by J. D. Horn
“Oh, my dear,” the woman said, seeming to pluck Lisette’s thoughts right from her mind, “it was a different time. You cannot blame yourself. The magic business just isn’t what it used to be.” Her tone carried an undercurrent of quiet sardonicism that Lisette intuited wasn’t really aimed at her. “It’s doubtful if Soulange could have held on any better than you have.” Lisette noticed a tinge of reverence in the way the woman said her mother’s name. This was, she sensed, a true believer. “But it’s time you let go. Turn all of this”—she motioned around them, her shoulders drooping as if weighed down by the burden of what she witnessed there—“over to responsible hands. Someone who understands the true value of your mother’s work. You’ve carried the weight of it long enough.”
A glare—the sun reflecting off a passing auto? the flash of a tourist’s camera?—caused Lisette’s vision to blur. She reached up to rub her eyes, and as she pulled away her hand, she again witnessed a flash of taut dry skin, eyes sunk deep in cadaverous sockets, cheeks drawn in where teeth were missing. But Lisette’s mind insisted it was only a trick of the light, and her eyes capitulated to this explanation. The next instant, the illusion resolved into the woman’s utterly normal and arguably lovely features.
The woman seemed unaware of Lisette’s momentary confusion, as she had turned her attention to digging something out of her alligator-skin clutch bag—a purse Lisette realized was worth multiples of her entire stock before the break-in, perhaps even as much as the balance remaining on her home’s mortgage. “Really, my dear, just name your price,” the woman said, producing a leather-covered checkbook. She reached in again and found an expensive-looking pen. She tilted her head and waited in silence for Lisette to respond. Lisette tried to focus, but her eyes kept returning to the bag’s diamond-encrusted handle. A smile formed on the woman’s lips. “Lovely, isn’t it?” she said, holding it out for her to examine. “If we can come to terms on your establishment quickly, I’ll toss it into the deal. A petit lagniappe, if you will.”
The woman slipped the bag beneath her arm and turned her attention to filling out the check, squinting a bit as she wrote. She capped her pen, then bent the check back, tearing it from the book in a single precise movement. She held the inscribed check out for Lisette’s inspection. Lisette’s eyes darted from her own name on the “pay to the order of” line to the numerical representation of the amount being offered. She blinked. Five hundred thousand dollars. She nearly bowled backward at the sight.
“I’m sure,” the woman said, tucking both pen and checkbook back into her bag, “you’ll agree it’s a generous offer. But I was an . . . admirer of your mother. She once helped me when no one else could. I feel I owe it to her to make sure you and yours are well taken care of.” She reached out and grasped Lisette’s hand. Her flesh felt cool, dry, paper thin. Lisette fought the urge to pull away, her mind flashing back to the image of that skeletal face the light had tricked her into seeing. “I can’t truthfully say I was your mother’s friend, but I would like to try to be yours.”
Lisette stared at her, tongue-tied.
“Why don’t you sleep on it?” the woman said. She tendered the check to Lisette. “Show this to your husband. Discuss it.” She paused, a twinkle in her eye. “Put it under your pillow and see what sweet dreams may come.” Lisette accepted the check from the woman’s outstretched hand. “Just remember. This is for the whole kit and caboodle. Damaged or no. Not even an unbent paper clip should be missing from the inventory. Do you understand, ma chère?”
“Yes,” Lisette said, even though she didn’t understand a damn thing other than that this woman seemed to have far more money than sense. She nodded. “I do.”
“Good,” the woman said, a broad smile on her face. “Then I’ll come back tomorrow . . . early . . . shall we say eight . . . for your decision.” She turned and went to the exit, the bell sounding again as she opened the door. She cast a glance back over her shoulder at Lisette. “À demain,” she said and closed the door behind her.
“Everything that gives, takes,” Lisette heard her mother’s words once again, only this time it was she herself who had spoken them.
Lisette’s eyes dropped to the check that she was now clutching with both hands. Written there on the signature line, in a measured, old-style French script, Lisette read the name Delphine Brodeur.
ELEVEN
Lucy acquiesced to a quick squeeze from Vincent before offering Alice a cool “Is that all you brought?” It took Alice a moment to realize her cousin was referring to the small, black, wheeled bag Dr. Woodard had provided for her trip.
