrowed. She shook her head. “I could have sworn it was theirs, but I must have been mistaken.”

  “Yeah . . .” Claire stood there silently, wanting suddenly to tell her mother everything.

  “Claire?” Her mother was speaking to her. “Are you all right?”

  Claire sighed. “I’m just tired. I think I’ll go upstairs and rest before dinner.”

  Her mother was silent, pinning Claire with the icy gray gaze that seemed like it could penetrate all of her most secret thoughts.

  “You may as well,” she final
ly said. “That’s what summer is for.”

  She turned back to her book, and Claire headed for the stairs, her feet leaden as she climbed.

  TWELVE

  Resting was out of the question. Claire’s mind was spinning with everything that had happened, her body still amped from the escape she and Xander had made from the house on Dauphine.

  She uploaded the photos from her phone to her laptop, scrolling past the group picture and focusing on the letters. She enlarged them until she could make out most of the words, then hit PRINT.

  There were three letters, starting with July 31, 1880, and ending with May 25, 1881. She put the French versions aside and turned her attention to the ones Xander had said were translations.

  She put them in chronological order and started with the letter marked July 31.

  July 31, 1880

  Dearest Sorina,

  It was with pleasure and surprise that I received your letter. I remember your father well and know he would be pleased that you continue his interest in the craft. I do not know how your country differs from America, but here it seems the new and modern impose at every turn. I’ve always said that progress is well and good, providing we don’t forget the importance of the past.

  As for your interest in the darker parts of our art, my answers to your questions must also contain a warning. The craft is a higher calling, though many would vilify it. When used for its intended purpose, it can bring together those destined to love, heal those who are ill, and protect one from rogue spirits and energy.

  With that warning, I must assume your questions about black magic are theoretical, and I have never been one to believe in keeping that which we fear in the dark. There, it grows and festers into something dangerous. Better that we should acknowledge all aspects of our craft and teach each generation to respect them in all their diversity.

  It is, indeed, possible to curse someone with negative energy, though I advocate only spiritually positive uses of the craft. The recipes for cursing, hexing, and crossing are as old as those used to heal and protect, though passed down less now that reason has gained solid footing for most in the Guild.

  As to whether or not I maintain my own crossing spells, it is irrelevant, as I don’t make it a practice to use black magic or to pass on that knowledge to my progeny or apprentices. I most humbly ask you to uphold this same standard, as it is one long held among those in our society.

  I hope this letter finds you well and that you and your brother are getting along without your parents. I will light candles for you this evening and chant an abundance spell in your name.

  Warmest regards,

  Marie Laveau

  Claire looked up, blinking and trying to bring herself back from another time and place. It sounded like the girl named Sorina had written to Marie for advice about hexing someone.

  That anyone would even attempt to get that kind of information from Claire’s great-great-grandmother was a surprise. It was well known that Marie the First was a devout Catholic and abhorred black magic of any kind.

  Even more puzzling, Marie didn’t sound like the superstitious high priestess Claire imagined when she thought about her great-great-grandmother.

  Claire stared at the words, trying to get her head around what the letter meant, not only for the situation with Maximilian, but for her own perception of Marie and the craft that defined them both in such different ways.

  She finally gave up and lowered her eyes to the second letter.

  December 19, 1880

  My Dear Sorina,

  It is with some distress that I received your last correspondence. I thought the warnings in my previous letter, though mild in the interest of the long-standing friendship between our families, would have deterred you from this path.

  I must caution you against further experimentation. Your mother and father would not wish to see you dishonor yourself and the craft in their names. They knew, as we all come to know, that everything has its time. And while their ending may have seemed premature—and certainly it was cruel—they would have said it happened just as God meant for it to happen.

  The craft is a force all its own and not to be trifled with. That your desire for revenge has brought you to the brink of the dark arts is testament to your desperation, and it is never wise to travel the paths of the craft with desperation or anger at the forefront of one’s mind. It is far too easy for the darkness within to take over completely, enhancing the strength of a spell so that even its creator can no longer control it. That you have come so close to achieving success with this dubious spell brings me such horror I can hardly sleep, though it is true that I have not been well of late in any regard.

  It is with these words that I beg you to cease your experimentation. I, of course, will have no part of it. Please consider this my formal refusal of assistance together with a warning. Should you continue along this path, your membership in the Guild—and sadly, that of your brother’s—will be terminated and we will be unable to offer you assistance of any kind thereafter.

