The Final Days of Magic

by J. D. Horn

  The Mississippi flowed mere yards away, though now it didn’t seem a river at all. It curled like a snake through the land, wrapping itself around the world, ready to squeeze the life out of it. Nathalie found herself glancing around, looking for the feet whose steps she heard slapping along the wharf. The water lay just ahead, and when Nathalie realized they were reaching the end of the wharf, she began to struggle, consumed by the sudden terror she’d been brought here to be dumped into the rushing water.

  Another hard, sharp jerk, and she was aimed away from the river. They marched her alongside a copse of trees that clung to the riverbank, then cut across an empty parking lot. What Nathalie saw ahead made her stumble forward. She fell to her knees so quickly and unexpectedly the man holding her lost his grip. Raucous laughter boomed around her as several sets of rough hands descended on her, tugging her back up. Nathalie didn’t resist—her mind remained fixated on the giant looming in the distance.

  She blinked once, twice, and the giant before her came into clearer focus. It wasn’t a man of flesh and blood. It was a statue, like ten feet tall, woven from branches and twine, tethered by ropes between four enormous concrete blocks. It was, incongruously, surrounded by folding chairs.

  “I saw us together in this moment.” Emil appeared beside her. She reckoned he’d been with the group all along, but she couldn’t be sure. “When you were still a tiny thing. I didn’t understand it then, but I saw it. Your bitch mama, she did her best to take you off your path, but your rightful destiny has a gravity to it, pulling you back no matter how hard anyone tries to tug you away.”

  “The gravity of rightful destiny,” Nathalie repeated the words, hearing them in the chipper Irish brogue in which she’d first heard them spoken.

  He pointed at the wooden sculpture. “That thing there”—he leaned in, speaking directly in her ear so she felt his hot breath—“it’s more than a wicker man. It’s a portal. Once Marin has got his victims all fixated on the pretty fire, on the black smoke coming from it, that’s how he’s planning to bring those demons through.”

  “But none of this makes sense.” Nathalie struggled to clear her head, but she couldn’t do more than grab a moment of clarity. “You could put an end to it now. I mean, if you’re so worried about Nicholas, why don’t you deal with him? Leave Alice out of it?” Then the truth hit her like a freight train. “Oh,” she said, “you don’t want to stop him from building an army.”

  “That’s right, ma fillette. Marin gonna build it, and you gonna help us take it from him. The rest of our family, they up there thinking the boys and me have come down to do the wet work Lincoln and Wiley have lost their stomach for.” He spat on the ground in disgust. “But my boys here and me”—Nathalie heard a soft, stealthy chorus of self-satisfied chuckles—“we got other plans. You see, girlie, up until now the Boudreaus have been content to play sheriff, but I done got it into my head I’d make one fine king.”

  He began stroking her hair. His touch was enough to make her want to climb out of her skin. “Though you probably wondering where you come in.” He leaned in from behind her, rubbing his cheek against hers. “That Alice of yours, she’s key to controlling the army, and you, you’re gonna help us control her—or at least a part of her.” He held up his ruby before her eyes once more. “You’re gonna bring me another one of these.”

  Nathalie bent forward and started to retch. A rough hand jerked her upright.

  As they stood watching, older witches, a couple dozen of them, arrived by vans. The elders claimed the folding chairs set out between the parking lot and the effigy, wrapping themselves tighter in heavy coats or shivering together beneath shared blankets. Twenty or more younger people arrived en masse and fell into a semicircle before the wicker man. Combined, they didn’t have the magic Alice did. All of them were, Nathalie realized, unaware of the Boudreaus’ presence.

  The majority of the new arrivals wore masks or costumes. Two of the younger congregants carried actual torches, the modern propane kind, made of metal, not the storm the Frankenstein family’s castle kind. The torch bearers stationed themselves between the wicker man and the others, who carried far less impressive forms of light, from battery-powered camping lanterns to neon glow sticks. They milled about but didn’t set fire to the effigy. They were waiting, Nathalie surmised, for others to arrive.

