The Catalain Book of Secrets

by Jessica Lourey

  The closer she drew to the Avignon neighborhood, the tighter her chest grew and the more her stomach flipped. The streets were deserted except for her and the snakes. She caught sight of Leo once, and it calmed her, but only until she stood outside John’s window.

  “Hey,” she yelled, or at least meant to. But it came out as a squeak, unintelligible, a noise so tender it was swallowed by the snakesong. It didn’t matter. She wouldn’t have had to say anything at all. The spirit pushing John had sensed her coming.

  “Hey yourself,” he said, so close that he made her jump, her heart thudding.

  She turned. He was leaning against a streetlamp, his cowboy hat casting a shadow, snakes making a wide berth around him. She couldn’t suppress the shudder. She recognized that the skin suit he wore was handsome, but all she could see were the burning eyes inside of him, the red raw demon that craved her.

  She recoiled and almost stumbled, but she didn’t let herself fall. If she had, Dean and Leo would have been by her side, and this would all be over. She’d have to wait another 25 years or even more, looking over her shoulder the entire time because while the curse dictated he could only take their power while the snakes ran, he could walk the earth whenever he chose. She read all of this in the black spirit, and more, so much more that she had to clench her jaw to keep from throwing up. He was old, this demon, older than her grandfather. Ursula and Velda had done the right thing by trying to kill it fifty years earlier. But Tara didn’t care about its story. She wanted the curse broken and the demon gone forever.

  “My family is away,” she said. She didn’t need any of the rest of the story. She could read that as well. He was trembling with anticipation, his lips wet. She turned and threaded her way through the snakes. He took her hand, and it was hot and dry, far hotter than human body heat. She allowed the contact, even though his grip dove under her flesh and took hold of the glow around her heart, making it difficult to breathe.

  She walked faster.

  He tried to pull her into the bushes once. “Not here,” she said, her heart fluttering in his grip. “Someone could see us.” He was milking her innocence with his hot fist, and she would never get that back. She was all right with that. She was fourteen. She was going to shed that soon anyhow. She just didn’t want him to take her power.

  When the Queen Anne finally came into view, the snakes that had been avoiding John moved aside for Tara, allowing quick passage to the house. He hesitated on the steps, the puppetmaster inside of him dropping a thread, allowing the fear of the man to leak through. “You sure no one’s home?”

  Tara nodded and skipped up the stairs ahead of him, onto the wide, wraparound porch. The second their hands were no longer touching, her heart bloomed, careening off her ribcage. “Come on.”

  He was still on the bottom stair. She licked her lips, like she’d seen the lead in a romantic comedy do. When that didn’t lure him onto the steps, she tossed her hair over her shoulder. This clumsy seduction turned her stomach, but it got him moving. She opened the door and danced ahead, just out of his reach. She had to get him into the kitchen. She didn’t know what would happen once they got there. That part of the plan had been up to the other women.

  Chapter 49

  The Queen Anne

  People began to appear on the porch of the Queen Anne, their expressions a muddy mix of confusion and determination. There was the Asian woman who owned the Great Hunan and Merry with her pudding face and the woman with the great gorgeous dreadlocks and Heather Lewis and two dozen other townspeople, all of whom shunned her during the day but had visited her cottage at night.

  They each glowed the same cerulean shade. The magic they had borrowed from Ursula was calling them back to the Queen Anne. Ursula, surprised to her core at the workings of magic, decided it was time to finally accept help from others. She gave them instructions before hiding them all in the pantry or kitchen nook or dining room.

  The wooden island stood in the center of the kitchen, a single bottle of beer resting on it next to a hot apple pie that Jasmine had worked furiously to bake, using muscles and thoughts she hadn’t called on in two decades. The smell was heavenly, caramelized sweet apples bubbling in a delicate golden-brown crust, dusted with cinnamon.

  Two chairs were open next to the island, and the whole set-up was ringed with salt. When the kitchen door swung open and Tara strode in, her eyes wild, Ursula whispered a prayer for her beautiful granddaughter and melted into the shadows, behind the basement door. She witnessed the exchange through the crack.

