by J. D. Horn
He began to speak, but seemed to think better of it. He turned back to the door and knocked, then grasped the handle and opened it without awaiting a response. Alice intuited that if permission to enter hadn’t been granted, the door wouldn’t have budged. Parker entered first, then turned back. “Please,” he said, holding the door open wide.
Alice was surprised to find a beautiful, light-filled library, a room she never would have imagined at the end of the sad hall. The south-facing wall was covered in windows with leaded diamond panes, the eastern and western walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases, and the ceiling soared overhead. A tall ladder leaned against one of the walls.
Books were everywhere. Some still on the shelves. Some laid out on two long mahogany tables. Others were wrapped, and in the process of being packed into sturdy crates. Alice forgot everything and began to wander around the periphery of the room. She approached the first table and let her fingers hover over the beautiful, rich covers. To think, this bounty had been so close all this time. She’d dreamed of such a place while wandering among the stacks of the residents’ well-stocked but no-frills lending library devouring everything she could find about the home she’d lost. If she’d grown up in New Orleans, she, like most people, probably wouldn’t have paid attention to the details of what was right before her. But New Orleans had been taken from her, so every detail felt precious. She probably knew more about the city’s history and architecture than she would have if she’d finished growing up there.
Still, she sensed the books held in this library were never intended for general circulation. She could almost imagine the sparks of dying magic leaping up from their pages.
“The Sinclair House has always boasted an extensive and covetable collection,” a masculine voice said. She looked up to find Dr. Parker standing next to another man. Older. Older than her father even. With closely cropped gray hair and piercing eyes. His bearing reminded her of that of the security guards, even though he was dressed in a royal-blue linen suit and a navy and burnt-orange tie. “One of the finest I personally have ever had the pleasure of perusing.” Tiny crinkles formed at the edges of his eyes. “Of course, it’s missing the one work that would complete it, but some argue the book we are lacking no longer exists. Maybe never even did. Though lore has it that it was last seen in New Orleans. Imagine, Alice, a legendary grimoire hidden right in your own backyard.” There was such familiarity in his tone, yet she had never met this man—she was certain of it. He ignored her confused expression and focused on her hand, still hovering over one of the texts.
Dr. Parker rushed to speak, as if he wanted to insert himself in the conversation before it veered off in an unwanted direction. His eyes telegraphed a message of caution. “Alice, this is Dr. Woodard.”
“Yes,” the older doctor said, turning toward his colleague. “That will be all, Doctor.” Woodard’s left index finger slid up under his right sleeve. Alice caught a glimpse of metal.
“But . . .”
He stifled Parker’s protest with a simple glance. The younger doctor nodded and exited.
Woodard turned back to Alice. “Go ahead,” he said and nodded to her. She turned back to the table of books, narrowing her attention to one of them, and traced her finger over the fantastical image embossed in silver on its cover. A nude woman, bent, her back supporting a winged satyr’s head and a bare-breasted, ram-headed female whose clawed arm held aloft a branch decorated with a stag’s skull. “Austin Osman Spare,” the man said. “Not merely a first edition, but a specially commissioned single printing. One of a kind. It’s even signed.”
“I’ve never seen anything quite like it,” she said, daring to ease open the cover, “but it seems . . . familiar.”
“It should,” the man responded. “You’ve witnessed many examples of his work.” He paused, seeming to want her to make the connection on her own.
She felt her finger point overhead, though she was thinking of the ceilings in the consulting rooms. “The sigils . . .”
“His design. Some done by his own hand.” He nodded, anticipating her question. “Yes, he spent time here, though I’m not at liberty to discuss in what capacity.” He leaned in. “But I do want you to understand that time spent at Sinclair can serve . . . has served . . . others as a source of inspiration.” He smiled at her—that patented, bland Sinclair smile again—and motioned toward a desk by the library’s back wall. “Let’s sit, shall we?”