“Oh,” Alice said, feeling her cheeks flush. The small case didn’t just hold her clothes. It held every personal possession she’d been allowed to keep as an inmate at Sinclair. Half her life fit in that bag.
She was a good four years older than Lucy, but she felt so unsophisticated standing before her cousin. The younger girl towered over her, thanks to purple suede platform sandals, their gold piping glinting even in the artificial light. Alice caught a glimpse of red on the inside of the tall heel. Lucy wore a long-sleeved minidress in muted gold with a brocade top and mock neckline. The pleated skirt kicked up a bit with each self-assured step. Alice couldn’t help but glance down at her own scuffed black flats, jeans, and deep-V T-shirt. The damned peacoat folded over her arm. She was certain her entire outfit cost multiples less than one of her cousin’s shoes. “I’m only here for a few days . . . ,” she said, embarrassed and trying to explain away the size of the suitcase.
“Then back to the loony bin?”
“No . . . ,” Alice began. Vincent had promised to help get her established, here or anywhere she chose. Only she didn’t know what she wanted. Now that she finally had her freedom, she found it vaguely terrifying. She had reason to believe she’d have some resources coming to her from Celestin’s estate. But how far would that uncertain inheritance and the GED she’d picked up on Sinclair carry her? Would her father accept her if she decided she wanted to stay in New Orleans?
“Lucy,” Vincent snapped at the girl, her name becoming a rebuke and a warning in two short, sharp syllables.
Lucy shrugged and tossed her straight blonde hair. She focused on Vincent, her face the picture of innocence. “You’re the one who’s always complaining that the family keeps too many secrets. That we never discuss things openly . . .”
“There’s a difference . . .”
“Oh, please. Hypocrite much?” She turned to Alice. “See? Awkwardness over. We’re already halfway to becoming best friends.”
It struck Alice that Lucy was being sincere in spite of her abrasive manner. Lucy’s eyes widened, and she growled in exasperation as she pulled her cell phone out of her purse, tapped the screen with an imperial-blue nail, and pressed the screen to her ear. “Yes, Mother. I am here.” She lowered the phone and took an angry swipe at it. “That woman. She knows I’m here.”
Lucy leaned toward Alice. “We have that pain-in-the-you-know-what witch mother-daughter psychic bonding thing, you know?” Her face went blank. “Or maybe you don’t.” She paused, seeming to consider the gravity of her faux pas, then raised her eyebrows. “Whoops. Sorry. More awkward. Thought we were done with that. Oh,” she said on the heels of a sudden buzzing noise, pointing over Vincent’s shoulder at one of the conveyor belts. “Those are mine.” Four good-sized metal cases—titanium by the look of them—slid out onto the far belt. Lucy turned, scanning the people around them. “Where’s the driver . . . ?”
Vincent smiled and bowed.
Lucy closed her eyes and sighed. “Tell me you didn’t drive that old blue truck. I don’t want my luggage being tossed around in the back like a pack of bucktoothed bayou hounds.” She tossed a quick glance at Alice, then turned back to Vincent. “Does the azure embarrassment even have three seat belts?”
“Relax,” Vincent said. “I left Bonny Blue at home.” He smiled at Alice. “I brought my new toy.”
“Will the glories of this day ne
ver cease?” Lucy said, crossing to the belt and smiling at a couple of awkward-looking young men who were busy shrugging on large, full backpacks. She pointed at her own cases looping back around. “Could you?” she said, her voice carrying like a stage whisper. As the guys stumbled over each other to catch the cases, she turned back to Alice, driving her unspoken point home by raising her eyebrows. Her expression collapsed into the most grateful of smiles as the young men set the cases at her feet. She called out to Vincent. “We’re not far, are we?” But before Vincent could speak, she turned to the men. “You wouldn’t mind, would you?” The two cast wary glances at each other, but Lucy reached up and grasped the nearest’s bicep. “They’re just stuffed full of clothes we’re donating to charity. You know the one that helps unemployed single mothers find jobs?”
“Uh. Sure.” The one she’d touched answered for his friend.
