by Les Goodrich
“I know you have your own life,” Gwen said. “We all do. But a day will come when I will require your undivided attention. Did I not make that clear from the beginning?” and Gwen’s very voice impressed a visible humility upon him and his posture changed.
“You did,” the man said.
“You are part of a larger plan now. You knew the sacrifices it would demand. You had every chance. Play your little games, but do not forget who has trained you, and for what reasons. I understand, you want revenge on some,” and she waved her black gloved hand in a motion that was at once a disregarding and an exclamation. “Some enemy. Fine. I invented revenge.” She leaned forward in a threatening way that seemed to leave her poised appearance behind. “Do not let this become a distraction from your responsibilities and when I call, you will respond.” She eased back and sipped her tea.
The waitress placed his coffee on the table, opened her mouth to speak, then closed it and walked away.
“I told you I am here for you, and I am. Whatever you need, I have it covered.”
Gwen stood. “You have done well. You learn fast and you retain much. Use what I have taught you for its intention. You will need its full strength to carry you through the next few years. In the end, you will be repaid a thousand times.”
The young man finished his coffee. Of the words she had spoked he doubted not a single one.
“Now shall we go to your lab. I have one final spell to teach you as promised, and for that, we will need the cover of privacy.”
“This way,” the young man said and he stood, threw some cash on the table, and walked out. Gwen glided from the cafe behind him and the unlikely pair moved into the city.
Chapter 6
Old Herbs, New Crimes
Jordan locked her bike under the stairs and headed up to her carriage house apartment. The potted herbs and plants on the upstairs landing looked battered and dry from the cold. Only the lemon grass stood tall and proud. Luna the cat slept on one of the wooden deck chairs. She stood and stretched when Jordan unlocked the door.
“Come inside you crazy cat,” Jordan said and she petted Luna’s head as she curled by and slipped inside. Jordan thought she saw a darting motion in the courtyard shadows below but when she looked she saw nothing, and in any case, it was too cold to look for long so she went inside and locked the door. Jordan put her backpack down and turned on the kitchen light. “It’s colder in here than it is outside,” she said to Luna who was eating at her bowl.
Jordan made apple-cinnamon herbal tea, built a fire in the fireplace, and began to move along the bookshelf walls. She sipped the hot tea and pulled down four books. She put those in a stack on one of her low tables and went to her section on dark magick. She found one book on curses and another on ancient hexes. With both of those books in one arm she slowly searched for one last book. The book was quite old and she knew it had a worn leather cover with those ribs that had something to do with the way old books were stitched together.
She pulled out one that could have been it, but it was a book on Irish faeries. She continued to look. Another sip of tea and she was beginning to feel warmer. The fire burned swiftly. Orange fire light warmed the walls and animated the room with tilting flame casts and pulsing shadows.
Jordan stopped at one of the candle chandelier ropes, untied it from its cleat, and lowered it. She lit the eight ivory pillar candles, then hoisted the fixture and tied it off. She looked to the other two candle chandeliers, then the light of the room, and decided one was enough. The room had warmed some and she pulled off her sweatshirt and threw it on her bed behind the gathered and draped wall of dark-dyed sarongs hung from high ceiling cords. She heeled off her tennis shoes and scooted them to line up side by side in the row of her other shoes and boots along the wall, then returned to look for the last book, and found it.
The black spine was blank except for a small silver square around a red X. The silver cover lettering glinted in the candle light when she turned the book. Spells and Folklore of American Voodoo. She sipped her cooling tea and looked at the back of the book. Also blank. “Hmmm,” she remarked to herself and looked for Luna, who was not to be seen. She put the voodoo book with the others. She added another few pieces of wood to the fire and went to make more tea. She looked for Luna on the empty bottom shelf of the baker’s rack, where she often slept.
Jordan consciously considered the loft warmth. Although it was still cold in the corner kitchen, she could tell the main part of the space was quite cozy when she took her new tea to the table. The books waited. She spotted Luna watching from a vacant section of a bookshelf on the north wall.
“Sneaky,” she said on her way to her bed corner. With the loft warmed she pulled off her jeans, socks, shirt, everything else, stuffed them it into her laundry bag, and walked back to the low couch where she lounged on her beyond soft blanket and began to go over the books one by one. By the time she opened the voodoo book she had a list of agrimony uses that pointed toward either shielding negativity, or repelling a hoodun curse.
A single entry in the voodoo book index sent her to page two hundred-thirteen. She read of a traditional application for agrimony that spelled things out: The herb agrimony channels energy conducive to rebounding any voodoo hex. Its properties cannot only protect the hexed, but reflect that very hex back upon the sender.
“I knew it,” she said to herself. By then the tea was long cold and the fire was a perfect pile of radiating coals. Jordan got up with the blanket wrapped around her, brushed her teeth with her arm curled out from under the soft falling folds, then took the entire cloak with her to bed where she curled up and was asleep in seconds.
In her isolated tower apartment, Brit sat at her small desk and poured over web searches and social profiles in search of information on Josephine Lemort. She found one city councilwoman in Illinois, and a woman named Darline Lemort who was born in 1786. She searched public records in New Orleans and found several Lemorts but none named Josephine.