She let her hand brush the cover once more, reluctant to leave the book, then followed him. There were only two chairs, a large leather desk chair behind the desk and a smaller armchair before it. “Please,” Woodard said, nodding at the armchair. He continued around the desk and stationed himself in the more intimidating seat behind it. He leaned forward and clasped his hands in an almost prayerful gesture. She slipped into the seat, putting herself in the direct line of his stare.
He studied her for a moment, then pushed back into his chair. “We received a call this morning from your Uncle Vincent. I’m sorry, Miss Marin, but I must inform you that your grandfather passed away last night.”
“Oh,” she said. She tried to remember her grandfather’s face, but it didn’t arise with ease. She felt nothing beyond the notion that she should feel something. “I should care more. I know,” she said. She raised her eyes to meet his.
“A very honest answer from a very honest young woman.” He turned a bit sideways and rested his left arm on the desktop. “His death, I understand, can hardly come as a surprise. He’s been under the care of one of our clinics for years now.
“Your uncle has inquired as to whether you might be amenable to returning to New Orleans to attend the funeral.” He began drumming his fingers.
The key word twisted in her mind. “Amenable?”
“You’re twenty-one now. Of legal age to sign for your own release. I’ve reviewed your file, and we would have released you—should have released you—years ago. Only your father requested that we keep you on.” He paused. “I should inform you that this was new information to your uncle, as well.”
“I don’t understand . . .”
Eventually you’ll be one of the ones he throws away. They were her brother’s words, spoken so many years ago in the darkened attic of their home.
“Nor do I,” the doctor said, then sighed. “Understand your father’s motives, that is. Though I’m afraid I understand far too well why the former head of this clinic acquiesced to his request.” He leaned back again and folded his hands over his stomach. “Your father doesn’t seem to want you anywhere near New Orleans, and he has very deep pockets.” The doctor turned and pushed away from his desk. She watched as he crossed the room to the table of books she had admired. He reached down and touched one, easing open its cover. “In another age, you might have spent your whole life with us, Alice.” He lowered his gaze, appearing to examine the tome beneath his fingers. “But with most of our clinics closing, I’m looking ahead to retirement. And lucky for you, your uncle and I have come to a mutually satisfactory understanding.”
FOUR
Bourbon Street was no place for modesty. Anything on display on Bonnes Nouvelles’s stage could be seen from the sidewalk through the glass-paneled doors and windows that dominated the club’s entrance. A free peek got folk to slow down. Then it was up to the dancers, who each took two shifts a night, standing at the door, flirting with the passersby, men and women—hell, a good bachelorette party could put the club in the black for a week—inviting the curious to enter. Chants of “Come on in! No cover!” caught the folk who’d come to the Quarter looking for what Bonnes Nouvelles had to offer. Cautious pairs of coworkers out for a good time in the Big Easy could be snagged with a friendly enticement. “Get on in here, handsome, and bring your friend” never failed to provoke a jocular argument over who was the looker and who was the friend. “Where y’all from?” would stop just about anybody, and a hand on the shoulder could guide them through the door.
Once people w
ere over the threshold, Evangeline took it as a near-sacred duty to make sure the good times rolled hard but without incident. Keep roaming hands off the dancers, respect your neighbors, respect your hosts, and everybody’s happy.
Reasonably priced drinks. Last call came at one thirty. Closing at two.
Most nights, the dancers would clear out right after the last patron, leaving Evangeline and the night’s closing bartender and barback to get the place in order for the next day. On a typical night, the bartender or barback would then walk with her to the night depository at the bank on Royal, but about an hour ago Evangeline had sent the duo scurrying off together through the downpour to drop off the day’s receipts. After all, a little show of trust went a long way toward building employee loyalty, though there was no denying it was a risk. Lou, the new barback, had just finished a year’s probation for burglary, and Matt, tonight’s bartender, was his cousin. Still, treat a person like a thief, and a thief for life they’ll be. That’s what she always said whenever anyone, usually Nicholas, questioned her habit of offering second, and sometimes third, chances.