“You. Are. The. Best.” She emphasized each word. Lucy leaned in and gave a little squeal and an even smaller squeeze. “You two go on,” she said, releasing the volunteer, then patting him on the back. She waved at Vincent and Alice. “We’ll catch up with you over there at the exit. My uncle can’t walk too quickly.” The men divvied up the cases, each taking one per hand, and began strolling to the door.
“You’re going to hell,” Vincent whispered as he and Alice drew near Lucy.
“Maybe, but not any time soon. Besides, I wasn’t even really lying, just anticipating a future truth. Mother always gives my old clothes to that charity. Ridiculous, really,” Lucy said, focusing on Alice. “I mean can you imagine wearing Chanel to interview for a job as a receptionist?” Her eyes drifted to the help she’d recruited—the two guys already growing impatient by the door. She waved at them. “But its goal appeals to people across the political spectrum, and Mother is nothing if not politically savvy.” She wrapped her arm through Vincent’s. “And you do like to work that leisurely Southern mosey of yours,” she said, tugging him along. She looked back over her shoulder at Alice, who followed behind, dragging along her single case. “Coming?”
The highway from the airport dispirited Alice. Ugly, utilitarian. Billboards and office parks. Oversize department stores peeking around concrete sound barriers. It was ridiculous, of course, but she’d expected that somehow New Orleans would know her, that she’d feel a connection to the city—a welcoming—the second her feet touched earth. Instead, it was as if Alice and the city were facing off, each fixing the other with the same distrustful stare.
They rode along in Vincent’s new toy. “A 1969 Boss 429,” he’d said with pride in response to an inquiry from Lucy’s ersatz porters.
“Yeah. Nice muscle,” Lucy had said and rolled her eyes. Now she sat in the back seat, tapping away at her phone’s screen. “Don’t worry,” she suddenly said. “It’s like this everywhere. No matter what city you’re traveling to, the airport road is the same.” She’d only offered a few words since their departure from the airport, each a separate complaint, so it surprised Alice to hear her speak—even more so because she’d seemed to read her thoughts. She leaned forward between them. “Am I right?”
Vincent responded with a nod. A smile formed on his face as the road bent south, cutting through a cluster of cemeteries. “Feel a bit more like home now?” Right and left, there were mausoleums, miniature mansions, architectural revivals to hold the dead—Greek, Gothic, a peppering of Romanesque, a handful borrowing from ancient Egypt. Angels weeping, angels praying, angels ready to take flight. Pillars and crosses. Somewhere within, though it wasn’t visible from the road, she remembered petting a statue of a faithful dog.
“Still not feeling it?” he said, turning to see her face. She shook her head. “Roll down your window.”
“Or how about we don’t?” Lucy protested.
“Just do it.” Alice hoped to please them both by finding a compromise. She grabbed the crank and rolled the window down an inch or so. “All the way,” her uncle insisted. Wind began to whip through the cabin, tousling Alice’s hair. It felt wonderful, though Lucy didn’t seem to appreciate the sensation.
“I am going to kill you both,” Lucy shouted at them, leaning up between their seats.
“Shaking in my boots,” he said, then reached over his shoulder with his left hand and nudged her back with two fingers pressed to her forehead. “What do you smell?” he said, barely audible over the rushing wind. “Close your eyes and breathe.” He glanced at Lucy in the rearview mirror. “Hey, back there. You, too. What do you smell?”
Alice did as he told them to, though she doubted her cousin was playing along.
“Gas fumes,” Lucy said.
“Beneath the fumes.”
“Cheap fast food.”
“Breakfast. Sorry. I was in a hurry to pick you two up. Go beneath that.”
She chuckled. “Your awful cologne.”
“Hey, watch it. I’m not wearing cologne. That’s my natural musk.”
“You should start wearing cologne,” Alice dared. Her cousin burst into laughter, and when Alice winked open one eye to look at them, she caught Vincent sticking out his tongue at her. Lucy’s eyes were closed.
“No. Really. Go deeper.”
Alice relaxed and breathed deeply. And there it was. A kind of bass note scent. Sharp, hot, moist, green. Her eyes popped open.