  “You want something to drink?” Tara asked. Her voice quavered. She walked over to the moonlit island, not stopping at the light switch. Ursula hoped her granddaughter would recognize that she needed to get John to eat the pie.

  “That beer looks pretty good,” John said.

  Ursula was surprised to recognize him, even in the dim lighting. Of course he was the cowboy who had visited her earlier, brutally handsome, but now that she could see his true red essence, she didn’t know how she’d missed it the first time they’d met. He didn’t look a thing like her father, Henry, but it was him, as plain as the toes on her feet. She began to knead at the hem of her dress, reaching for braids she hadn’t worn in half a century.

  “Oh, yeah!” Tara said, as if she’d just noticed the brown bottle on the island. She reached for it and held it out to him, the glass slick in her hand. “I’m sure it’d be fine for you to drink it. And eat some pie, too.”

  John moved so quickly that he was a blur. In less than a second, he went from just inside the kitchen door to being fully inside the room and standing beside Tara inside the salt circle. He fisted her hair with one hand and forced the bottle of beer to her lips with his other. Ursula barely contained the gasp.

  “Would it be fine for you to drink it?” John rasped, tipping the bottle so the beer ran down Tara’s face.

  Tara gagged, but bless her, she wrested the bottle from his hand as if it was nothing and took a deep swallow. “Sure,” she said, covering her cough with the back of her hand. “You don’t need to be weird about it.”

  John seemed surprised, then suspicious. He glanced around the room, his eyes lingering on the crack in the basement door through which Ursula was peering. She knew he couldn’t see her, but his glance in her direction stripped her bare. She was glad she was the only one who was witnessing Tara with this beast. Jasmine would not have been able to stomach it. She said a courage prayer for all of the people perching in her house, waiting for the signal.

  “Aren’t you going to drink some?” Tara held the bottle out to John, who still held her hair. The grip looked painful.

  He took a swig, still staring angrily at the corners of the shadowy room. Ursula watched. He could have drunk every last drop. There wasn’t poison in there. That hadn’t worked before and wouldn’t work now. She did have another plan, though, and this was the time to enact it. She reached for the basement doorknob, her heartbeat crashing in her ears. She had one chance.

  “You’ve looked better,” Velda said, her voice coming from across the kitchen.

  Ursula paused, stomach in her throat, her hand on the door she was about to step through. She had been explicit. Everyone was to stay hidden unless Ursula called for them. The fewer people involved, the fewer people hurt. Velda had ignored the instructions. She would ruin everything with her selfishness, her need to face her husband. Ursula stood paralyzed, unsure how to pull this back if such a thing were possible, her pulse telling her that it wasn’t possible, it was all over. She went back to watching through the crack.

  John turned to the voice at the main kitchen door, a lazy, sexy smile breaking across his face. “Why, Velda. You do recognize me. I didn’t think you did. You didn’t say anything at Christmas when I came to shovel.” He strolled out a light southern accent that hadn’t been there moments before, a little bit of Mississippi honey. The cadence chilled Ursula. She recognized it as her father’s.

  Velda stepped further into the room a
nd flicked on the light. She was wearing the same blue dress she’d had on ten minutes earlier, her hair in the same disheveled white curls, her peach lipstick hastily applied, but she blazed with the glorious beauty of her full power. It was like staring into the sun. Ursula leaned forward, nose to the crack, choosing to sear her eyes rather than look away.

  John’s jaw dropped. “I forgot how you could look, baby.”

  A secret smile curled at Velda’s mouth. She moved forward, seventy-nine, stunning. “Did you forget anything else I can do for you?”

  Tara stepped away from John, her own jaw slack. She had witnessed her great-grandma work her magic before and thought she’d seen the full extent of it. Not even close.

  Velda glittered and preened, taking Tara’s place in the salt circle and leaning so close to John that she could touch his shirt. He ran his free hand lovingly up her neck, cupping her chin, leaning in for a kiss. Ursula held her breath. Velda’s eyes were half-closed.

