by Cate Tiernan
Ouida didn’t say anything. Gathering bones? Looking for Melita? What was Daedalus actually doing here? Did he know something about Melita that he hadn’t told anyone? Had he found her? Could he even be in league with her or somehow have usurped her power?
Ouida shook her head, aware that Daedalus was watching her. She’d blocked her thoughts and knew he couldn’t be eavesdropping. She had her secrets, just as Daedalus did. She sighed. The Treize was about as safe and trustworthy as an adder’s nest.
Red with Her Blood
Rocks. If there was one thing Louisiana had over Ireland, it was that there were no cursed rocks in the ground. Plowing was easy there. The dirt was rich and black, bursting with life and nourished by the Delta basin.
Here the soil was thin and pale gray, and you couldn’t spit without hitting rock after rock after rock. Marcel had been working this same plot of ground for, what, seven years now? Yet each spring and each autumn, he managed to plow up yet another ton of rocks, as if the earth herself were slowly pushing them to the surface all throughout the year.
And maybe she was.
Marcel paused and wiped his wet brow with the coarse brown wool of his monk’s robe, then bent his back over the hand-powered plow again. Earth. Giver of life. Mindlessly he watched as the thick steel blade cut through the thin turf and peeled it up in two curling layers. He heard the chink of the blade hitting a rock, of course, because he’d gone about four inches, and he knelt to wrest it up and add it to the growing pile by the side of the field. It would become part of a wall, like the rest.
The ground was cold as his fingers scrabbled around the large stone. It was September; soon it would be winter here and bitter, with icy winds borne off the western sea. Marcel’s fingers grabbed the rock, and suddenly he felt something slice his finger.
Wincing, he pulled up his hand and found an ancient shard of glass embedded in his skin. Good job. Carefully he pulled the shard out and was surprised by the sudden rush of blood from the relatively small cut. In seconds the blood had run across his hand and begun dripping onto the ground. He’d better get to the infirmary, have Brother Niall do something.
He glanced down, and with no warning, Marcel was hurled back through time, to another place, another life.
It had been dark, pouring rain, but with every flash of lightning Marcel had seen how the wet ground beneath Cerise was red with her blood. He closed his eyes, blinking hard, not wanting to remember.
He’d fallen in love with her. He’d been seventeen. She’d been fourteen but already a woman, doing a woman’s work. She’d laughed and spurned him, saying that she was too young to settle down, that she was content to stay at home with her mother and sister.
He’d courted her for years, leaving flowers on her doorstep, freshly killed rabbits outside her kitchen. She had been easy to love, her face bright and open, that golden hair like sunlight spun into silk. Her eyes had been as green as Irish hills in springtime, and she’d had a small red mark on her cheek, like a crushed flower.
It had been just Cerise, her mother, and her sister at home. Petra’s husband, Armand, had run off to New Orleans years before. Marcel could barely remember him. He’d been tall, with black hair. But Marcel couldn’t picture his face.
The Martins had needed a man about the house; that much was clear. Marcel had taken it upon himself to chop wood for them, to bring their cow in from the woods. Melita, the older sister, had been as dark as their father and dark in other ways as well. Almost every man in the village had watched her, wanted her. But not Marcel. Cerise’s sunlight was infinitely preferable to Melita’s darkness.
For years Marcel dedicated himself to Cerise and her family, hoping that she would relent, take him for her husband, that she would be his. After everything he had done, how could she do else? But she’d made him no promises and laughed lightly whenever he’d brought it up.
She hadn’t been unkind or cruel. But it was like trying to catch a fairy made of light and air—impossible to pin down. Of course, he’d been going about it all wrong. He’d come to realize that.
Now, kneeling on the cold Irish ground, Marcel swallowed hard and shut his eyes against the relentless memories—once started, they were unstoppable. He’d been walking through the woods to check his traps and had heard Cerise’s laughter. From a distance he had spied her, running among the trees, the dappled sunlight occasionally catching her bright hair. Marcel had smiled to see Cerise, a girl of seventeen, still playing tag.