The truth was that Evangeline knew a thing or two about stealing.
She hadn’t been born a thief, but there were only so many ways a thirteen-year-old girl could support herself. That was how old she’d been the year her mother’s sister witches had killed her dad, leaving her an orphan.
Her dad had been a bastard, all right, but between the drinking and the preaching, he had also worked—every now and then, at least. Enough to keep them in a rented two-bedroom, seafoam-green 1968 Van Dyke Villager mobile home with a view of the Pineville Procter & Gamble factory out the kitchen window. And there’d been enough to eat. Most days.
After her dad’s murder, she had waited, packed up and sitting by the door, for the sheriff to come, figuring a demolished vehicle and her dad’s battered body would garner some attention from law enforcement. But one day passed. Then two.
The factory called. That was it. A real nice man asked for her dad, then misinterpreted the long, hanging silence on the line before she replied that he wasn’t home. He asked once more to speak to her dad. When she repeated her lie, he told her that he was sorry, but she should let her daddy know he’d had his last chance. He should come by for his final wages.
She walked over, cutting through the open fields, to pick up the check. She was sent to the business office, where a hefty woman with dyed red hair teased high enough to poke God in the eye sat behind a counter surrounded by gray, wall-mounted mail sorters. Before greeting Evangeline, the woman removed her purple-framed glasses, letting them hang against her bosom from the chain that secured them around her neck. Evangeline lied and said that her daddy had sent her. The woman excused herself, then returned with the check for her daddy and a cold Pepsi and honey bun for Evangeline. “You take care of yourself, sweetie,” the woman said, and as Evangeline cashed the thirty-two dollar and seventy-four cent check at the corner store, she realized she was going to have to do just that.
She’d had a code of sorts, in those years she’d relied on thieving. Never take anything that looked like it might be irreplaceable, especially if it appeared to have sentimental value. She had kept a list of everything she’d ever stolen, including the addresses from which she’d stolen them. Stupid, she realized now—had she ever been caught for one crime, they could have nabbed her for the rest. But she’d promised herself she’d make restitution.
She’d graduated early, at sixteen, having earned a good scholarship to a college in New Orleans. Around that time, she’d begun dancing at the Black Cat to make up for the expenses her scholarship didn’t cover. She’d lied about her age, of course, and gotten her hands on paperwork to back up the lie.
Just like that, her thieving days were over.
No one ever noticed her daddy had up and disappeared. She knew magic had helped with that. Insult, she reckoned, added to the injury already dealt him.
Though she still had that old list, people moved on, people died. After all this time, she could never just send a money order and an apology. Besides, she’d come to realize it was more than video game boxes and unattended coin jars she’d stolen. From many, she reckoned she’d stolen their peace of mind. Someday, she’d tear the list up—but not until she felt she’d done enough good in the world to make up for the pain she’d caused others.
Maybe helping her new bar guys get back on their feet was part of what she needed to do to balance the cosmic scales. Tonight, though, she found herself questioning the wisdom of sending those two particular boys out together with a full sack of cash.
She bit her lip as she crossed to the alarm keypad by the door. What’s done is done. Anyway, experience had taught her that it was unlikely they’d steal the lot the first time out. If they were going to betray her, it was far more likely they’d start skimming a few weeks out, once they thought they’d earned her complete trust.
As if that day would ever come. Evangeline could count on her thumb and index finger the people who’d earned her complete trust. One was Nicholas; the other was her cat.
A streak of lightning cut down the length of Bourbon Street like a zipper opening, causing Evangeline to stop in her tracks, her hand hovering over the alarm’s keypad. She began counting, waiting for the clap of thunder to tell her how far away the strike had hit. She hadn’t made it to one when the panes in the door began to rattle. She approached the window, then leaned toward it with cupped hands so she could see past her own reflection and out to the street. Another flash of lightning shot overhead, higher, and—judging by the thunderclap—much farther away.