  “Henry,” she whispered. “I’ve missed you.”

  His face was an inch away from hers before his intent came clear. He squeezed her at the throat, swiveling to shove her face into the table, taking up the beer bottle like a mace. The knife she’d been concealing in the folds of her dress clattered to the floor.

  It happened so quickly that there wasn’t even time to gasp. John hovered over Velda, his hand in the air, his voice sharp. “No, but you musta forgot that your goddamned magic doesn’t work on me, witch.” He smiled.

  Ursula’s body responded before her mind did. She found herself shooting out of the basement foyer, jumping forward and clinging to his back, scrabbling for the beer bottle, scratching at his eyes. He pushed Velda away, out of the circle, as easily as a sack of potatoes, to deal with Ursula. With her still on his back, he knelt down to grab Velda’s knife. He yanked Ursula off his back and pushed her in front of him, crushing her in his arms. He held the glistening blade to her neck.

  Tara screamed.

  The kitchen suddenly filled, Xenia, Helena, Katrine, and Jasmine at the front, townspeople rushing in from every side, crowding the kitchen, terror in their eyes.

  John spoke to all of them at once. “Stop. Or I slit her throat.”

  He said it loud, and it was a fact rather than a command. He dropped into the chair, perching Ursula on his lap like a ventriloquist’s dummy, the knife drawing a lick of blood from the cream flesh of her throat. He used his free hand to take a pull from the beer bottle, his lazy smile growing broader.

  “How many people do you have here, and just for little ‘ol me? It looks like at least thirty. I didn’t even know you knew that many people. Oh well. I do like an audience.” He nodded toward Velda, who was wheezing, unable to catch her breath since he’d tossed her aside. Katrine was at her side. “That’s one thing we always had in common, Velda.”

  “You won’t do anything to her,” Katrine said, trembling. “Not with all of these witnesses.”

  John threw his head back and laughed the hollow sound that sent ice into Ursula’s blood. “I think I’ll be heading out after today, anyhow, since the snakes are going. Not much fun for me without them around, though I’ve enjoyed hunting you this past year. After me and the snakes go, you can do what you like with this bluesman’s body.” He dug the knife deeper into Ursula’s throat. She would not let the tears fall. She would not let her daughters see she was scared.

  Helena and Xenia held each other. The townspeople shuffled uneasily. Jasmine stepped forward, grabbed Tara’s hand, and pulled her daughter to her, away from the salt circle. Dean held them both. The standoff lingered in the air, thicker than oxygen, not quite solid, tasting of blood.

  “This isn’t what I thought I’d be getting today,” John said, taking another pull from the beer. “You were a good ride, for sure.” He nodded at Katrine. Her face burned.

  “Your sister, too, from what I recall.” Jasmine’s face turned the same color as Katrine’s.

  “But I was hoping for a little younger meat.” He tossed a look at Tara, throwing his head back and laughing at her horrified expression, never letting up on the knife at Ursula’s throat.

  “But you can’t always get what you want.” He kissed Ursula’s hair. “And so, I’ll have to settle for paying you back that favor from 50 years ago, eh, Ursula? But since it’ll be a while before I return, I wouldn’t mind a taste of that apple pie.”

  The room held its collective breath.

  “It smells sweet enough to wake the dead.” He dug his fingers in, holding a fistful of dessert, the soft apples oozing through his fingers, bleeding their sugar onto their table. “Still warm. You shouldn’t have.”

  No one blinked. Their heartbeats suspended. This was the only chance. That had been explained clearly to the townspeople as they appeared on the porch of the Queen Anne, surprised to find themselves there, all of them notified of the Catalain need through their connection to Ursula. She’d seen it happen before, past clients showing up unannounced at holidays, appearing both shocked to find themselves knocking on the Queen Anne’s front door and hopeful they’d be let in. She didn’t know they’d also come to help her. She was humbled. She was also terrified that her plan wouldn’t work.

