by J. D. Horn
“We wanted to come,” Lucy said, stepping toward him, trying to close the distance between them. He put a hand against her shoulder, keeping her from drawing nearer. Lucy’s face flushed with frustration, and she dropped the bag to the floor. She studied Remy like she was trying to work out a difficult problem, then her body shifted into her preferred posture for confrontation—a widened stance, hands on hips, head tilting to one side. “I wanted to come,” she said, though the tenderness had changed to annoyance. “I wanted to see how your mom is doing. But mostly I wanted to be here for you.”
“I appreciate that,” Remy said. His words were civil but cool. “But it’s family-only visiting now.” Lucy seemed to read even more into Remy’s detachment than Fleur had. Her shoulders fell as the starch went out of her. Tears brimmed her eyes. Fleur knew she shouldn’t interfere, that whatever had come between the two young lovers was an issue they’d have to work through—or not—but she couldn’t stop herself. She stepped up beside Lucy and placed a protective arm around her shoulders. As she did, Manon appeared in the doorway.
“Yes, dear,” she addressed Remy, trying her best to grant him the benefit of the doubt, blaming his coldness on the stress he must be under. She invoked the polished demeanor of a politician’s wife. “We understand. We’ll be going. We only wanted to give your mother our wishes for a speedy recovery, and to drop off a gift.” Even as Fleur spoke, she felt the skin on her arms prickle up into gooseflesh that had nothing to do with air-conditioning. Fleur could read the blame in Remy’s eyes. Did he see guilt in hers? Lucy grasped the bag and thrust it at him like a weapon. He stared at it for a few moments, seemingly uncertain of how to proceed.
Fleur looked past Remy to Manon, who stood with her arms wrapped around herself, scanning the three of them with red, sleep-deprived eyes. “It isn’t much. A scarf to help Lisette keep off the chill in here.” Manon started to speak, but stopped to wipe away a renegade tear. A smile—genuine but far from effusive—quivered on her lips. She nodded her response.
Remy accepted the gift with the same enthusiasm with which one receives a jury summons. “We’ll talk later,” he addressed Lucy. With that, he turned away, pushing past Manon into his mother’s hospital room.
“Remy,” Lucy called after him. When he didn’t return or even answer, she swiveled to look at Fleur. Fleur couldn’t be certain what lay behind Remy’s behavior. She hoped that she’d misread the situation, that he was only worn out and worried about his mother. That he didn’t truly blame her or, worse, Lucy for his mother’s condition. Still, the tiny bit of Fleur that still thought like Celestin pointed out that regardless of the cause, this was an opportunity to end this inconvenient teenage romance without having to appear a villain to Lucy.
Then she looked into Lucy’s eyes and told that tiny part of herself to go to hell. Her girl was confused, hurt, and angry. Fleur would not be like Celestin, using sticks and promises of carrots to maneuver his children into the positions that best served him. Regardless of the problems waiting for them down the road, Fleur wasn’t going to meddle in her daughter’s love life, but she would do her best to prevent Lucy from sabotaging it on her own. That meant getting Lucy out of here before she said or did something she might regret later. She squeezed her daughter’s shoulders. “Come, sweetie.” Lucy’s features hardened, and for a moment Fleur feared she might dig her heels in and cause a scene, but whatever rebellion she’d begun to foment fell away. Lucy slipped out from under her arm and strode toward the elevators.
“Manon,” Fleur addressed the cautious, uncertain young woman in the doorway. “Please tell your mother she’s in our thoughts.” A look of forced politeness crossed Manon’s face, and Fleur decided to save her from what would undoubtedly be a white lie. “If you believe that it would be good for her to know.” Manon’s shoulders rose and fell as she released the breath that, in all likelihood, neither of them had realized she was holding.
Fleur turned away and followed Lucy to the elevator bank. She’d drawn up to her daughter’s side when the doors yawned open. Alcide Simeon stepped out, his head rearing back in shock at the sight of them. Fleur grasped Lucy’s arm and tried to navigate her past Alcide and into the elevator, but the older man blocked their way. “What in the hell are you doing here?”
