The Final Days of Magic

by J. D. Horn

  This Emil wasn’t trying to get information from her. He was trying to give her the impression he was far more in the know than she herself was.

  “You didn’t pull Alice Marin back. The Road spat her out of its own accord. She’s one of them, your petite amie.”

  “What do you mean ‘one of them?’”

  “One of those shadows. She’s the worst of the bunch. They’re an army, and your Alice is their general. That Daniel spook. Your girl’s friends and family. They done played you for a fool.”

  “That isn’t true. You’re making this up.”

  “Ain’t making nothing up. Not me.” His aftershave started to remind her less of cologne and more of the mortuary soap Frank Demagnan had used to prepare bodies. “Seeing clearly, that’s all. You know you right ’bout one thing. That gravity of rightful destiny has pulled you and Alice Marin together, but your destiny ain’t to love that thing. Your destiny is to kill it.”

  “I would never hurt her.”

  He leaned forward and guffawed, nearly bending all the way over as he did so. He allowed himself a good long laugh, glancing up at her a few times as he did. Finally, his mirth faded, replaced by something else. Sadness? Sympathy?

  “I know what you’re going through, girl. It kind of does feel like love, don’t it? The pull between the hunter and the prey. But it’s gonna be her or you. She’s the one who ain’t gonna leave you with a choice.”

  “You’re wrong,” Nathalie said, stopping short of saying what she was really thinking. This guy was beyond dingue. He was a dangerous crazy, the kind of crazy that does not like being called crazy.

  “You’d never get what you think you want from that girl. Not even if she had it in her to give it to you.” He shook his head. “No, ma fillette. You don’t want to love that thing. You want to end her. You ain’t never gonna feel complete until her blood is on your hands. That’s how it works with some of us, chérie, folk like you and me. The only one we can love is the one we’re born to kill.”

  Nathalie jumped up, determined to fight her way out if she had to, but he stepped aside. She pointed herself toward the door, but he reached out and grabbed her by the wrist.

  “You don’t want to believe me, I understand that. But I know what I’m talking about. This”—he held the ring up before her once again—“came from my wife.”

  Nathalie felt her stomach churning. She shook off his grip and advanced on the door. She was mad enough, frightened enough, to rip it clean off its hinges if she had to, but the door wasn’t locked. It flung open so hard, the knob punched the interior wall.

  The last rays of the day’s low winter sun shone through the opening, and Nathalie gave a quick but heartfelt thanks for the breeze that accompanied them.

  Nathalie was about to cross the threshold when she stopped cold, unable to believe what she was seeing. In front of her were about a dozen men who, at first flush, looked enough alike to be brothers, or certainly at least cousins—her cousins. She scanned their faces, looking for Lincoln or Wiley, but neither was to be found.

  The men wandered around the overgrown patch of grass before her. They each wore a type of camouflage pattern, some the familiar hunting one designed to blend in with leaves and bark, others with dull, brick-like markings that looked like they’d work better in urban environments. Each man carried a semiautomatic rifle strapped across his chest.

  Emil drew up behind her. As the men took note of his presence, they jerked to attention and saluted him.

  “Bienvenue, ma fillette,” he said, “to the new world order.”

  THIRTEEN

  Evangeline lined up a row of lowball glasses along the bar, beneath Daniel’s benevolent gaze and crooked, self-conscious smile, rendered so perfectly in the portrait Alice had painted of him. It was an appropriate tribute given that another portrait, one Astrid had painted, had helped bring him to life. And it was that “life” those who loved Daniel would be gathering here at Bonnes Nouvelles to celebrate.

  She felt the weight of a stare and, by instinct, sought out its source. Her eyes fell once again on the portrait. It sat flanked by a pair of white votive candles in clear glass holders left over from the day Evangeline had first met Lincoln, here at this very bar, when the sparks between them had been enough to kill the power on the entire block.

  Was she afraid of losing control as she had in that moment?

  The conjured Luc’s parting words haunted her. It was true—Evangeline was holding back, refusing to trust Lincoln completely. But did she fear the man who could cause her to lose control, or did she fear what she might become if she lowered her guard too far?