  In the interim, they passed around bottles and vaporizers. Raucous laughter and shrieking pierced the night. Alice, she knew, was not with them. No disguise could mask Alice from her—she would feel her presence if she were here. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind of it.

  Three women caught hold of each other’s hands and began spinning together in a circle, faster and faster till they rose up off the ground. The trio fell back to earth, laughing as they touched down. As incongruous as it seemed, the refrain of a Christmas carol reached Nathalie’s ears.

  A bus pulled into the parking lot, two others following it. The three came to a stop, one beside the other.

  “Heads up, boys,” Emil’s voice hissed low but clear. She twisted her head to find he had once again become invisible. She sensed the men around her snapping to attention. “Find your stations.” At his command, the men dispersed, leaving her alone with Emil.

  The doors of the buses opened, and men and women, a hundred and fifty, maybe two hundred of them, piled out. They all wore matching outfits—tan pants or knee-length skirts, white button-down shirts, gray cardigans. The passengers gathered to one side of the buses—some shaking hands, others hugging each other like long-lost friends. A greeting worked through them like a wave. “Through him we shall do great things.”

  Nathalie saw this as her moment and hit Emil with everything she had, the power of her body and the power of her magic. She heard him hit the ground. He remained transparent, but blood flowed from nothingness to pool at her feet. It began to coat his skin with a sheen that looked almost black in the low light, rendering bits of him—his hand, his right arm, the left side of his face—visible. The parts she could make out were still. She felt sick to her stomach. She’d killed the man. She hadn’t meant to; she’d only wanted to get free so she could find Alice, protect her.

  Alice. Emil might no longer be a threat, but there were maybe seven men posted around the gathering, lying in wait to murder her when Nathalie didn’t. Nathalie turned, preparing to dart back in the direction the other witches had come from, hoping Alice would take this same path.

  Her muscles tensed, readying for a burst of speed. She lurched forward, throwing all of her force into the first step. A hand gripped her ankle, tugging her down, and she fell face-first, barely managing to catch herself with her hands. She started pulling away the second she touched earth. Emil caught her with both hands and flipped her onto her back with a single, solid jerk. She struggled, but his weight was already moving up her body. Emil growled out a string of curses as he pinned her arms beneath his knees. A drop of his blood fell into her eye, burning, blinding. She blinked.

  “I won’t help you,” she gasped out, unable to catch a full breath. “I won’t hurt her. You can’t make me.”

  “Mais, ma fillette,” Nathalie heard Emil’s voice crooning the words. She felt the pinch of a hypodermic needle in her neck. “You ain’t gonna be able to help yourself.”

  Nathalie struggled beneath his weight, but felt her strength, her will fading away. As the world around her grew smaller, duller, she took one last bit of comfort from the least expected source.

  Emil was wrong. The demons weren’t coming. They were already here.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Alice had learned the route of la Defilé des Maléfiques in New Orleans had been redrawn more than once—as the city grew, as the makeup of the population changed, as once revered landmarks faded in importance and then slipped from memory, replaced in value by others. The earliest processions, in the early part of the eighteenth century, had been simple affairs, following the bend of the river that gave the Crescent City its nickname. Later, the pat
h grew longer, taking in the full perimeter of the Vieux Carré, but at that time the Quarter had still ended at the moat that separated Dauphine from the ancient cemetery.

  The traditional path, at least the route those who’d participated in the city’s last procession considered to be traditional, began at the edge of Congo Square, not far from the gates of what was now Armstrong Park, and cut through the heart of the French Quarter to the river. The straightest path would have been to follow Orleans Street, but the participants, les Maléfiques, with their torches held high overhead, took a detour, crossing over Rampart at St. Ann Street.

