The Final Days of Magic

by J. D. Horn

“But Nathalie is such a lovely woman,” Fleur said. “Why would a bridge even be necessary?”

  Alice fell silent, and Evangeline sensed she was debating whether it was appropriate to be discussing Nathalie in her absence.

  Hugo had no such qualms. “Nathalie’s mother,” he said, “was an outsider, an unpopular one. The Boudreaus haven’t exactly shunned Nathalie over the years, but they’ve never reached out to her either. Not even when she went up to Natchitoches after Katrina.”

  “Nathalie has been on her own since she was fourteen,” Alice said, as much a simple statement of fact as a condemnation of the larger Boudreau family.

  Evangeline sensed another level of meaning, too. Alice was speaking from the center of her own pain, having been deserted by her family . . . and by Evangeline, too.

  “Beautiful,” Evangeline said, tracing a finger along the petals of a flower that resembled a rose except for its coloring, which fell somewhere between blue and deep violet. It wasn’t a lie. The bouquet was lovely, but she’d only spoken of it to fill the silence, and because she sensed Fleur could use another shot of validation.

  “Blue Rose lisianthus.” Fleur tapped a wine-colored nail against a similar bloom. “I know he was fond of them. The bright blue ones are bachelor’s buttons,” she said, first gazing sadly at Daniel’s portrait, then smirking, “in honor of his status as a confirmed bachelor.”

  “And the green ones?” Evangeline asked, to continue Fleur’s distraction.

  Fleur turned to her with what seemed a genuine smile. “Bells of Ireland. Of course, he wasn’t really Irish. If anything he was a caricature of the Irish, but the idea of a connection to faraway Éire was, I understand, once very important to him.” She took another sip of her whiskey, then reached out to examine the bottle. “It appears great minds do think alike.”

  Hugo grunted, then craned his neck as he looked out the window to the street.

  A drab young woman had arrived at the door. She tugged it open and stepped into the bar. She wore no makeup. The glow of the club’s predominantly blue-tinted LED lights rendered her complexion a snowy pale. Her brown hair was pulled back in a tight bun. A second woman around the same age followed her into the bar. They wore identical white, long-sleeved, bow-at-the-neck blouses, paired with calf-length skirts. The second woman waited by the door, holding it open, perhaps to facilitate a hasty escape.

  Evangeline found the pair somehow familiar, but she couldn’t place them. She was about to tell them the club was closed for a private function when Hugo spoke up.

  “Sorry, ladies,” he said, eying them up and down. “Dancer auditions are on the third Thursday of the month.”

  “Hugo—” She began to chastise him but fell dumb at the sight of Nicholas in the doorway.

  “They’re with me.” Nicholas walked, full swagger, up to the bar. He acted as if they should applaud the restoration of the rightful monarch.

  “You’re not welcome here,” Hugo said, puffing up and positioning himself like a territorial cock protecting his hens. “And neither are your beige brides of Dracula.”

  Nicholas responded by reaching out and drawing his son into a tight embrace. He nuzzled Hugo’s hair, though his gaze remained fixed on Evangeline. Nicholas wanted her to experience his regret, his guilt. To understand how desperately he’d missed his son. How deeply he’d missed her.

  Nicholas released Hugo, and Hugo staggered back. The show of paternal affection had landed with more force than any punch could have. Nicholas slipped an arm around Fleur’s shoulder, giving her a gentle squeeze, then focused on Daniel’s portrait. “Odd you could love the creation and still hold the creator in such contempt. I know you believe I treated him callously, perhaps even resent me for his end, but I gave him life. I gave him purpose. And for how the rest of it turned out, what can I say? There’s no denying I have an inflated ego, but I never wanted to play God.”

  Nicholas looked at Evangeline with the same self-assuredness that had always at once repulsed and attracted her.

  “Oh, come now. I don’t expect a hero’s welcome, but we’ve all made mistakes. You two”—he pointed back and forth at Hugo and her—“deemed me capable of murdering my own son and conspired against me.” He released Fleur and looked down at her. “And you allowed pieces of our father’s body to be passed out like party favors while I was off searching for a way to . . .” He hesitated as Fleur’s expression turned to stone. “To find a solution,” he continued, “to our predicament. All in all, I think you should laud me for my magnanimity, or at least pour me a drink.”