  She opened a bottle of Irish whiskey and, by sound alone, poured two fingers into the closest glass. Daniel hadn’t been Irish, of course, but he’d spent most of his existence believing he was a ghost from the Emerald Isle, thanks to the backstory Nicholas and Astrid had given him, and what he’d believed to be true about himself had continued to color him long after he’d learned it was a lie. Maybe that’s what Evangeline found most human about him.

  She set the bottle on the bar and lifted the glass, saluting Daniel, then widening the gesture to include Bonnes Nouvelles as well. She sipped the whiskey, grimacing at the taste. Honey, vanilla, and orange, with a soupçon of cat piss.

  Vodka. Unflavored and ice-cold. That was her poison.

  The door swept open with magnificent force. Evangeline looked over to find the Vieux Carré’s own Miss LaLaurie Mansheon, a six-foot-four wall of solid muscle draped in a teal chiffon halter-style gown, hurrying toward her in six-and-a-half-inch stiletto-heel platform pumps that conspired to raise the drag queen’s stature to nearly the seven-foot mark. LaLaurie drew near and, beaming down at Evangeline, lifted a heavily bejeweled hand and brushed back a wayward tress of her long lace-front wig that had been styled in easy beach waves and dyed a shade not so different from Evangeline’s own natural auburn. “I hope you appreciate the homage.”

  Evangeline laughed and raised her glass again, this time to LaLaurie. “Indeed, I do.”

  “I know y’all are shutting down early tonight for your”—she waved a hand in the direction of Daniel’s portrait—“private event, but I wanted to pop in and tell you goodbye in person.”

  “Goodbye?”

  “Yeah, there’s a sea of ignorant and ugly out there, and it feels like high tide is rolling in. Gonna get out of here for a while. Go out and visit my family in Oakland.”

  “I thought your people were from Mississippi. I didn’t know you had relatives in California.”

  “I didn’t say ‘relatives.’ I said ‘family.’ You know there’s a difference, girl.”

  “Indeed, I do,” Evangeline repeated herself and grasped the whiskey bottle. “Care to join me?”

  “Oh, good Lord, girl. No. I have one more set to perform and a six a.m. flight I gotta be on.” She nodded at Daniel’s portrait. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “I’m sorry we’re losing you.”

  “Aren’t you sweet. You may not be losing me. Least not for forever.” LaLaurie cast a quick glance around the club.

  Evangeline assumed she was looking for Hugo. “He’s in the storeroom with Alice trying to unearth our old karaoke machine.”

  “Hmmm . . . ?”

  “Hugo.”

  “Oh, that one.” LaLaurie waved her hand in the air, the overhead light setting fire to the stones in each of her five rings. “He’s all wrapped up in that new ‘friend’ of his. All tough and manly, just like the straight boys who’d like to kill them both. Guys like Hugo could never . . . well. He ain’t even gonna notice this old girl is gone.”

  “That isn’t true. At least the part about missing you.”

  LaLaurie flashed her a wide smile. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. But no. I’m not looking for the Marin . . . boy. I’m taking the old place in. It’s only now I’m leaving, I’m starting to feel nostalgic. You know I first started coming here back when they still called the place ‘The Black Ca
t.’” A bejeweled nail pointed to the stage. “Back when you yourself, Miss Evangeline, was up there working that pole like a fireman sliding down to a four-alarm fire. You sure were something back then,” she said, then seemed to recognize it as a left-handed compliment. “Not that you aren’t now,” she added.

  “Strange, I don’t remember you—”

  “And you’re wondering how you could have missed all this.” LaLaurie struck a dramatic pose and made a sweeping gesture that took her in from the top of her wig to the soles of her stilettos. She chuckled. “Nah, you didn’t miss anything. I used to come here in boy drag, to look after my sister—my real sister, not the blood one. Maybe you remember her? Tiny little thing.” LaLaurie raised her hand to the level of Evangeline’s shoulders. “Bright green eyes and long black hair with a streak of red in it. Called herself Regine. She could pass, so she used to dance here a bit. I kept watch in case any of the boys got a little too free with their hands and ran across, well, you know, her boys.”

