Witchmas Eve: a Marshal of Magic file

by Chris Lowry

  “They made an enemy of a Voo Doo witch named Phyllis and now they’re trying to partner with Dixie mafia for protection.”

  “You found all of that out in one night?”

  “I’ve been watching,” she smiled. “Sort of in the job description.”

  “Where is she?”

  The smile fell away.

  “I haven’t found her yet.”

  “One more thing to work on.”

  She nodded and I pulled the Stetson from under my coat, placed it on the coffee table. Hannah took a long look at it and burst into tears.

  “No,” she repeated several times.

  We watched her walk over to the leather chair and collapse into it, tuck her legs to her chest and bury her face in her arms. Sobs racked her body.

  I glanced at the ghost, who shrugged his wispy shoulders.

  “Would you react like that if I died?” I asked him.

  “No,” Hannah sobbed. “I barely know you. We’ve met twice. I’m sorry.”

  Her shoulders heaved.

  “It’s just not a nice way to find out your lover is dead.”

  “Well love me tender,” Elvis crooned.

  “Lover? He was your boyfriend.”

  She swiped the back of her hand across the tip of her nose to catch whatever might be clinging there and pawed at her swollen eyes.

  “Lover,” she corrected me. “Two consenting adults who agree to a physical relationship. You wouldn’t understand.”

  She said the last part with a sneer that kind of hurt my feelings.

  Did she think I was an old man?

  Or was it a NOLA culture thing, a French influence lingering in the swampy air.

  I let her cry as we watched, and after a few moments of the sounds of her sobs filling the air, they dried up.

  Hannah excused herself to the bathroom, blew her nose and came back a little more composed.

  She shifted a book to one side, picked up a notebook with a pen attached and began scribbling.

  “I assume his affairs were in order.”

  I shrugged.

  “Are yours?”

  I nodded.

  “Then we can assume his were as well. You are in the same line of work. Were,” she sniffled and fought back a fresh round of tears.

  “Do you have a replacement in mind?”

  “I just found out tonight, but our employer might. Expect him or her to knock on your door.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you the only Marshal in the States right now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who’s watching out for the paranormal community while you’re off on this witch hunt?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What the hell do you know Marshal!” she snapped, then the tears were back.

  It made me wish someone would cry like that over me when I was gone. Maybe my wife would, if she could sense it wherever she was in the cosmos.

  “Help her,” Elvis said.

  “How?” I mouthed so she wouldn’t overhear me.

  “Give her your shoulder.”

  “Huh?” again mouthing.

  “A shoulder to cry on.”

  I nodded.

  “Okay.”

  “What?” Hannah looked up through tears as I approached.

  “I was just saying okay,” I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her in for a hug. “There there, it’s going to be okay.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Letting you cry,” I told her.

  She tried to push back, and when I turned loose, she gripped me by the lapels of my jacket and jerked herself back into my chest.

  She buried her face against my shirt and started crying more.

  Youth.

  She was in her mid-twenties, close to the age of my now expired counterpart. Both of them reasonably good looking. Both of them fit, and young, and given how much time they spent together, it really wasn’t a surprise it turned physical.

  Like me, he’d probably pulled a night or two on the couch and perhaps one fire, one bottle of wine, one case to research had turned them onto and into each other.

  She leaked her grief into my shirt, tiny shoulders quivering under my hands.

  And I did what Elvis told me to do.

  I let her cry on my shoulder and I kept my mouth shut.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  She wasn’t quite cried out, but composed might be a better word for it. That’s the way grief works sometimes. Go through a tearful jag and end up at a place where work is the focus.

  I had no doubt there would be more tears, but an hour and a beer later, we were back on the streets hunting for a voo doo woman.

  Hannah drove.

  She had a blue VW bug with a green passenger door from a prior accident she refused to fix on principle, she told me.

  The car puttered up and down the streets of the French Quarter as she searched for free street parking, and a space opened up two blocks from where she said we needed to go.

  It was a nice evening for a walk. The sun was setting, the twilight time one of my favorites. It was happy hour, which didn’t seem to matter much in the tourist traps that dotted the French Quarter. Every hour there was happy hour and the libations flowed freely.

  Hannah fell in step beside me as we made our way to a small Voo Doo shop that occupied the front of a craftsman style home that looked like it had been there for a couple hundred years.

  It had.

  A plaque on the brick column that held one side of the metal gate said, “Built in 1846.”

  That was a lot of surviving to do for a simple wood structure with a recessed porch and lead pane windows. A thousand footsteps had worn the stone walk to a polished sheen, testament to her effectiveness and power, or the power of her marketing that made people believe.

  A different kind of faith magic, but given almost two hundred years, enough time for it to start working.

  Add to that some real mojo and the voo doo could be the hoo doo she do so well.

  We watched a woman scurry past us clutching a red bottle to her ample chest. She refused to make eye contact.

  “Love potion,” said Elvis.

  “Number Nine,” Hannah spoke in my other ear.

  Guess it was a Watcher thing.