  I humbly ask you to honor me, to honor your parents and all that they stood for, by discontinuing these dark experiments with the craft.

  They will be your ruin.

  Marie Laveau

  The words of the letter echoed through Claire’s mind as she finished reading.

  Experimentation? What kind of experimentation was Marie talking about? What was this woman, Sorina, doing that would have earned Marie’s disapproval? That would have cost Sorina her membership in the Guild?

  And what had happened to Sorina’s parents that would cause her to approach Marie so boldly for a spell to exact revenge?

  Claire shook her head and turned to the final letter.

  May 25, 1881

  Dear Sorina,

  It is with regret that I must inform you of your expulsion from the Guild.

  I have listened in horror as accounts of your repeated attempts, and recent success, at using the Cold Blood spell have reached New Orleans. It saddens me greatly that my words of warning fell on deaf ears, for I fear you have used the craft to cross from the world of light into one of such utter darkness that it will surely devour you and any in its path.

  It was never my intention that my spells and potions be used for ill. I have uncovered keys to the craft’s darkest door only to foil those with a less altruistic view of it, hoping to have some defense should it be used as a means to harm others.

  It is a heavy burden to know that my attempts at safeguarding the world from those who would use the craft for evil have instead caused that evil to be unleashed.

  I simply cannot suffer it, especially now, as it has become clear that my time in this world is short.

  I can only appeal to the all-powerful loas to accept an addendum to the Cold Blood spell. One that will require an ingredient you will never obtain.

  It is all I can do, and I can only hope as I prepare to leave this world for the next that you find enough peace in your heart to suspend this wicked game.

  Marie Laveau

  Claire set the letters down, her great-great-grandmother a palpable presence in the room. Whatever Sorina had done, whatever spell she had conjured, it was enough to scare even Marie.

  But there were too many other questions. They twisted and turned through Claire’s mind, one running into the next until her head started to hurt, her mind so full of Marie’s words that she only wanted to make it stop.

  She closed her laptop. She would have Sasha and Xander look at the letters tomorrow. Maybe they would read something into Marie’s words that Claire had missed. Something that would connect Marie and the woman named Sorina to Eugenia and Maximilian.

  She hoped so, because right now, the only thing they seemed to have in common was fear—Marie’s fear of the woman named Sorina and the ominous sense of danger Claire felt around the man named Maximilian.r />
  THIRTEEN

  It wasn’t easy to keep her mind clear while Cecile took them through the poses the next day. Claire wanted—needed—to find some clarity, some serenity.

  But no matter what she did, which mantras she repeated or how many peaceful images she imagined, she kept coming back to the house on Dauphine. To the man meeting with Estelle in secret and the pictures of Xander and Sasha and the unshakable feeling that they were all in danger.

  She was relieved when Cecile finally closed the class with the customary bow and in-unison “Namaste.” Rolling up her mat, Claire grabbed her bag as Sasha did the same. Then they stepped onto the street, grabbed their bikes, and headed for the Muddy Cup.

  “You planning to tell me what’s going on?” Sasha finally asked when they were sitting at their table, the sun softened by the tint on the big picture window.

  “What do you mean?” Claire laughed nervously. She planned to tell Sasha about the letters, but she was still trying to figure out how much to say and how to say it in a way that wouldn’t make her sound crazy.

  “I mean we’ve been best friends ever since we dressed up my cat in ritual garb when we were ten and my mother freaked us out by telling us Boots would get her revenge because cats could lay spells.” Sasha’s expression softened as she glanced at Claire’s cup. “Plus, you’re drinking Herbal Unwind, and you only drink that when something’s wrong.”

  “I’m just stressed out,” Claire protested. “The last thing I need is caffeine.”

  “Right. But why?” Sasha asked. “I know you. Something’s up.”

  Claire played with her spoon. She was about to start talking when the empty chair next to Sasha scraped against the floor.

  When Claire looked up, it was right into Allegra St. Martin’s blue eyes.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Allegra!” Claire hoped she sounded surprised and not rude.

  Sasha was less diplomatic. “Wow, have a seat why don’t you?” she said sarcastically, taking a drink of her coffee.

  Allegra rolled her eyes. “What? I’m supposed to ask for an invitation?”