  Evangeline was happy for the suggestion. It gave her something to do. She grabbed the bottle by the neck and eyeballed a half jigger of whiskey. She slid the glass toward him, cringing when his fingers traced over hers. She snapped her hand back and turned to his companions. “Drink?”

  “No, no,” Nicholas answered for them. “It’s requisite they maintain a sober mind for the sake of—”

  “It’s you,” Alice blurted out, tilting her head as she examined the young women. “You were at Précieux Sang, at Celestin’s trial.”

  In a flash, Evangeline, too, recognized the women. They were the Goth girls Alice had warned away before taking the knife to Celestin’s corpse. But their black coats, thick eyeliner, and lavender hair were gone, replaced by this garb that made them look like missionaries.

  Nicholas’s eyes caught hers, a mischievous glint in them.

  Missionaries. He’d planted the image in her mind. He’d never possessed such an ability before. Nicholas flashed her a tight, knowing smile and opened his mind up to her like a movie screen. With a single thought, he laid it all bare before her.

  Yes, these women were missionaries, all right, of a faith Nicholas himself was founding. He had found a way to recharge his failing batteries. Vampirism through adoration, similar to the way performers feed off the energy of the audience—only intentionally, and without any thought of giving anything back. These women were his acolytes, and if Nicholas had made his triumphant return, Evangeline was sure they were only two from among a legion.

  Blood. Sex. Dreaming.

  Intoxication. Adoration. Deprivation. Madness.

  These are the gates to magic.

  The words came to her in a separate stream. Had Nicholas projected them, or had they surfaced from somewhere in her own mind? Before Evangeline could delve deeper to discover their source, Nicholas raised his glass in salute. “To Daniel.”

  There was a moment of uncertainty, then Fleur seconded him. “To Daniel. It takes a special person to learn he doesn’t exist, then go on with his life anyway.”

  Hugo seemed to float up through a cloud of confused resentment, but he, too, raised his glass. “To the only father I ever knew. And mother, too, for that matter.”

  “Well,” Nicholas said, “there is that.” He returned his tumbler to the bar. “I’ll leave you to your further reminiscences, but first I must admit I had an ulterior motive for crashing your celebration of our dear Daniel.”

  “Anyone surprised here?” Hugo turned from Evangeline to Alice to his aunt. He focused on Nicholas’s acolytes. “Watchtower Twins? No?”

  Nicholas ignored Hugo’s sarcasm. “I’m hoping you’ll join me, well, actually, I’m hoping all of the region’s remaining witches will join together in reviving a lapsed tradition. The Longest Night.”

  Hugo snorted. “I think you’re forgetting dear old grand-père Celestin slaughtered half the witches between Galveston and Biloxi. Unlikely the survivors are going to show up for a sequel.”

  “Celestin’s atrocities are the very reason I think rekindling this tradition is important. Of course, Celestin didn’t act alone.” He turned his focus to Evangeline. “Your aunts colluded with him. A joyful Longest Night celebration would give us all an opportunity to repair our image, and, more importantly, help our community heal.”

  “You have my support,” Fleur said, then turned to her nephew and niece. “Oh, come on. It’s exactly what we need. A
ll of us. It’s like a roving masked ball meets Burning Man. Not only are intoxicants and devilry condoned, they’re encouraged. You’ll love it. Especially you, Hugo.”

  It struck Evangeline that Fleur was working too hard to sell this idea. Nicholas, she surmised, had already gotten Fleur’s buy-in, and no doubt his sister had proposed Daniel’s wake as the perfect place for him to buttonhole them. All of them together, all of them emotionally vulnerable. Taking advantage of their vulnerability didn’t feel like something Fleur would involve herself in naturally. Evangeline studied the two as they stood near each other, watching the ebb and flow of energy between them. Evangeline could see it written in their auras. Nicholas was holding something over his sister’s head.

  “I won’t beg,” Nicholas said, “but do know you’re welcome. More than welcome. Your support would mean the world to me, as it would give me hope perhaps not all is lost between us. That my relationships with each of you might still be salvageable.”