  We opened the door and wood chimes announced us with a clickety clack instead of gongs.

  A young black woman with a tight afro stood behind the desk and smiled in greeting. She had a flowing peasant dress, and a red bandana around her neck, along with leather thongs, and some brass figurines.

  “Welcome,” she purred in a coffee rich voice. “What can I help you find today.”

  “I’m looking for Phyllis,” I answered with a smile of my own.

  Hers vanished.

  Faster than any magic could make it.

  “What do you want with her?” The eyes were guarded now, not so welcoming as a second before.

  It is easy to tell if someone is a user and in the community.

  All I have to do is show the badge.

  If they are a normal person acting as clerk, they look at it and wonder why the ATF or DEA happens to be about. That’s the letters a non-magical person would see etched in the infused metal.

  A user though would see exactly what it is.

  MARSHAL

  And they would know.

  Cause if the Marshal showed up at your door, chances are you were up to no good, starting to make trouble in your neighborhood.

  The woman behind the counter glanced at the badge and froze.

  “Don’t shoot,” she whispered, eyes ratcheting up to the size of small saucers.

  “Don’t make me,” I growled.

  I’ll admit, the trucker’s cap, though battered and worn, did not have the same menacing effect as my now deceased partner’s Stetson. Didn’t stop me from trying though.

  I tilted up the brim and leaned over the counter on my elbows, finger pointed in he
r direction.

  No need to tell her it was just for show, and overkill, I could do what needed to be done with just my mind.

  “You Phyllis?”

  “No,” said Hannah and pointed to a picture on one of the shelves when I glanced over my shoulder.

  The young woman in front of me was wearing a white softball tee shirt with red letters that said DEE on the front, next to an older elegant looking lady in the same kind of shirt, PHYLLISS on hers.

  “She’s making you look bad,” said Elvis.

  “Not quite,” I said and stood up.

  “Not quite what?” Hannah asked.

  I’d talk to her about impressions and appearances as soon as we left the place. Aura is sometimes all about timing and keeping your mouth shut.

  “She’s not here!” Dee blurted out. “I don’t know where she is.”

  The last part was a little too fast, a little too forced.

  I hooked a thumb in my belt and shook out my index finger so she could see.

  “You sure Dee?”

  She gulped.

  I watched her swallow.

  “I’m sure.”

  Elvis floated on his tether and stuck his head through the wall. He pulled it through and blew away an imaginary dust ball.

  “All dark in the back. Feels empty,” he said.

  “I think she’s telling the truth,” Hannah said, watching me instead of Dee.

  We were really going to have to work on our good cop, bad cop routine.

  But I felt that way too.

  Dee was scared, but I couldn’t say if she was more afraid of us or the voo doo woman we were hunting.

  “Do you know when she’ll be back?” I tried another track.

  Dee shook her head, wide eyes dancing from me to Hannah and back again.

  “Let’s go,” I turned and started for the door.

  “That’s it?” Hannah trailed me.

  “No, you’re right,” I turned from halfway across the room. “Dee, you know who I am, right?”

  She nodded, a terrified look on her face. She didn’t know me, but she knew what I was, and the reputation that the Marshal of the West left didn’t taste good in most magic users’ mouth.

  “You know what Phyllis is, right?”

  Another nod. More wide eyes.

  “Then why isn’t this place warded?”

  I hadn’t felt a single tingle stepping through, not even the residual magic of a homeward, the build up of energy people give off just living in a place.

  “It’s not her home,” Dee said. “Just a shop, just for tourists.”

  “Then where is home?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I watched her eyes, watched the skin around her brow for any ticks, a trace of betrayal. But nothing moved.

  Dee held my gaze and cringed like the lack of an answer was a crime in itself.

  “No magic in here?” I asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Tell her I’ll be back.”

  Dee nodded.

  I led Hannah and Elvis back down the walkway.

  “Where now?” she asked.

  “A little less conversation, a little more action,” the ghost of Elvis said.

  I glanced over my shoulder and saw him staring at a spot on the sidewalk.

  Three men waited.

  Correction. Two half Trolls and the guy from the alter waited.

  I bit back the urge to start slinging and instead pulled Hannah a little behind me so I could block her.

  “Marshal,” the man named Digby smiled. “No need for violence.”

  He stepped out of the shadows and under a street light, followed by the two boulders on either shoulder, and I could see he meant it.

  His bodyguards weren’t Trolls, just looked that way.

  He saw me appraise them.

  “You like? I picked them up on special when the Saint’s went marching home,” he beamed.

  “Impressive.”

  “Bum knees,” he added in an exaggerated whisper.

  He held out a hand and I shook it.

  “I wanted to say thank you for the thing you did,” he glanced at Hannah.

  “She knows.”

  “She does? Good, I don’t have to hunt for the words. Discretion and valor, you know.”

  I doubted the son of a dixie mafia boss knew much about valor, but I wasn’t going to be the first one to sling insults. The two goons orbiting him were armed, and if they started shooting, innocent people might get hurt.

  “I didn’t know there was so much magic in the world,” Digby kept smiling. “But man, once you know where to look.”