Even when he’d seen who was chasing her, he’d still thought it was a game. Richard Landry was barely fifteen, though he’d become tall in the last year. Still a boy, compared to Marcel’s twenty years. Marcel had started walking toward them, already knowing what he would say, how he’d tease them for playing like children.
But then he’d seen Richard catch Cerise, heard her startled gasp of laughter. He’d seen Richard hold Cerise’s wrists above her head and press her against the broad trunk of a sycamore. When had the boy gotten taller than she? Marcel was still, like a deer, watching them between the thick trees. He waited for Cerise to push Richard away, perhaps angrily, to chastise him for taking liberties. Not even Marcel had held her so close.
But Richard had dared more. He’d leaned against her, lowered his head to kiss her. For a few moments Cerise ducked away, still laughing breathlessly, but then she had stilled, and Richard’s mouth had taken hers. He’d let go of her hands and she’d held his shoulders, her eyes wide at first with astonishment, then drifting closed with pleasure.
Marcel had gaped, speechless. He himself had never kissed Cerise! He’d tried several times, but she’d evaded him and he hadn’t pushed her. Now he saw his approach had been too mild-mannered.
Richard’s wasn’t, by any means. He’d wedged his knee between her legs, through her long cotton skirts. They’d been touching from chin to ankle, Richard’s hands braced on the tree behind her.
Marcel didn’t know how long he’d stood there, feeling lightning-struck. After an endless while, Richard and Cerise had separated, staring at each other. Richard had been breathing hard, his face dark with intent. He moved toward her again, but this time Cerise pushed him away. She’d picked up her skirts and run through the woods, back to the village.
After that, Marcel had begun to pursue Cerise with more purpose and less patience. Again and again she’d said no to him, giving him one excuse after another. She’d continued to laugh at him and evade him. Until that one time, down by the river.
He could still smell the water, feel the heaviness of the air. The heat had made them light-headed. Cerise’s eyes had looked up into his. And he had tasted heaven.
Then Marcel was in another memory. He was running through the dark woods, woods he knew like his own home. Spanish moss brushed against his face as he tracked Melita. That night he’d seen her work her evil magick, seen her split the huge oak in two, destroying the Source that bubbled from beneath its roots. The tree had fallen and burned.
And Marcel had followed her. Cerise was dead, and it was Melita’s fault. Melita had wanted only power at any price, even the cost of her sister’s life. She’d worked her rite, maybe even knowing it would kill Cerise—or at least not caring when it had. Marcel had seen Melita’s face that night at the circle, her beautiful face, laughing, drunk with magick, flushed with ecstasy—while her younger sister died giving birth to her bastard daughter.
Cerise should have married him. He’d begged her to. He feared he knew the reason she wouldn’t.
Now she was dead, her sunlight entombed forever. Marcel would never see or kiss or hold her again. As long as he lived, he would never love another. So Marcel had followed Melita that night, through the darkness. And he’d caught up with her.
Early on Thursday, I went to Axelle’s to get Thais. I’d been thinking, and I wanted us to do another spell—hopefully one that wouldn’t go nuclear on us. In one of Nan’s books, I’d found a spell that could reveal other spells. Maybe it would help us figure out wh
o was behind the attacks on us.
Parking in the French Quarter was a fantasy, so I’d called Thais and asked her to wait outside for me. When I drove down Axelle’s block at like two miles an hour behind a tourist-laden horse carriage, I saw her standing by the curb.
“Hey,” she said, sliding into my little blue Camry. “No school. Yay.”
“We love teacher workdays,” I said.
“Yes, we do,” said Thais. “A three-school-day week seems about right. So did you do it? Last night?”
For a second I didn’t know what she was talking about, but then I remembered that last night had been when I was supposed to open the cupboard where Nan had left emergency instructions.
“Yeah,” I said. “I couldn’t open it. She told me exactly what to do, and I think I did it right, but no dice.”
Thais turned to me, her eyes worried. I made a bunch of left turns until we were headed uptown again.
“So what now?” she asked. “You don’t know where she is or how to get in touch with her.”