  This “traditional” route, first walked in the nineteenth century, remained a sore point for some, as it was the Voodoo queen Marie Laveau who’d determined the path, a privilege she’d claimed as one of the terms of an armistice between herself, her followers, and the witches of New Orleans. The cause of the original bad blood between the factions had been lost to memory, though if Marceline had spoken the truth about the layout of the original city, it probably grew from the covert use of vèvès in an attempt to weaken or conquer the loa they represented. Regardless, each member of the walk would pause on St. Ann Street and bow before a house that no longer stood, Laveau’s former home. Alice suspected this paying of respects had little if anything to do with acknowledging the dominance of the great mambo. Rather, Laveau had probably insisted on it to goad the witches into conceding to Legba’s right to control the amount of magic filtering into their reality.

  Nicholas had redrawn the route of the procession once again, this time in deference to the advanced age of many of the remaining witches. The new path followed along the river on the Crescent Park Trail. Nicholas had granted them an additional dispensation by arranging for round-trip shuttle service from the foot of Elysian Fields Avenue to the bend of the river near the End of the World, where the wicker man had been built.

  The park and trail had been closed for hours, but the point of the evening was to defy the rules of non-witches. This year trespassing would serve as a contemporary substitute for the assaults and vandalism of yesteryear. In the past, fear or even a begrudging respect would have staved off interference from the police. The same might hold true tonight, or perhaps Nicholas had performed his greatest act of magic by obtaining a permit from the city for a midnight romp followed by a bonfire.

  Alice had been waiting now for nearly half an hour at the base of the stairs leading up to the pedestrian bridge over the railroad tracks. She stood shivering in the river breeze, feeling foolish in a long, turn-of-the-century gown Hugo had rescued earlier in the day from Celestin’s attic, the borrowed cat mask in hand. A group of elderly witches lurked in a pack nearby, waiting, she surmised, for her to take the lead. The dozen or so witches anywhere near her own age who had shown up for this sad procession were already half a mile or more ahead.

  Hugo, who refused to carry a phone and was as usual unreachable, had set the meeting time and place. Fleur, who always answered between the third and fifth rings—she thought it a mistake to appear too available—was letting her phone go to voice mail. Alice checked her phone for the fourth time in three minutes and was surprised to see she’d somehow missed a call. Nathalie had left a voice message. Alice smiled as she listened to the rambling, apologetic message. Yes, Nathalie had gotten her text about the Longest Night. She’d be back home tonight, but too late to join them for the procession. She’d join Alice at the End of the World.

  Little does she know, Alice thought, scanning each direction from the bend where Elysian Fields Avenue curved to become North Peters Street for any sign of Hugo.

  He was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps she should start the two-mile trek to the site of the bonfire even if it meant acting as sole custodian of the elders who seemed determined to make themselves her charges. A couple, a man and a woman, stragglers dressed in magnificent Baroque costumes that could have been the envy of the court of Louis XIV, approached her, not so much walking as gliding.

  The male wore a gold-filigreed version of the plain, squarish half mask Alice had seen displayed on the Twins’ wall; the woman wore an ornate silver mask that covered her eyes and forehead. She held a lit torch, the wind from the river causing its flame to dance and cast eerie shadows around them. As the pair came closer, Alice realized the brow of the woman’s mask was ornamented with the face of Medusa.

  “Your brother”—the sound of Art’s voice coming from the woman’s lips shocked Alice—“sent us to accompany you.”

  “It seems,” Polly said from behind the filigreed half-mask, “Fleur and Lucy are running behind. Hugo hasn’t been able to reach them, so he’s gone to set a fire under them.”

  “So to speak,” Art said and laughed.

  “Yes,” Polly said, joining in. “A most unfortunate turn of phrase for the evening. Let’s do try to keep the burning to the effigy.”

  Alice smiled, suddenly feeling naked without her own mask. She held it up to her face.

  “Let us help you, chérie,” Polly said, stepping behind Alice and tying the ribbons to hold the mask.

  “I didn’t recognize you,” Alice confessed.

  “That was the point, Alice,” Art said in the same admonishing tone she’d used to chastise Alice for assuming they were incapable of speech.