  “That,” Alice began, “is a lot of weight to place on a single evening—”

  “Relax, Nicholas,” Hugo said, cutting his sister off. “Fleur had me at Molly and mischief.” He shrugged. “How bad could it be anyway?” he said, looking everywhere except at his father. “Oh, yeah. That’s right. It could be hell on earth. Literally.” He caught hold of Alice’s hand and tugged her toward the door. Alice cast a surprised glance back at them as her brother conducted her out the door and onto the street.

  Nicholas turned to Evangeline, a silent question hanging between them.

  “Lincoln and I will both be there. You can count on us.”

  FOURTEEN

  It was 12:15 a.m. A paper cup half-full of cold coffee sat beside the vending-machine pimento-cheese sandwich Remy had brought Lisette before heading out at the end of visiting hours. The unopened plastic wedge that held the sandwich pointed like a planchette toward the silent, glowing flat-screen television built into the dark, wood-veneer cabinet to her left. To her right, a man lay stretched out on the short leg of the gray, padded, L-shaped banquette. He snored softly.

  Mama? A single-word text from Manon popped up on her phone.

  Lisette typed her response. Yes, baby. Mama’s here. And then she waited for what seemed a thousand years.

  I need you. Can you come? Then I know it’s late.

  Mama is just downstairs, Lisette responded, then worried that might sound presumptuous. I knew you didn’t want to see me, but I was hoping. She’d already scrambled to her feet as she typed the first response, but now she paused, frightened she might have put Manon off. Another eternity passed.

  Her answer finally came. I love you. I’m sorry. It had been worth the wait.

  Lisette ran toward the elevator bank, not worrying whether she looked like a mad woman, not worrying about displaying her remarkable recovery in the very hospital where she’d been treated after her stroke. She darted into an elevator car before its doors had fully opened.

  She caught sight of her blurred reflection as the doors closed. She’d developed a new nervous tic overnight, tugging down the sleeve of her sweater to make sure the gad remained hidden. She gave into the urge once more, knowing it would help her regain her composure before the doors opened on the maternity ward. The staff wouldn’t look too well on a grandmother who was foaming at the mouth.

  Isadore was waiting for her when she stepped out. He looked worse than exhausted—unshaven, rumpled, still wearing the same shirt and jeans he’d had on when Michael had summoned them to the hospital. He motioned with a thumb over his shoulder. “She’s that way,” he said, his voice hushed in deference to both the setting and the hour. “Three doors down on the left.”

  “You talked her into seeing me?” Lisette said, doing her best not to let her anxiety punch up the volume of her voice.

  Isadore rubbed his hand down his face, then gave her a wan smile. “No. I know better than to try talking either of you into anything. She came around on her own.” He stepped around her and pressed the call button for the elevator.

  “Aren’t you coming with me?” Her voice had started out low but rose till her last word pealed like a bell.

  The attendant at the nurses’ station lifted his finger to his lips. Lisette mouthed the word “sorry.”

  “No,” Isadore whispered. “It’s past visiting hours. Only one of us can stay with her, and she wants her mama.” He leaned in and planted a kiss on her forehead. “Don’t be scared,” he said. “The storm is over.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I’ve got decades of experience predicting the weather,” he said as the elevator doors opened. He stepped into the car, then turned back. As the doors began to close on him, he leaned forward. “After all, like mother, like daughter.”

  Any other day, she might have bristled at his parting quip. Tonight, the familiarity of his good-natured ribbing comforted her. Lisette was, she realized, afraid. Afraid she might make a misstep, that she might say or do something that would set her fragile daughter off and alienate her once again. She turned, bracing herself for whatever was to come.

  She made her way down the hall, the soles of the new sneakers she’d bought to replace her blood-soaked pair squeaking with each step. In the lobby, where it didn’t matter one whit, they’d lived up to their name. Here, they seemed determined to compete with Gabriel’s trumpet.