  Evangeline did in fact recall the dancer, clearly enough to feel surprise Regine had passed beneath the radar of not just her ordinary five senses, but her extrasensory perception, too. “Yes, I do remember Regine,” she said. “I haven’t thought of her in forever, though. How is she?”

  “Damned if I know. She drifted away during Katrina. Probably ended up married to some farmer and teaching Sunday school in Bazine, Kansas. She got out the week before. Me, I was fool enough to have faith in . . . well, you know.”

  Evangeline, uncertain what the queen was getting at, shook her head. “The government.”

  LaLaurie barked out a laugh. “Yeah. Butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth, would it?” She leaned in. “I mean people like Hugo, and you. And probably that fellow in the picture there, too. I know what you are. I know what you all are.”

  Hugo entered, a dusty cardboard box in his arms and Alice at his side.

  “Well, well, well,” he said, nearly bowling Alice over as he pawned the box off on her. “I was wondering if you were going to haul that sagging camel toe tuck of yours in to say goodbye before you took off.”

  “You knew I was leaving?” A spark of hope betrayed the queen by slipping out from behind her feigned nonchalance. Evangeline’s heart nearly broke for LaLaurie. Hugo loved her, all right, as best he could and with his entire guarded heart. But the love Hugo had for her was not the kind LaLaurie had always dreamed it would grow into.

  “Posters with your pancaked puss over the words ‘Farewell Tour’ are pasted all over the friggin’ Quarter. By the way, two dive bars do not a tour make.”

  “You could have come to one of them. It would’ve saved me having to hike all over the blessed city in these shoes.” LaLaurie gave Evangeline a sidelong glance that acknowledged she’d busted herself. Yes, LaLaurie would have walked a hundred miles in those shoes to hear Hugo say he’d miss her. Evangeline looked down, acting like she hadn’t picked up on the slip.

  “When have I ever made your life easier?” Hugo asked.

  “There was that one time on August sixth, two thousand and never.”

  Hugo drew near the queen. “Best day of my life.”

  LaLaurie blinked her beaded eyelashes with pleasure as Hugo reached into his pocket and fished out a wadded-up dollar from his pocket. “They got a lottery out there in California, don’t they?”

  “You know they do.”

  “You take this,” Hugo said, flattening the dollar and offering it to LaLaurie. Evangeline saw a spark move from the tip of Hugo’s finger and stretch out to envelope the bill. “You play it on the big lottery. Not some damned scratch-off. And don’t you use it for anything else. You promise. The day you get there.”

  “About time you got around to giving me a tip.” LaLaurie glanced at the bill before slipping it into her padded bra. She pursed her lips. “Costs two dollars to play, but I guess I’ll have to make up the difference on my lonesome.”

  “I reckon you will. But one of the two will be that one. Promise me.”

  “All right. I promise.” She shrugged her steely shoulders. “Big draw. No scratch. Too stingy to dig a bit deeper in that pocket of his.” This last bit she muttered. “The day”—her voice rose as she patted her wig—“the very second I get there.” She grabbed Hugo’s wrist, focusing on his watch. “Is that the time? I got to get back for my next set.”

  It was clear LaLaurie had only wanted to touch Hugo. She released him, slowly, with great tenderness, and strode to the door like she was working a catwalk. Evangeline picked up on a stray thought. LaLaurie had rehearsed this moment in her mind. Dozens, maybe hundreds of times. LaLaurie reached the door and grasped the handle, then looked back over her shoulder with a graceful twist of her neck.

  “Bye, Norman,” Hugo said, stretching the name out.

  LaLaurie’s eyes flashed, but her lips curled up into a tight smile. “You are such a malevolent little bastard. But I still love you.”

  She turned back and pushed the door open.

  “Love you more,” Hugo mumbled under his breath.

  “I heard that,” she said, then stepped aside, holding the door open for Fleur, whose arms were laden with a bouquet half her size.

  Fleur ducked beneath LaLaurie’s arm. “Thank you.”

  “Mmmhmmm,” LaLaurie’s voice trailed off, and the door closed.

  “Hugo?” Fleur said. “Could you . . . ?” Hugo rushed forward and relieved her of the load, setting the vase on the end of the bar.

  “Your friend,” Alice said, joining her brother, balancing the box she’d been holding on a barstool. “She’ll never spend that dollar. She’ll hold on to it forever.”

