by J. D. Horn
“You shouldn’t have left the city,” Lucy said, surprising Alice by giving voice to her own thought. “When the city needed magic most, the witches all packed up and left.”
Alice turned back and forced herself to focus on the arena, the sun lending a soft glow to its pale-bronze aluminum skin.
“Not all of us did, kiddo,” Vincent said. He shifted gears and sped up, aiming the car toward the Carondelet Street exit.
“Maybe you didn’t, but the others, like Father . . . ,” Alice began.
“Yeah, your dad left, but only long enough to get you and Hugo settled at Fleur’s. No, ma chérie, you two might be right about many of the witches in this town”—he reached over and tapped the tip of Alice’s nose—“but you’re wrong about your own family. Nicholas and I. Your grandfather. Hell, even Luc. We were all right here, doing what little we could with what little we had left. I got to tell you,” he said, shaking his head, “for a while after the storm, magic was mostly gone. It was like trying to strike a wet match. Me, I was good. I was used to making do without. But dear God, your grandfather”—he chuckled at the memory—“he was fit to be tied. Damned near apoplectic at points. Luc and Nicholas, they ended up having to work together for a while to raise a spark.” He raised his eyebrows, shrugged his shoulders, and sighed. “I thought it would be good for them, maybe even help Luc work through some of his anger.” He bit his lip, shook his head. “But I was wrong. If anything, forcing those two to cooperate was like tying two tigers together by the tail. It just got worse every day.” He looked over at her. “You never spoke to Nicholas about any of this?”
“No,” she said, slumping down in her seat. “Listen to you. Now you’re talking like Father is some kind of saint.” She didn’t want to discuss her father’s abandonment in front of Lucy. At least not before she could press him for answers herself. But still, hearing Vincent defend him felt like another betrayal.
“Oh, no. He’s a total asshat, but he’s my brother, so I can say that,” he said as he downshifted and made a quick turn onto Calliope. His mouth pulled into a tight pucker. He reached over and grabbed Alice’s hand, giving it a tight squeeze. It felt like an apology. Alice squeezed back.
He tapped the brake, then swung onto St. Charles. “But no matter what you know, or what you think you know, he’s your father. Like it or not—admit it or not—how you see him affects how you view yourself. He’s sure as hell not perfect, but for your own sake, you need to look for things in him you can love, things you can respect. And Nicholas Marin did not desert New Orleans. That’s thing to respect number one.” He held up a hand toward the street before them. “Mesdames et Messieurs, well, Mam’selles . . . I give you the world-famous St. Charles Avenue.”
TWELVE
Evangeline stood at Nicholas’s door, glancing around, tossing a cautious look at the sky, eying even every damn squirrel with suspicion—who knew what forms the sisters might take next? She had no idea what her mother’s sister witches were capable of. It struck her that she really had no idea what she herself was capable of either.
It was broad daylight, and she was hardly a stranger. But she still felt as if she shouldn’t be here. At least not behind Nicholas’s back. It felt like breaking and entering, and she had more than a little experience with the art of breaking and entering, so she should know.
She pressed the doorbell a second time, digging her feet into the welcome mat. She heard a muffled voice, intuition more than her ears telling her that the word she heard was “coming.” Another moment, and the door opened.
“Oh,” Daniel said, his mouth hanging open in surprise, “Ms. Caissy. Were you expected?”
Evangeline, too, felt surprised. She recognized the once familiar servitor spirit, but he had changed. The goofy hat and soiled floral suspenders were gone. He wore a trim-fitting plaid shirt, mostly blue with orange and white accents, paired with faded straight-leg jeans. His deep red hair looked as if it had been cropped short on the sides, though the top was just long enough to curl. He looked like just about any of the twenty-something guys wandering along Frenchmen Street might.
“Nicholas isn’t at home,” he offered in the face of her stunned silence.
“No,” Evangeline said. “I knew that . . .”
He stood there, one eyebrow rising above the other, a confused smile surfacing on his lips. It was really, really hard sometimes to remember Daniel wasn’t a real person, and that he never had been.
“Actually, I’ve come to see you,” she said. “May I come in?”
“Of course,” he stepped back and opened the door wide. “It’s been . . . well, goodness, it’s so hard to keep track of things on your time. I’m guessing two years?”
Evangeline did the math in her mind. It had been more than two years since she’d last visited Nicholas’s house, even though it was an easy walk from her place to Bayou St. John. She had a brief flash of the argument that had led to her storming out of here. A stupid fight, really. At least on the surface. She’d suggested moving a couple of pieces of furniture. “Don’t get too comfortable around here,” Nicholas had said in reply. In return, she had reminded him just how hot a Cajun temper burns.
They’d made their peace over it. At least on the surface.
But her heart and her pride had both been bruised, and it had been enough to keep her away. The man and his damned walls. She felt herself starting to get pissed off all over again, just remembering.
Evangeline loved Nicholas. She did. Seemed most of the time, though, that she did more in spite of the man he showed himself to be than because of it.