Thais sounded slightly disapproving: that reckless Nan, leaving me on my own.
“I’ll give her one more day,” I said. “Then I’m going to ask Ouida for help.”
“Okay, good idea,” Thais agreed. “Where are we going?”
“To Racey’s. I didn’t feel that safe at home,” I admitted. I drove across the eight lanes of Canal Street and started heading up St. Charles Avenue. A streetcar rattled past us, and I waited till its noise had passed to ask, “How are things at Axelle’s?”
Thais rubbed her forehead. “Tense. Daedalus and Jules were over last night. And Richard popped in to say hello. He still weirds me out.”
“Were they trying to get you to do the rite? Did you feel safe there?”
“Yes, and not really. I mean, I know all these people, but not that well. I just feel so nervous all the time around everyone, like any minute some crazy thing is going to jump out and start attacking me. Plus Richard totally creeps me out just because. I mean, he looks younger than us, but then I remember he’s like 260 years old. He’s a grown-up.”
It was definitely weird—kind of mind-blowing that any of the Treize were immortal, but especially the ones who looked so young still, like Richard and the girl, Manon.
And of course there was the other member of their little group who’d been frozen forever at his age, looking so fricking gorgeous …
“Anyone else drop by?” I asked casually, my eyes on the road.
“No,” said Thais. “I was hoping Ouida would, but I guess she’s busy. Axelle said most of them are trying to rent apartments in case they’re here for a while.”
“Makes sense. Did you tell anyone about the kablooey magick?”
“No. Were you able to figure out what went wrong?”
“Nope. I went over everything I could think of. All I can come up with is it’s the combination of you and me.”
“And now you want to do it again?” Thais sounded less than enthusiastic.
“A different spell. And in a different place and with Racey. That should fix it.”
A few minutes later I turned off St. Charles toward the lake and turned again on Willow Street. Racey’s family had a medium-size house built over a full basement. Basements sat on top of the ground here—you couldn’t dig cellars for the same reason you couldn’t bury people underground. The water table was too high.
As usual, there were three or four cats hanging around outside the house, and Chelsea, one of Racey’s dogs, made a show of alertness at the top of the stairs, fierce guard dog on duty, before letting her head sink onto her paws again and closing her eyes.
I knocked hard on the screen door because their doorbell had been broken as long as I could remember. Ceci, one of Racey’s older sisters, opened the door. She was holding a bagel in one hand—it was pretty early.
“Yo,” she said, then saw Thais standing next to me. She blinked, looked from me to Thais and back again. Then she grinned and shook some of her dark, purple-streaked hair off her shoulders. “Racey told me about the Doublemint action,” she said. “Whew. When you go identical, you really go identical.” She let us into the house, then turned her head and yelled, “Hey, guys! Come check this out!”
I glanced at Thais, who seemed a little timid and bemused. Not so identical, I thought.
Bill and Hillary, Racey’s other two dogs, trotted into the room. They sniffed me—same Clio—and then with interest sniffed Thais, the different Clio.
“Hey, puppy,” Thais said, holding her hand out to them. “What kind of dogs are these?”
“Catahoula hounds,” I said, leading the way to the kitchen. Racey’s house was at least twice as big as mine, with six rooms downstairs and four bedrooms on the second floor. We went through the foyer and the dining room, then into the big kitchen/family room. Azura, Racey’s mom, was at her sewing machine, surrounded by a big puddle of purple fabric.
“Hi, Clio,” she said, looking up with a smile; then she saw Thais. She took the pins out of her mouth and stood up to come over to us. I felt Thais’s self-consciousness.
“Azura, this is my sister, Thais,” I said. “This is Racey’s mom, Azura Copeland.”
“Welcome, my dear,” said Racey’s mom, and gave Thais a hug.
Thais was smiling when they separated, and then I heard footsteps running down the stairs. “Mom! Make Trey get out of the bathroom!” Racey said, stomping into the kitchen. Trey was Racey’s brother, a year younger than us. He went to our school, and he and Racey were always yelling at each other about something. “Hey, guys. I’m almost ready.” She turned back to Azura. “I mean, we have two other bathrooms. Does he have to hog the one that has my makeup in it?”