Evangeline released the breath she’d been holding and returned to the security keypad to punch in the code. The beeping countdown began, so she hit the lights, grabbed her keys, and scurried out, pulling the door to with a loud, satisfying click. Locks and alarms. Wasn’t so long ago she would’ve relied on a magical ward to keep out anyone who meant harm. Now Evangeline tried not to use magic. At least in ways other witches might notice.
Magic is fading. Magic is dying. She heard it whenever she got around a group of witches. Truth was, Evangeline didn’t have a clue what they meant. Her power was holding up just fine. Might have even gotten a bit stronger over the last couple of years. Still, she had the sense to keep her mouth shut. She hadn’t even said anything to Nicholas.
Evangeline rubbed her thumb against her index finger, realizing her trust list had just been cut in half.
She turned to face up Bourbon Street, bracing herself for the walk home. The building’s double balcony offered her a moment’s protection from the worst of the deluge, but beyond its reach, the street had begun to flood, the gutter system failing to keep up with the generous sky. She sighed, then darted out from beneath the balcony and across St. Louis Street, slowing only when she reached the cover of the gallery belonging to the first building on the block. Dodging from one protective covering to another, she figured she could make it home only half-drowned.
On the sidewalk, she spotted the soaked remains of the hand-printed cardboard sign Reverend Bill, a tattered old street preacher, had been carrying all week, a sign that denounced Evangeline and foretold her eternal damnation. The old man, mostly harmless, mostly bald except for a wild white fringe, spent half his life stumbling drunk down Bourbon, the other half pointing his shaky finger at other people doing the same and decrying their sins. The whole damned road was lined with clubs like hers, but Reverend Bill targeted Bonnes Nouvelles twice as often as any of the others. As if she needed another wild-eyed, fire-and-brimstone preacher telling her she was hell bound—she’d heard enough of that from her dad before his death.
Looking down at the sign, she made a mental note to remind the reverend there was only one z in Jezebel. She crossed over Toulouse Street, weaving her way through a group of diehard revelers, then past St. Peter, dreaming of a hot bath and bed. A few short hours of sleep before she had to go downtown to meet with the bank, see if they might extend a new line
of credit.
“Ms. Caissy,” a smooth, deep voice on the other side of Bourbon called out to her. Evangeline raised her eyes to see a large, beautiful, melting drag queen holding Nicholas’s younger son Hugo by the scruff of his neck. “I believe this belongs to you.” The drag queen’s biceps bulged as she hefted Hugo up over her shoulder and then crossed the street, admirably managing her burden in sling-back, peep-toe pumps despite the flooding. “You better be glad I’m not wearing my best shoes,” she groused in a deep baritone as she deposited Hugo on his feet next to Evangeline. Nicholas’s son promptly swayed and dropped onto his bottom on the wet sidewalk. “Making me come out in this weather,” the queen said in a polished alto, affecting in a heartbeat an exaggerated floral femininity worthy of any Tennessee Williams heroine. She lifted a long false nail and pointed to her own head. “You think these lace-fronts come cheap?”
“I think that one did,” Hugo said, laughing. He drew his knees in and wrapped his arms around them.
“That is it.” The towering queen fell silent for a moment, then started shaking her head as she built up steam. “You are banned. Banned from the bar. Banned for life. Banned for good.”
Hugo looked up at the drag queen with a defiant smile. His eyes narrowed. “You all’d miss me too much.” His voiced dropped. “You’d miss me too much.”
The queen looked down her nose at Hugo, her outlined lips puckering like she’d just tasted something sour. “Two days. I don’t want to see you around for two days, you hear me?” Hugo just kept staring up, smiling. Her eyes didn’t change, but the pucker smoothed into the tiniest of smiles. “You’d better be glad you so damned pretty, boy.” She looked up at Evangeline. “And you.” She gave a slight nod of her wigged head. “You need to teach that one some manners.”
“I don’t see what I can . . . ,” Evangeline began, but the drag queen had already stomped off, holding one acrylic-taloned hand up over her head as she walked away. Evangeline shifted her focus to Hugo.