“That’s the smell of Mother Nature,” Vincent said, his face beaming. “Waiting on the edge of New Orleans. Reminding us that our grant on this crescent of earth isn’t permanent, and that she has plans to reclaim it.” He paused. “Telling me that the only place on earth I belong is a place where no man in his right mind should be. It’s in my blood, ma chère.” He winked at her. “And like it or not, it’s in your blood, too.”
Alice expected a quick comeback from Lucy. It surprised her to see her cousin staring out the back window at the passing scenery, a look of yearning in her eye. Lucy sensed the weight of Alice’s stare, and their eyes locked—but only for a moment. “Whatever,” the younger girl said and turned her attention back to her phone. “Can we kill the wind tunnel now?” She made an impatient cranking motion with her hand. “The window?”
Alice nodded and rolled it up. She gazed out and tried to focus on the sights, but her thoughts kept returning to that horrible Brodeur woman. “Are we getting to that point? That we’re dismembering our dead to distill an ounce of magic from their bones?”
Lucy sighed. “Really, must we?”
“Getting to that point?” Uncle Vincent said, ignoring Lucy, talking over her, not taking his eyes off the road. “No, my dear niece, we are at the point where such behavior, behavior we would’ve considered grotesque even a decade ago, has become the norm. Your father, he’s been arguing with the rest of the coven over just that. He wants to entomb Celestin intact, but it seems that everyone wants their pound of flesh. And in this case I mean it literally. We’ve been taking turns sitting with the body, two at a time, your father, Fleur—she’s here for real,” he said, looking back at Lucy, “and she’s in a real sour mood, so brace yourself”—he focused back on the road—“and I. But mostly Nicholas. He’s doing his best to hold the ghouls at bay.”
Alice felt sure her father’s main interest in the matter was to avoid establishing a precedent. He was looking forward, to the day of his own interment. Alice felt a flash of guilt when she realized that she, too, was looking forward to that day.
“Nothing”—Vincent rolled down the window and spat—“like sitting through your own father’s embalming, watching lifelong friends line up like vampires—like leeches—to get their share of his life’s blood.” He rolled up the window. “That was the compromise we came to with the coven.”
Alice felt queasy. She reached out and turned up a vent so the air-conditioning blew in her face. The cool air alleviated her nausea somewhat, but she could still taste bile. “Would you?” she said. “Would you take a piece of Grandfather to augment your own magic?”
Vincent shook his head. “Me? No, chérie, I wouldn�
�t. But I never had much power to begin with. I had to learn long ago how to make do without it. Not a drop of magic went toward building my business. Not a drop ever will. And this fine physique you’re looking at?” He took his right hand off the wheel and patted his hard stomach. “What I didn’t earn at a jobsite, I earned in the gym. A lot of witches, they never worked for a damned thing in their lives.” He looked into the rearview and allowed a long enough pause for Lucy to reach up and slap his shoulder. “And now a lot of witches are losing their damned minds. Some of the smaller covens have lost members. And the solitaries, too—a number of them have,” he hesitated, “gone, too.” Lost and gone were vague words, but he didn’t need to be more specific. Alice understood by his hesitancy alone that he meant these despondent witches had either committed suicide or packed up whatever magic they had left them and taken to the Dreaming Road, the place between dreaming and death that had long since claimed her mother.
“Me,” he said with a glance in her direction, “if tomorrow’s the day the last of magic dries up and disappears—well, on my own, I might not even notice.”
Alice averted her eyes as they drew near the Superdome. She’d watched the old newsclips, seen the documentaries. The first night—the night Katrina passed over the city—she’d been safe, protected by a dome of magic that as a child she’d taken for granted as her birthright. But she was no longer a child. She’d read firsthand accounts of those who’d come to the arena seeking shelter and found themselves trapped in septic conditions. The number burgeoning from fifteen to thirty thousand people without food, without water, without functioning restroom facilities. No air-conditioning. No lights. Afraid of your neighbor. More afraid of the men who’d been tasked with maintaining order and the guns they carried. She’d read about it. She’d watched the news reports. But she hadn’t experienced it, so there was no way she could truly understand. Alice didn’t turn away out of horror, or out of respect for the thousands the storm had left dead and displaced, she turned away in shame.