“We’re just leaving, please excuse us.” Fleur modulated her voice, trying to find the right balance of confidence and humility, hoping to ease tensions and avoid a public confrontation. The elevator doors closed behind him.
“Oh, I’ll excuse you two fine ladies all right, but not before I’ve had my say. For starters, what makes you think you even have the right to come here?”
“We wanted to help,” Lucy said. Fleur pulled her back.
“Isn’t that so very kind of you?” Alcide said, his eyes narrowing and the vein on his temple bulging out. “If you want to help my daughter . . . if you want to help my entire family, you Marins will stay away from us.” He jabbed a finger at Lucy. “Leave my grandson alone. Don’t drag him into your mess, too.” He turned on Fleur. “For two generations now, your family has done its best to destroy mine. I know deep in my heart that my daughter is lying in that room because of you people.”
Fleur’s peripheral vision picked up movement, and she turned to see Manon hurrying to their side. “Please, Granpè. Let them go. There’s no need to offend Ms. Marin.”
Alcide’s eyes flashed wide in indignation as his lips pulled into a snarl. He stretched to his full height and looked down on Fleur in disgust. “Oh, I certainly wouldn’t want to offend the fine Ms. Marin now, would I?” He made a show of doing a bow and scrape. “I do apologize if you feel in the least bit slighted by my fight to save my child’s life.”
Manon flashed them a warning look. Hold your tongues, and go. It seemed good advice to Fleur, and she tugged Lucy over to the facing elevator.
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Alcide moved with surprising agility for a man his age, positioning himself between Fleur and the elevator button.
One of the nursing staff noticed their confrontation and started down the hall in their direction. “Is everything all right here?” she called. Her white, molded foam nurse’s slippers muffled the sound of her determined steps, but she arrived at their side in a flash. She stationed herself within arm’s reach of both Alcide and Fleur. “I asked if everything is all right here.”
A glimpse into the nurse’s eyes told Fleur this woman was both a person capable of near infinite empathy and someone with whom it would be best not to trifle. “Yes,” Fleur said, “Everything’s fine. I apologize for the disturbance.” She cast a glance at Manon. “My daughter and I were just leaving.”
The nurse scanned their faces. “Okay, then. You ladies can catch the next car.” She focused on Alcide. “Excuse me.” She reached behind him and pressed the down button. Turning to Manon, she asked, “Would you like to help me escort your grandfather to your mother’s room?”
“Yes,” Manon said, nodding. She touched Alcide’s arm. “Granpè?”
Alcide would not be moved. He stood stock-still, glaring at Fleur. “You Marins are a cancer on my family. Always have been. Always will be.”
“You know Mama wants to put history behind us.”
“History?” He pounded his fist into his chest. “History? Her mother murdered your mama’s mother.”
“Mr. Perrault,” the nurse said, her tone a warning.
“Mr. Simeon,” he replied without taking his eyes off Fleur.
“Yes, I apologize. Mr. Simeon,” the nurse said. “I’m sorry, but I do have to ask you to come with me, or I’ll need to call security.”
Alcide burst out in a bitter laugh. “You’re going to call security on me”—he pointed at Fleur—“to protect her?”
Fleur heard a bing behind her and turned to see the doors had opened. She guided Lucy into the elevator first, then stepped in after her.
Alcide stepped toward the elevator, catching the door so that it couldn’t close. He fixed Fle
ur with his gaze. “Maybe,” his voice came out in a low hiss, “you are the good kind of witch. The kind who wouldn’t intentionally harm my family.” Manon appeared behind him, trying to tug him away, but he shrugged her off. “Maybe you aren’t your parents, but the life you’re living was built on your parents’ actions. I’m warning you. Stay the hell away from my family.”
The nurse came and took his arm. An orderly had joined her. “Mr. Simeon, I must insist.”
He turned back to face her. “All right,” he said, walking away. “All right. I’ve said what I had to say. I’m done.”
The elevator doors started to close. Fleur broke. Hot tears flooded her eyes.
Manon dove between the closing doors and joined them as the elevator began to buzz. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry he hurt your feelings.”