She and Nicholas met occasionally at her house, but they more often chose neutral territory. Nicholas kept a condo in the French Quarter for visitors he didn’t necessarily want under his own roof. Most of the time, they went there.
Visitors he didn’t necessarily want . . . And there it was again, that tiny, nagging voice telling her that Nicholas didn’t really love her. That he loved the convenience of her. That he was wasting her life. That she was wasting her life. That it was way past time for them to move forward together or go their separate ways. That voice had been whispering in the back of her mind for at least five years, but now it was practically barking at her.
Daniel seemed to read something on her face—or maybe in her aura. Nicholas and Astrid had given him the ability to read auras so he could better understand when his charges were sick, or fibbing, or planning mischief. “But it is such a pleasure to see you again now.” He offered Evangeline his hand and she took it. It felt so solid, so warm. And was that a pulse beneath his skin?
Evangeline offered him a sincere smile. “Thank you,” she said, as he released her. “I guess this must be a rare occurrence for you—receiving a visitor of your own?”
He tilted his head, again seemingly confused, but then a look of childish excitement rose in his eyes. “Not anymore. Hugo gave me this Christmas last, or was it the one before that?” he said, pulling a smartphone from his pocket. He tapped the screen and held it out so she could examine the latest dating app. “Swipe left, swipe right?” He turned it back around and gazed down at the torso showing in the photo. “With abs like that,” he said with a wink, “methinks we shall swipe right.” He dragged his finger over the glass and then slipped the phone back into his pocket. He paused as if remembering something. “Not that it isn’t special to receive a visit from you.” He smiled. “How may I be of service?”
Evangeline felt her tongue poke out to lick her lip. This was her tell, Nicholas had taught her, the indication that she was about to tell a lie. Instead, she shook her head. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come. I’m not even really sure why I’m here.”
“Well, I don’t share that problem. At least I didn’t use to. I’ve grown more sympathetic with that particular quandary since my return.”
“No,” she said, “I don’t mean in the grand scheme, I just mean here . . . to see you.”
“Oh,” he said, his voice smooth, un
offended. “Then if you don’t mind”—he pressed his hands together as if in prayer—“I’m a bit preoccupied myself.” His face began to beam. “Alice is coming home today”—he gestured down the hall—“and I’m a bit busy in the kitchen.” The light in his eyes faded. “You know Nicholas is not the most effusive of men. I’m not sure what kind of welcome she’ll receive from her father, so I thought perhaps a few treats . . .” A line of concern formed between his eyes. “Well, I just want my girl to know someone here is happy she is home.”
Without thinking, Evangeline reached out and placed her hand on Daniel’s shoulder. This man. This spirit. This magic trick with a pleasant attitude. No matter what he was—or wasn’t—in actuality, it was clear he did love Alice. Perhaps more than even her own parents did. Yes. It was worrisome that she was acting on a request made by the sisters, but what harm could it do to speak to Daniel about keeping a special eye out for the girl?
“Alice’s return was the reason I came to see you.”
His look combined mistrust and hope. “You shouldn’t worry that her return will upset the applecart between you and Nicholas. He’s never been an attentive father, and I fear her visit may be quite short.”
“No, no,” Evangeline said, squeezing his shoulder, rock-hard muscle. It would seem Hugo had made a few modifications to things other than Daniel’s wardrobe. “It’s nothing like that,” she said. “I want to make sure Alice’s visit is successful. I’d like to see her come home. For good.”
Daniel’s slight pout flashed into a wide smile. “Follow through with me, please?” he said, turning and heading down the hall toward the kitchen. As Evangeline followed him, she caught the scents of vanilla and caramelized sugar in the air, though it struck her there was something else, too. Something she had sensed before in Daniel’s presence, but hadn’t really taken the time to consider. A trace of ozone, or was it petrichor? Sugar’s image of “man not man, smells of thunder” struck her as an apt description for Daniel.
He raised his head then dashed into the kitchen, leaving the door flapping behind him. Evangeline pushed in to find him rescuing a batch of cookies from the oven. “Just made it,” he said, using a spatula to slip the cookies onto a cooling rack. “Butterscotch chip,” he said, then his forehead wrinkled. “I hope she still likes them.”
“I’m sure she will,” Evangeline said, coming closer and examining at least a dozen different varieties he’d already prepared, “or one of the score of others.”
He shrugged, his face flushing. “I don’t sleep. And Nicholas didn’t come home last night, so . . .”
“It’s a lovely gesture. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled.”
He pulled out a stool by the island. “Please, have a seat.”
She did as he asked.
“May I get you something to drink? Coffee? Tea?” He held up a finger and turned, pacing over to the enormous stainless-steel standing freezer. He pulled out a vodka Evangeline quickly recognized by the graceful, almost feminine curve of the bottle’s shoulder. “Hugo dropped by last night and deposited this here before slipping off to who knows where.” He held the bottle up. “Would you like some? Or maybe you’d like to sample some of my baking?”
Evangeline started to refuse, but then remembered the day she’d been having—no to the line of credit, yes to an unkindness of ravens. “Yes,” she said.