She finally found an article in a local New Orleans Voodoo newsletter that referenced a Priestess Lemort. The article mentioned a ceremony in Congo Square and Brit cross referenced the ceremony with some other items, like the article author and ceremony dates. Eventually she built a small profile of information, but all it told was that Josephine Lemort was a powerful and respected voodoo priestess in New Orleans, who was good at staying out of the public eye.
“This is all very fascinating, but I have class tomorrow,” she said to herself and she wrapped it all up and went to bed.
The next morning Brit woke early, turned off the little space heater that had hummed all night in the corner, and started the coffee maker which she always set up the night before. She took a shower, dressed, then drank coffee while she scoured a few articles and alternative media blog posts about the Klepto Kids.
There had been no more robberies and the general media clamor was fading. This lack of coverage was the basic thread running through the fringe news, but nothing new was being discussed. Brit rode her bike to her first class.
As she left her last class she decided to get coffee and visit Mims if she was working. She rode up Cordova, locked her bike at the rack on Orange Street, and walked through the mermaid fountain courtyard to the north door of Coastal Coffee.
“Here you are,” Mims said snapping on a to-go cup lid at the register for a man in a Spanish colonial soldier’s outfit.
“Hi,” the man said to Brit on his way out the door.
“Hi,” Brit said turning sideways and scooting past the period actor then up to the register. No other customers were in the shop.
“Brit!” Mims said wiping her hands on a towel.
“Hi Mims. May I have a medium mocha.”
“You got it,” Mims said and she went to work on the drink. “Is it still cold out there?”
“It’s warming up. About fifty-five I’d say, and sunny. It’s really nice. So we’re all set to go to Jordan’s tomorrow night.”
> “Jordan’s?”
“Yes. Magick on her roof. Remember?”
“Oh yeah Jordan’s. Yeah I can’t wait. I still need to read the rest of that essay on the elements.”
“That essay is like, two pages long.”
“I know, I just have to sit down and do it. I will.”
Brit was beginning to realize why Mims had spent years trying to begin the study of witchcraft. Brit had put it off as well, but she had real reasons.
“What’s up Brit witch?” a small voice asked and Prisma came out from behind her spot by the biscotti basket on the bar corner, doing a little dance.
“Prisma!” Brit said and moved to sit at the two-seat bar. “What’s shakin’?”
“Oh you know me, just living the espresso faerie lifestyle.” Prisma sat with crossed legs on the counter and leaned back with her hands behind her. She rocked her head over backwards to look upside down at Mims. “And freezing my ass off in here at night,” she added with exasperation.
“We’re not leaving the heat on overnight Prisma. I told you, sleep on the espresso machine cup warmer. It stays hot.”
“It doesn’t stay hot all night,” Prisma argued, then turned to Brit. “You know they put a lock on the thermostat? An actual padlock on the cover. Can you believe that?”
Mims looked over from steaming the milk. “The owners have them on all their coffee houses. It’s just a policy now.”
“How many coffee houses do they own?” Brit asked.
“Three,” Mims said.
“They act like they own three hundred,” Prisma rolled her eyes.
“So have you seen this business about the Klepto Kids?”
Mims brought Brit her drink. “Four eighty-two. Oh yeah, the kids who robbed the banks. Crazy, huh? I should rob a bank.”
Brit dug in her backpack and gave Mims a five dollar bill. “Yeah crazy for sure. Jordan and I’ve been looking into it.”
“Why?”
“We think the kids are hexed.”
“Hexed?” Prisma shouted and jumped up.
“Shhh. Chill out,” Mims said to her and Prisma shot her a look and sat back down. “Like a Shadowclan hex?”
“We don’t know. We’re trying to figure it out.”
A customer came in through the door behind Brit, and Mims helped her at the register. Brit grabbed a straw, used it to pull out an inch of her drink, held it with her finger over the straw end, then dripped it into Prisma’s opened mouth. She put the straw down in her napkin just before Mims turned around.
“Rock on sister,” Prisma said with a point at Brit, then she flew up to sit and watch things from the high shelf across the shop.
Brit got up. “I’ll see you at Jordan’s tomorrow,” she said toward the door.
“Okay,” Mims said.
“At sunset,” Brit added.
“At sunset,” Mims smiled and Brit headed to Avalon.
It was near closing time when Brit parked her bike at the fire escape rail next to Jordan’s. Inside Carol was putting something into her bag on the front table and Jordan was counting money at the register.
“Hiya Brit,” Jordan said without looking up. Brit leaned over the counter toward her and whispered.
“Six, twenty-seven, nine, fifty-two, eleven, five, eighty.”
“Shut up!”
“Hi hon,” Carol said turning with her bags.
“Hi Carol.”
“Dammit, now I have to start over.”
Brit laughed and Carol moved out from behind the line.
“Go away,” Jordan started counting again and Carol and Brit moved into the store some.
“So did the lady come back for the agrimony?” Brit asked Carol.
“Oh she came back all right,” Jordan said. “Sixty, eighty, two-hundred.”
“She came back,” Carol said.
“Church girl, bodyguards, and all?”