Fleur wiped the tears from her eyes. “Oh, ma chère, I’m not crying because your grandfather hurt my feelings. I’m crying because everything he said was true.”
Manon’s face lit up in surprise. She stood there, seemingly struck dumb, until the elevator reached the lobby.
The doors opened. “Excuse us, dear.” Fleur grasped Lucy’s hand and led her around Manon and out of the elevator.
“Ms. Marin,” Manon called out, causing Fleur to turn back. “Thank you for the scarf,” she said. “It’s a lovely, thoughtful gift.”
Fleur heard a bing, and the doors closed between them.
TWENTY-THREE
The tombs of Précieux Sang Cemetery took on a golden sheen as the day drew to its close, with the sun making a last, brilliant stand in the western sky. Evangeline stretched out on the oblong patch of lawn that lay a yard or so behind the now locked gate. She propped herself up on her elbows, indulging in the animal pleasure of the cool grass beneath her calves and the warmth of the fugitive light on her face.
Life gave no guarantee that she’d see the sun rise again. What better place to remember that than here? Of course, she hadn’t needed any reminders of her mortality of late. Seemed that every damned day delivered another flashing neon arrow pointing to the end. Take this trial, for example. Evangeline had called for a witch’s judgment without really understanding what she’d set in motion.
She’d learned a few moments earlier that, as the witch who’d called for judgment against Celestin, it would fall to her to offer the first testimony. After her testimony, those present would seek a consensus to decide if her claim had merit or had been brought frivolously or out of malice against the accused. It turned out that since Evangeline had accused Celestin of multiple capital offenses, Evangeline could herself be put to death if she couldn’t back up her claims.
The taking of a consensus was a prerequisite, but Fleur had assured her she need not sweat the outcome. There had been no shortage of witnesses to the massacre Celestin had carried out at the ball intended to memorialize him. In a warped way, it had worked as originally intended. Nobody was ever going to forget Celestin or his ball. Still, she needed to make a habit of asking more questions, especially in situations related to witchcraft, before diving in.
Evangeline wished she hadn’t refused Lincoln’s offer to accompany her, but the truth was, Bonnes Nouvelles was barely holding on. She needed someone she could count on to cover for her, so she’d left the club in Lincoln and Wiley’s care.
She’d only taken a cursory look at the books, but that was enough to show her Hugo had been keeping the place afloat with cash from his own pocket. It would take her a while to pay him back. By all rights, she should offer to make him a partner, but she couldn’t. God knows she loved the boy from the bottom of her heart, but she didn’t want to be in business with him. Halloween was only three weeks out, and Bourbon would soon be bursting at the seams with revelers. A good share of the purse Halloween night wouldn’t put Bonnes Nouvelles into the black, but it might at least pull it back from candy apple red into burgundy. Once the club was back in kilter, she’d find some way to start paying Hugo back, match the same interest she had been paying—no, that Hugo had been paying—the bank.
If she needed Lincoln, though, he’d know and he’d come. He’d promised, and that was good enough. That he wasn’t already at her side reassured her she’d see the other side of this. Besides, the eagerness of the fifty to sixty witches milling about, waiting to give testimony about Celestin, was palpable.
Last night, it had seemed too dangerous to dangle a bounty of poisoned magic under Fleur’s nose. It had seemed a much better idea to bring Celestin to face a fair judgment as delivered by his peers. She’d assumed they would sense what she had—the toxicity of the magic held by Celestin’s corpse—and they would choose to dispel it, as the Chanticleer Coven had been tricked into believing it had done the day of Celestin’s funeral. Dispel the magic, send Celestin off to whatever hereafter a man like that earned himself, and dump the body into the Marin family vault. Seal it up and call it a day.
But Evangeline should’ve known better. She had learned that according to the customs of the witches of New Orleans, if those gathered voted to hold Celestin responsible for his crimes, they would be able to carve the corpse up into pieces to pass out like party favors that could be used to augment the failing magic of those he’d harmed.