  Hugo tapped a glass. “Barkeep?” He watched as Evangeline poured a shot for him. “She will . . . someday. She’ll drop it on the lottery. When she’s ready to move on for real. By letting go, she shall receive.” He grabbed the glass and drank it down.

  “Not everyone is as cavalier as you, dear nephew,” Fleur said. She looked diminished. Her aura seemed to consume the light around her, giving Evangeline the impression she had been outlined in black ink. Without even trying, Evangeline picked up on her feelings—concern, fear, wounded pride.

  Fleur’s eyes met hers. “My divorce was finalized today. Warren’s wedding is Christmas Day.”

  “Where’s the brat?” Hugo said.

  “That’s why I’m running late . . . and Lucy didn’t come. We’re having a bit of a disagreement. Warren sent flowers to each of us today. Hers included an invitation, a surprisingly sincere-sounding one, to participate in the nuptials.”

  “She wants to go to Warren’s wedding?” Hugo said, incredulous.

  “She wants to go home. Even if it means living with her father and his child bride.”

  “The father she wanted to put a blood curse on not six months ago,” Alice said with the unintentional bluntness of someone to whom being able to speak her mind was still a novelty.

  “We’ve worked through all that. She and Warren have been video chatting over the last several weeks. At my urging.” Fleur rushed out the next words, and Evangeline didn’t need to use her power to discern she was trying to fend off Hugo’s expression of . . . what? Surprise? Sympathy? Contempt? “She and Warren need each other. I’m not going to let anyone’s pride—hers, his, or mine—put a wall between them. I only wish it were possible for Lucy to attend the wedding.”

  “But why—” Evangeline began, regretting the intercession the very second her lips began to move. This situation was in no way her business or her concern.

  “You’re a class act, Tatie,” Hugo said, rescuing Fleur and Evangeline both. He planted a quick kiss on Fleur’s temple.

  Fleur’s eyes filled with gratitude, but the warm glow was short-lived. She brushed her bangs back, and it was gone. “And still my daughter isn’t speaking to me.” Fleur turned her gaze toward her. “Bar’s open?”

  Evangeline poured her a whiskey and slid it over. Fleur lifted the glass to her lips and sipped. Her shoul
ders relaxed. She focused on the painting on the bar. “It’s hard to think of Daniel as dead,” Fleur said, casting a quick glance around to determine who was in earshot. “I’d only just begun to think of him as alive.”

  “But he was alive,” Hugo said. “A man, not a disposable servitor spirit. He may have started out that way, but he developed a rich interior life.” A smile quivered on his lips. “He was even capable of duplicity.” He knocked back his whiskey and grimaced. “Nicholas and Astrid didn’t give him any of that, you know. And he didn’t get it from that damnable book Astrid used to create him either.”

  “No,” Alice said, focusing on the painting she’d done of Daniel, “somehow Daniel had a spark of his own.”

  “You really captured his essence.” Fleur moved side to side as she considered the portrait. “You have a real talent, our Alice. It takes great skill to make it seem as if the subject’s eyes are following you.”

  Hadn’t Evangeline thought the same? But this painting went far beyond that. Daniel’s eyes did more than follow you. They looked through you.

  Fleur glanced around the club. “Is it only the four of us? I’d assumed Nathalie and the Brothers Boudreau would be joining us.”

  Evangeline expected Hugo to jump in with an answer, but instead he fell silent. A shadow crossed over his face, and he reached for the whiskey bottle.

  Fleur gave her a cautious, confused look. Evangeline shrugged.

  Another moment of awkward silence, and Evangeline decided to answer. “Lincoln and Wiley have been called up to Natchitoches.”

  “‘Called up’ is an odd phrasing. You make it sound like the draft.”

  “It seems it’s more of a formal end-of-year meeting than a Christmas visit. Lincoln described it as a compulsory family cabal with jambalaya and bouille.”

  “And Nathalie?”

  “She, too,” Alice said, “was invited. Or drafted, though she was happy to volunteer. It’s been good for her, connecting with Wiley and Lincoln. It’s built a bridge between Nathalie and the rest of the Boudreaus.”