  John had the dripping pie flesh to his lips before he paused, pushing it to Ursula’s mouth, chuckling warmly. “I’d slap my knee if I had a free hand. Fool me once, right? Dear daughter, if you don’t mind, would you take a bite of this for me? Wanna make sure it isn’t poisoned.”

  The room released its breath, mouths drawn in horror. This was not how it was supposed to happen. Yet, there was nothing they could do.

  Ursula opened her mouth, and John shoved the pie in.

  She chewed.

  She swallowed.

  A tear fell down the cheek of more than one of the people watching powerlessly.

  John glanced around the room and snorted. “You all should see yourselves! You look like you’re at a surprise funeral.” He jiggled his knee to move Ursula. “No worries! She’s still alive. As such, I believe I will enjoy myself some pie.”

  He nodded in satisfaction and popped an oozing corner of dessert into his mouth. The cinnamon sugar drooled down the side of his face. He closed his eyes in ecstasy. “I don’t believe I’ve ever tasted anything quite so delicious. It’s like heaven and sex, still warm.”

  He reached for another scoop. People blinked noisily. Jasmine cocked her head, watching with the detachment of a scientist. They had gotten him to eat the pie.

  John was just beginning to chew on his second mouthful when his eyes bulged.

  He jumped to his feet, pushing Ursula to the floor. Katrine reached for her and pulled her away from John, who was now scratching at his own throat, his mouth opening and closing like a landed fish. He spit the masticated pie on the floor and choked out the words. “Poison! How?”

  Jasmine shook her head, her smile a grim soldier. “Not poison. Not even a potion. It’s a pie I baked, just plain apple pie.”

  John’s eyes grew tighter, his skin shading blue.

  “With one tweak to the recipe,” Jasmine continued. “Whoever eats the pie has their greatest wish turned against themselves.”

  John may have been trying to make sense of her words. He may just have been busy fighting for his life. In either case, he appeared frightfully confused.

  Jasmine explained. “You wished for Ursula to be poisoned eating it. You ate the pie, and so now you will be poisoned.” She shrugged as if she’d just told him he’d taken his B vitamins for the day.

  John began laughing maniacally in between bursts of painful hacking. “Damn straight you witches are a lot of work. Just when I think I have it figured it out. But I’ll just come back. You know I’ll be back. Not one of you can stop me.”

  “That’s where I come in,” Velda said, struggling to her feet and stepping forward.

  “And me.” Katrine stood, pulling her mom with her.

  Dean stepped forward. “And me.”

  Jasmine bea
med at him, not letting go of his hand or Tara’s. “And me.”

  “Me too,” Heather Lewis said, moving to stand beside Katrine.

  And so on, until everyone in the room had spoken, merging hands to form a circle around John. While he writhed on the floor, they chanted the curse-breaking spell. Ursula led the words, and everyone but John repeated them.

  With the power of my blood,

  And the strength of my verse.

  Each syllable hit him like a kick, doubling him over, bubbling his flesh. He writhed in agony. The Catalain women felt the pain, too, but they held each other, passing the burning between their hands, bearing as much as they could so no one had to bear it alone.

  I reclaim my own path,

  And I destroy your curse.

  He screamed, his face contorting and melting so he was no longer recognizably human. The air reeked of sulphur. Snakes began to flow in through the cracks, but they did not come to his aid, had never helped him. The snakes didn’t take sides.

  Air.

  Earth.

  John spasmed with such force that he broke a bone through his skin, lifted off the ground and hovered inches from the earth for several seconds, and then dropped, completely motionless. A hazy silhouette hovered above his flesh, a suggestion of a memory, the handsome, angry face of Henry. He reached toward Velda, his expression sad.

  “Velda,” he whispered. “Help. I love you so much.”

  She spit at the image. The silhouette laughed and roared up like a flame, then was sucked back into John’s body. He started writhing anew.

  Water.

  Fire.

  Green liquid leaked out of his eyes and nose, and he vomited violently. The churning green bile burned and sizzled on the floor. Still, everyone chanted, though many of the townspeople were as green as the vitriol leaving John. Only two lines remained.