  “I only mean I’ve never seen you dressed unalike.”

  “Oh,” Polly said with a chuckle, “you have, only you don’t realize it. Don’t feel bad. It’s rare anyone does.”

  “When we wish to pass incognito, we go out dressed in the costume of the common man and woman.”

  “Though sometimes Art plays the boy.”

  “The clothes aren’t as fashionable,” Art said, “but at least one has ample pockets. And one is treated with a level of respect the ‘fairer sex’ never receives.”

  “There,” Polly said, finishing with Alice’s mask. “Shall we,” he began in a forced baritone, “ladies?”

  It had fallen to Alice and the Twins to shepherd those elders who’d committed to going to la Defilé on foot. The half dozen elders encircled her, pushing in as close as they could, like they were clinging to the only light in a very dark night. The scent of menthol arthritis creams and stale perfume blended with the muddy scent of the river and the unspeakable aromas of magical unguents that had faded in potency, but not in reek.

  The elders carried no torches, though some had flashlights—one even held a keychain penlight—in their trembling hands.

  Alice resented their presence. It was uncharitable of her, she recognized that. Only she felt hemmed in, and their anxious, agitated faces triggered memories from her lost years on Sinclair. Some of the inmates had been addled by dementia—sweet one moment, wanting to stroke her hair, then striking out the next. Worse, Alice felt like these toothless witches, these maléfiques manqués, were draining her, feeding on her life force, much as Nicholas planned to do to his desperate and deceived acolytes.

  Like the shadows of the Dreaming Road.

  The thought landed in the pit of her stomach like a stone. The demons of the Dreaming Road had begun as witches such as these. Witches like her.

  “In regards to the resurrection of this bit of pageantry, we witches of New Orleans are of two minds,” Art said. She and Polly, one on each side of Alice, were more escorting Alice than walking with her. “There are those—”

  “Many of whom,” Polly spoke over Art, “like my treasured sister and I, narrowly escaped Celestin’s massacre—”

  “—who,” Art continued as if Polly hadn’t interrupted her, “are refusing to participate in la Defilé as they consider it sheer madness to put themselves in the hands of Marin fils after the atrocities of the Marin père.”

  “And the others?”

  Art cast a glance at their entourage. “They agree it’s mad, but they’re too intrigued by the rumors, rumors Nicholas himself set in circulation with expert precision, that he has found a new source of magic—”

  “A new source he will share tonight w
ith those who show themselves as faithful,” Polly added.

  “Faithful?” Alice couldn’t help but laugh. “To Nicholas?”

  “Not only Nicholas,” Polly said and paused in his stride, bowing and scraping before Alice. “To the family Marin.”

  A pair of vans continued to pass by them as they brought sorcerers to the bonfire and away from it. There were more open seats on the “to” vans than there had been at first, indicating that most of the attendees had already arrived, and a few worn-out sorcerers were already heading home on the “from” vans.

  “Why did you two come?” Alice said.

  The Twins looked around her at each other. Alice couldn’t pick up on their silent conversation, but she could sense their ambivalence had served as a source of discord between them. It was Polly who answered. “Habit, perhaps? Our family has always been counted among the Marin loyalists.”

  “At least we used to be,” Art added. “No offense, but the Marin family’s behavior of late hasn’t exactly inspired loyalty.”

  “Of late?” Alice echoed her words. “That’s a generous qualification to make.” The transgressions of the Marins, at least the ones Alice knew of, went back over five decades. She suspected in actuality they reached back to the beginning of the line.

  “What about you, Alice? What brings you here?”

  Alice had been posing this question to herself since last night, when she had agreed to participate. “It seemed important to Fleur,” she said, adding after a moment of thought, “and Hugo, too.”

  Polly made a show of looking all around them. “Neither of whom is here.”

  “You are,” Art said, “in fact here without keepers.”

  “I thought that’s why Hugo sent the two of you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, ma petite, we are here to act as aiders and abettors, not as chaperones.”