Until the witches had convened, Evangeline had believed that, regardless of what happened, Celestin would be freed from the torment of being imprisoned in his desiccating corpse. Now she understood that keeping Celestin’s spirit bound to his body would help the relics maintain their charge. Perhaps even for generations. Celestin could be freed from his flesh prison until the first cut was made. After that first cut, it would be too late. No, now that she understood the lay of the land, Evangeline had no doubt as to what the verdict would be. What was left of Celestin would leave this cemetery wrapped in brown butcher paper, a portion of his psyche still attached to each relic. She’d been dealing with witches long enough to know that the single commodity rarer than justice in their community was mercy.
Last night, with Celestin doing all he could to rile her, she would’ve been fine with this fate. Today, Evangeline surprised herself by wanting to grant the old bastard leniency.
Evangeline could tell just by looking at them that most of the witches gathered had been raised in the golden fields of privilege. Regardless of how polite this type was to your face, they’d cut out your heart with a butter knife to preserve their crumbling position. If enough of them thought there’d be more to gain from coming after her than after Celestin, she was sure this preliminary consensus, this thing she didn’t need to sweat, could and would swing like a heavy door against her.
Many of the witches she’d encountered over the years believed themselves to be above such petty ideas as good and evil. This bunch might not be quite so haughty, but they did seem to believe themselves immune to the darkness carried by the relics they coveted. Evangeline couldn’t help but wonder if the force that delivered Celestin to her had known the seeds of evil could be spread with the ease of puffing on the head of a dandelion.
Many of those present couldn’t even be bothered to hide their enthusiasm. Evangeline had witnessed one unfamiliar, chinless old man, whom Fleur had addressed as Mitch, standing over Celestin and salivating, literally drooling. He’d removed his glasses, accentuating his resemblance to a beige turtle, and walked his watery blue eyes over the corpse as if inventorying the prime cuts and ranking them in order of his preference. That sight was what had sent Evangeline rushing over to this welcoming patch of grass. She couldn’t handle these freaks.
Evangeline closed her eyes, shutting out the radiance, and focused on the fading indigo negative the light had left behind.
“They don’t believe you.” Evangeline jolted as Fleur circled around her. “They’re not buying your talk of a mysterious presence handing Celestin over to you gift-wrapped, but then you probably already sensed that.”
Evangeline nodded an acknowledgment, but otherwise didn’t budge.
“The night of the
massacre,” Fleur began, her tone cautious, “there were witnesses, I’m afraid, to your . . . transition.”
Transition. Fleur was trying to be sensitive, but the word came out sounding like euphemism for a shameful, dirty act.
“And?” Evangeline’s own shame bubbled up as anger.
“And some . . .” Fleur paused, seeming to wonder if it were wise to continue. She shrugged. “Some are conjecturing that there was a falling out between Celestin and your mother’s sister witches. That, in fact, you’ve been in league with them all along.”
“They’re dead,” Evangeline said, realizing that a part of her did, in fact, mourn the loss. These women had been her last connection to the mother she’d never really known. In an odd way, it felt like being orphaned all over again.
“The same coterie finds that fact a bit too convenient to accept at face value.”
“Everything I’ve said is true.”
“Yes, ma chère,” Fleur sounded tired—no, defeated. “I know that, but even this dull bunch can tell you haven’t shared all. Suffice it to say, you should watch your step for the next little while. Others certainly will be.” Her lips twisted into a sad smile. “If only our deliverer had been Daniel, as Astrid seemed to believe. It was only after finding nothing but ashes where his portrait had been that I realized how fond I’d grown of him.”
“I’m sorry about Daniel,” Evangeline said, feeling a twinge of grief herself. “I’m sorry about all of this.” Even though Fleur treated her with every kindness, walking her through the maze of traditions and arcane rules, Evangeline suspected that Fleur couldn’t help but resent her for snatching away the abundance of magic Celestin offered. Had Evangeline chosen differently, Lucy could’ve lived to a ripe old age without Fleur having to constantly scramble to collect another source of power before the last gave out. But magic that dark . . . Fleur had to know on some level that the seething reservoir would draw her in and drown anything decent in her.