“I doubt you need makeup on for what you’re going to do,” Racey’s mom said dryly. “Go do your thing, and I’ll get Trey out of the bathroom.”
Racey scowled. “Whatever.” Nodding at us, she said, “Come on. We might as well go.”
She opened the back door and headed down the wooden steps that led to their backyard.
“Our workroom is back here,” Racey tossed over her shoulder, for Thais’s benefit. “It used to be a garden shed, I guess.”
Racey’s backyard, like so many yards in New Orleans, was basically an overgrown jungle. There was a thicket of banana trees along one side fence and another clump of enormous ginger plants overhanging the shed. Some of Azura’s favorite bamboo was threatening to take over the yard, and I wondered if Thais would recognize the happy, healthy grove of marijuana plants in the back of the tiny vegetable garden. Racey’s dad grew them for people with cancer who were going through chemo.
Racey’s dad was an artist, and he’d painted a huge sun on the door of the shed. Inside, two small windows and a cracked skylight illuminated the walls and floor, all of which were covered with symbols, runes, and magickal words.
Of course, I’d seen all this a million times, but I wondered what Thais was making of it. She stopped on the threshold and looked around. I guessed they didn’t have anything like this in Welsford, Connecticut, where she’d grown up. Racey went to their cabinet and started getting out supplies. I opened Nan’s book and started flipping through the pages to find the right spell.
“What’s this?” Thais said, tracing her fingers over a symbol.
I looked up. “Uh, sain et sauf,” I said. “Like, safe and sound. Safety. For protection.”
“Like those runes from the other night?”
“No—those were runes. Sain et sauf is a magickal symbol but not from any runic alphabet.”
“There’s more than one rune alphabet?”
“Several,” said Racey, setting out her family’s four cups. Theirs were made of green marble.
“But our branch of the, uh”—I translated in my head—”natural religion has symbols of its own that are centuries old and very powerful.”
“Is the natural religion the Bonne Magie you were telling me about?”
“Yeah,” I said abs
ently, trailing my finger down the page. “You have any tiger’s eyes?” I asked Racey.
“I’ll look. What else? Copper?”
“No. Gold. And give me four stones of protection, whatever you’ve got.”
“Okay, let’s see,” Racey murmured, rooting around in the cabinet. “I’ve got, well, here’s another tiger’s eye. I’ve got some agate and malachite. Jet. Citrine?”
I mentally reviewed their properties. “That should be good. Skip the second tiger’s eye. Don’t want to be unbalanced.” I turned back to Thais while Racey started drawing a circle on the floor. “Magie Naturelle is like the big, general, French-based form of Wicca, in a way. Like there’s Wicca, and then there are different types of Wicca.”
Thais frowned. “There are?”
Oh, déesse, she had so much to learn. I was glad I wasn’t in her shoes. “Yeah, Like Pictish, Scottish, and so on. A bunch. For us, the natural religion is the umbrella religion. Our own famille’s branch of it we call Bonne Magie.”
“I’ve heard Petra call it Chose Nous,” added Racey. “‘Our thing.”‘
“Like the Mafia?” Thais asked faintly. “Cosa Nostra?”
Maybe we were giving her too much info for the moment. “Yeah,” I said. “Exactly like that. Except we’re French witches drawing on the eternal mystical energy in everything around us to work good, and they’re Italian and they kill people. Other than that, just like.”
Thais looked a little embarrassed.
I drew her into the circle and Racey closed it behind us. We sat cross-legged on the floor, facing each other.
“Okay, so what are we doing now?” Racey asked.
I realized I hadn’t gotten her caught up on the soap opera in, like, days. I let out a deep breath, wondering where to start.
“Someone’s trying to hurt me and Clio,” said Thais. “To kill us.”
Racey looked from Thais to me. “Huh?”
“Things have gotten weird,” I said, in a massive understatement.
“You mean, weirder than having a surprise identical twin and then God’s gift dating both of you at once?” Racey said bluntly.