  Lisette approached the opening of the third door and peered in. The subdued nighttime lighting revealed Manon wasn’t in bed as Lisette would’ve expected at this hour. Instead, she sat in the guest chair, waiting for her. Manon wore a robe, a new one Lisette had never seen, pastel pink with oversize white and yellow daisies, and matching padded slippers. Lisette couldn’t imagine anything less like her daughter. Maybe Isadore had sent Remy out to do the shopping, or maybe one of Manon’s school friends had dropped off the ensemble. From her own stint at this same hospital, Lisette knew anything was better than the ass-flaps-in-the-wind gowns they gave you to wear.

  Lisette stepped over the threshold and waited, studying her daughter for any sign she wasn’t happy to see her. Manon’s gaze, at first distant, sharpened as it registered her presence. “I am so scared, Mama,” she said, holding out a hand that Lisette rushed over to grasp. “How am I going to do it?” Manon’s shoulders hunched forward, and her chin dropped nearer her chest. She seemed to be crumbling in on herself. “How am I going to love this baby? What if I can’t?”

  Lisette squeezed her daughter’s hand, then lifted it to her lips. Manon’s eyes drifted up to hers, full of the same expectant look she used to get as Lisette patched her up from some childhood accident. She wanted her mother to promise her everything would be all right, maybe even expected it. But this wasn’t a scraped knee. Sweet nothings would get them nowhere.

  Maybe Lisette’s father was right. Maybe the child would be better off with a different family, a normal family that knew nothing of magic. She felt her heart tighten in her chest at the thought. She didn’t believe it. Not really. Despite everything, Lisette felt the baby girl would be better off with them. Despite everything, she didn’t think it would take an intervention from Erzulie Mansur to open Manon’s heart.

  “How,” Lisette began, reaching out, stroking Manon’s hair, “do you feel when you look at her?”

  Manon pulled back. “I haven’t seen her. It’s wrong of me, I know. I needed . . . I need you to go with me.”

  Lisette nodded. “That’s why I’m here. To help you do whatever it is you need to do. Regardless of what that is.”

  Manon’s focus softened, but a crease formed between her brows. “What if she doesn’t live?”

  “Of course she’s going to live.” Lisette spoke as if that were the most nonsensical thing her daughter had ever said, then forced a smile. She wanted to tell Manon that her being near the child, loving her, would probably play as big a role in her survival as anything the doctors could do. She knew better than to say it, though. If the child lived, that would be one thing. If the c
hild died, she would have saddled Manon with a lifetime of questioning, a lifetime of guilt.

  “When can we go?” she asked.

  Manon stared at her blankly. “Go?”

  “To see the baby.”

  “Oh.” Manon gave a small nod. “The nurse, she said anytime. They got her in a private room in the NICU. They do that here,” Manon said, then choked, “for the most fragile ones.”

  The nurse, a young woman wearing blue hospital scrubs, met them as they approached the baby’s room. Lisette imagined she saw a look of relief in the woman’s black eyes. “She’s been waiting to see you,” the nurse said. Then, seeming to read something in Manon’s expression, she moved into business mode. “I’ll need you both to wash your hands.” She handed Lisette two plastic bags, each containing a sky-blue disposable gown, made, it seemed, from the same material as the bags in which they were packaged. “And put these on over your clothes.”

  The woman paused as she went to a sink stationed in the hall outside the row of private nurseries and turned on the water. Lisette at first assumed it was for them, but then the nurse soaped up her own hands and put them under the stream. “You’re feeling healthy, right?” This question was aimed at Lisette.

  Truth be told, Lisette felt like she’d ridden an express train halfway to dead, but she knew the nurse needed to be sure the baby wouldn’t be exposed to infection. “Tired,” Lisette allowed herself a partial confession, “but no, I’ve been well.” Other than the stroke that nearly killed me and the self-surgery I’ve done on my arm.

  The nurse’s face flashed a doubtful expression, her mouth pulling into a pinched, tight line as her gaze zeroed in on Lisette. For a moment, Lisette wondered if the woman had picked up on the thoughts she hadn’t expressed, at least not aloud. “You’re sure? It’s crucial—”

  “I am. I’m sure. I’m sorry, it’s only I’ve been . . .” Lisette paused and wrapped her arm around Manon’s shoulders, “we’ve been going through hell.”

  The nurse nodded, her features smoothing, losing any air of suspicion. “I understand,” she said, but the words sounded perfunctory, as if she didn’t understand at all.