  He pointed to the building we just abandoned.

  “That place? Tourist trash. But the woman who owns it? Powerful magic.”

  He swung his hand up and down and whistled.

  I didn’t ask how he found me.

  If he knew about magic, and he was connected, finding a Marshal who wasn’t hiding would be easy.

  But I did wonder what he was up to.

  “You’re welcome,” I told him.

  “I want to help you out,” said Digby. “I mean, I would have married Angie in a heartbeat, for all the right reasons, but last night was not right.”

  I wondered if I should have him explain. Then I figured just to keep my trap shut. Digby struck me as the type of fellow who liked a good monologue.

  His two bodyguards rolled their eyes.

  Apparently, they had heard more than one before.

  “I don’t know why you’re here,” he said. “But you’re not the normal Marshal for New Orleans.”

  “He’s out of town,” I told him.

  Hannah sniffled.

  “And trouble is brewing,” Digby nodded. “I could tell that when they forced me into that ceremony last night. What kind of trouble.”

  I looked him up and down for a second.

  “The magical kind, right? He grinned. “I’m not magic, no sir. But I’ve got some feelers out in this town. You could say, I know people who know people. And I pay my debts. My dad makes sure of it.”

  “Did your dad send you to find me?”

  The two bodyguard nodded like they were in sync, heads bobbing up and down twice in slow motion.

  Maybe they were more baby sitters than bodyguards.

  “Ignore those guys,” said Digby. “I told Daddy I wanted to thank you and he suggested I go look.”

  “You’re welcome,” I told him. “I was just doing my job.”

  “I know, but it’s hard to not take it personally when someone saves your life.”

  “I don’t think they would have killed you?” I shot a look at Elvis.

  The ghost shrugged, eyes telling me he couldn’t remember.

  Lucky for me, he was hovering by Hannah, who thought my look was meant for her, and she shook her head no.

  “The rituals weren’t set up for blood.”

  That got Digby’s attention.

  He zeroed in on her, and I got a glimpse of the predator he could be. Not there, not yet, but if he followed in his Daddy’s footsteps, someone he might become.

  He looked at her like a hawk eyeing a field mouse.

  “So much knowledge in a tiny package,” he reached a hand around me to grip hers. “Digby Richmond.”

  “Hannah,” she said.

  His smile was charming her as he pumped her hand twice and let go, fingertips trailing along hers.

  “Glad to meet someone else in the know, Hannah. Maybe one day soon we can trade stories and share what we learn.”

  “She knows just enough to get her in trouble,” I said, trying to head off her blush.

  “Excellent,” Digby clapped. “Just like me. Just enough to stay in trouble, and thanks to you Marshal, still alive to keep finding it.”

  He winked at Hannah.

  “But I’m staying out of it tonight.”

  He held up both hands to show they were empty.

  “I’m just a messenger right now, and I want
to tell you where you can find the purveyor of that establishment.”

  “That’s a good deduction,” I told him. “To think I’m looking for her.”

  “I didn’t know, really,” the smile again.

  Either he was really innocent or really good at acting like it.

  “I’m just connecting dots. You busted up a Coven ceremony. You go into their enemy’s headquarters. I know you don’t work for the voo doo woman, so I’m just assuming you’re looking for her. Am I right? I’m right, aren’t I?”

  I gave him a nod. No harm. No foul.

  “And I so happen to know where she is because some of my contacts stumbled across her in the hunt for you.”

  “Hunt?”

  “Search,” he backed up a step.

  Guess I needed to dial down the paranoia a notch.

  “She’s at the St. Louis Cemetery,” said Digby. “I hope that helps.”

  I looked at Hannah and she nodded.

  “We can walk from here.”

  “I can offer a ride,” said Digby.

  He elbowed one of the guards in the ribs to use a wrist microphone to call up a big limo. Not a stretch limo, but a jacked up SUV large enough for a dozen people.

  “We’ll walk,” I told the Dixie prince. “But I appreciate the offer. And thanks for your help.”

  “No problem Marshal,” Digby climbed up into the back of the SUV. “Like I said, I always pay my debts. And you’ll always have a friend in NOLA when you need me.”

  He shut the door before I could refuse such a kind offer, and we watched the Limo drive off.

  “Which way?”

  She pointed.

  “It would have been faster to ride,” said Hannah.

  I took off marching toward the direction she indicated.

  “We needed the time.”

  “We would have more time there if we drove,” she huffed to keep up.

  “We need more time to prepare,” I answered. “Dee would have called to warn her we were looking.”

  “I would have liked to ride in the Limo,” Elvis said as he floated along. “I haven’t been in one of those since my prom.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Remember when I told you about the whole faith magic thing? Belief is inherent in the workings of magic. If you don't believe, it won't work. Haitians believed in zombies. Not the shuffling "I'm hungry for brains," zombies, but Hattian Zombies. Come back from the dead, impossible to kill. A whole lot in common with golems from the Jewish tradition, not that weird voice guy from the Tolkien books.