“Yeah, she’s extremely polite. Almost too polite. I think you guys are right. She’s up to something, but I can’t put my finger on what. She has some serious power. I could feel it.”
“Dark power?”
“I can’t say. Not strictly dark, that’s unmistakeable. This has some kind of brooding energy about it though. I don’t usually spy on every customer that comes through here, but I’m gonna send Doctor Covington to see what he can find out. Jordan’s been bending my ear about those damn little kids all day. What about you, did you find anything about Josephine Lemort last night?”
Brit looked over at Jordan.
“I told her,” Jordan said filling out the deposit bag.
Brit shook her head. “ I looked all night but didn’t find much. Josephine Lemort is a high-level voodoo priestess in New Orleans. She’s revered by those who speak of her, but they’re few. She barely has a media presence which tells me she actively avoids attention. By the few sources I found, I’d say she’s a serious voodoo leader and practitioner. So I guess you two can tell me what agrimony is for then.”
“It’s used to rebound a voodoo hex,” Jordan said.
“Not only that,” Carol added.
“But yes that,” Jordan said and she grabbed her backpack and came around the counter.
“Yes that,” Carol admitted. “It is an interesting herb. One that gets little attention today for some reason. But it is still actively used in voodoo, so now you know.”
“And that’s not all, in case you didn’t hear,” Jordan said as the three exited the store and Carol locked the door.
“Hear what?” Brit asked and Jordan held up her phone opened to a news post.
“Klepto Kids strike again. Another robbery last night.”
Where?” Brit asked looking at the headline.
“Mobile, Alabama.”
“Let me see,” Brit said and she and Jordan stopped at their bikes and Carol continued on.
“Be careful you two,” Carol said.
“You too,” Jordan told her.
Brit said, “Goodnight,” but kept her face in the phone. “Alabama,” she said absently and scrolled. “There they are,” she said when she saw the green surveillance photo of two hooded kids from the ceiling perspective. Even the small phone image pulled her mind into the scene and she felt pain and confusion and sadness and she knew it was the feelings of the kids. Above all she felt helplessness and she wondered if it was her own but as she looked and saw the resolve in Jordan’s eyes she knew it was not. “You know what these kids are going through, don’t you?”
“Maybe not as directly as you, but I know,” Jordan said. She held out her hand and Brit handed the phone back. “Did you read it to the end?”
“No.”
“Police arrived just in time to see the kids climb into a white truck. Someone that picked them up. One police car stopped at the bank and another followed the truck. They chased them but not far.”
“What happened?” Brit asked unlocking her bike.
“The truck lost them. In less than two blocks. But it proves someone besides kids is involved with this. Or it seems like it. We knew it all along but now at least the cops suspect it too. I don’t know if it helps, but just so you know.”
Chapter 7
Magick And Mischief
Jordan moved easily around her loft gathering items she would need for the night. She added a beer can sized quartz crystal and a slightly smaller pillar of black tourmaline, that witches called schrol.
“Come do magick with us on the roof tonight,” she said to Luna who yawned at the suggestion but replaced her head on her folded arms where she rested on the shelf, her new spot.
Jordan took her blackthorn wand from the sterling tray on the mantelpiece. She placed it in the caddy then walked over to the cat. She rubbed her head, scratched her under her chin, then leaned down and took the cat’s head gently in her hands. She looked her in the eyes. “I’m serious,” Jordan uttered softly. “We need you tonight. It won’t take long but there are things you need to know. And only you can sense if any dark fae sp
ies are about.”
Luna’s eyes brightened and she turned her head for more scratching. “Just come up,” Jordan said and she sat on her bed, pulled up her socks, and stepped into her new hiking boots. She had only worn them once and wanted to break them in. A cold night on the roof with a good deal of moving but not ages of walking would be perfect. She admired the way the boots looked on, then grabbed the caddy and went out.
She stepped from her door onto the balcony and her foot sunk into a low, rusty metal pan filled with stinky river mud. From a chair under the spiral staircase, Nettle fell to the deck laughing.
“God Damnit!” Jordan growled.
Nettle flew to the rail and walked toward Jordan. “Oh that was priceless,” he said. Jordan picked up the rusty pan and flung the mud at him. He dodged it and hovered for a second. She lunged for him. He flew down into the courtyard laughing the entire way and vanished under a hedge.
“Son of a bitch,” Jordan moaned and she shook mud from her boot. The Sun had dropped below the western trees behind the main house and the sky grew orange. She took her things back inside, removed both boots, and began to clean the dirty one in her sink.
“Hello,” came a voice at the door, then a knock. It was Brit.
“Come in,” Jordan called and the door opened. “But quick. Close the door.”
“What is it? What are you doing?”
“Nothing. Is Mims with you?”
“No. She knows.”
Another knock. Brit opened the door to see Casey.
“Hey I was peddling right behind you on Water Street. I love your little red Miata.”
“Yeah. I hardly drive it because of parking downtown.”
“I need a car. My parents are gonna help me get one, so I’m gonna work this summer and save up.”
“I should sell you the Jeep,” Jordan said while scrubbing her boot and rinsing it. “I drive less than Brit.”
“You have a Jeep?” Casey asked.