He raised an eyebrow. “Vodka? Cookies?”
“Both.” She pointed at the plate of oatmeal raisin. “One of those, please. Alice never liked raisins.”
Daniel’s face pulled a tiny frown. “No. Of course she didn’t.” He slapped his forehead, seeming angry with himself. “I should’ve remembered.” He grabbed the plate and strode toward the garbage can, then he put his foot on the pedal to open its lid.
“Hold on,” Evangeline held up a hand in protest. “You set that plate right by me. I love raisins. And I’ll take the rest back to the club. They’ll be gone in no time.”
He looked down at the plate as if the cookies themselves had betrayed him, but he did as she asked. “I should’ve remembered,” he said. Even as he talked, he worked, filling a shot glass with ice-cold vodka.
“It’s been a long time. Besides, I suspect she disliked them more on principal than due to the actual taste. Tastes change. People change. You need to prepare yourself for that. There may be very little left of the girl you knew.” She bit into the lovely, still-warm cookie and washed it down with a sip of the alcohol. “But it’s okay if she’s changed. After all, you’ve changed.”
“Well, yes,” he said. “I have changed. That’s the greatest advantage to learning everything you’ve ever believed about yourself to be a lie. If you survive the learning, it means you get to make whatever you would like of yourself.” Evangeline held her tongue, unsure of how much Daniel had discovered about his true nature over the years.
“You needn’t worry,” he said, intuiting her line of thinking. “I know. I’ve had more than a few people tell me I’m not the real thing, but you know what?” he said. She felt sure the question was rhetorical. He refilled her glass, then poured one for himself. “I’m still here anyway.” He held up the shot glass, and she clinked her own against it, then set hers down on the counter.
“I still can’t leave the house. Oh, sure, I can venture out into the yard, but if I try to go any farther than the end of the walk, the next instant I’m snapped right back here. I don’t even sense it coming. One moment, I’m heading toward the waterway, and the next I’m standing in the foyer, the closed door behind me.” He shrugged. “Anyway, here I stand. No children to look after, and all the time in the world on my hands. So I started watching those cooking videos on the Internet. I’ve always had some basic skills, but I’d like to believe I’ve now become a very good cook. I can’t really taste what I make, you know, I can only determine if it’s safe for human consumption. But the dish always comes out looking like it does in the video, and I haven’t managed to poison Hugo or his father yet.” He looked at her through narrowed eyes. “Although the way they go after each other sometimes, I cannot say I haven’t been tempted.”
“You’ve developed a wicked streak, you,” Evangeline said, prompting a smile.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” He held up a finger, as if he’d just flashed on something. “Speaking of wicked, how is the Pewter Devil?” He reached over and plucked a strand of Sugar’s fur from her shirt.
Evangeline laughed and took another sip. “She’s as cranky as ever,” she said and wagged a finger in his face, “but I love her, so watch what you say.” He held up both hands in mock surrender. “Actually it was her idea for me to pay you a visit.”
He took the glass from her hand and emptied it into the sink. “Sorry, but when a patron tells me her cat sent her, it’s time to cut her off.”
She could tell he was half joking—but only half. “Said the man who never was,” she said.
“Touché,” he said, though he didn’t return her glass. “Have another cookie.”
She leaned into the counter, wondering if her next question might offend him, if it were even possible to offend him. Perhaps Nicholas and Astrid hadn’t built him that way. “How did you manage to return?”
“There was no ‘manage’ to it. I was here. Then I wasn’t. Then I was. It was disconcerting at first.”
“It took a while, though, right? It wasn’t really a clean transition.”
“Well, no. It actually took quite a long time. I’ve been here, fully realized for . . .” He squinted. “There’s that troublesome time thing again. I’ve been back three years, though Hugo told me that he first noticed me ‘lurking,’ as he likes to say, as far back as eight years ago. He said I’d pop in, then fade out as quickly as I appeared, though I must admit I don’t remember any of it. That’s why I asked that Alice not be told that I was back. Until she needed to know. I’m still not sure I have my grapple planted firmly in this world.”
“Eight years ago.”
�
�Yes, around the time Celestin took his bad turn.” He looked down at her. “The thought crossed my mind, too. That maybe he was giving me a boost of some kind, though I can’t imagine how or why. I hadn’t actually laid eyes on him since Mrs. Marin . . .” He cut himself short. “Nicholas bristles when I call her that. I’m to speak of her as Astrid, though he’d rather I’d not mention her at all.” He gave a slight shrug. “Anyway, I hadn’t seen Celestin since Astrid left us.”
“The thing is”—Evangeline’s thought was forming as she spoke it—maybe it was good Daniel had taken her glass after all—“and I don’t mean to demean you in any way, but all over witches are yapping about magic disappearing. How is it that you just pop back into place . . . better, stronger even than you were before?”
“Don’t think I haven’t had the same thoughts,” he said, seeming to grow excited, coming and sitting beside her. “I’ve tried to discuss them with Nicholas, but he always gives me a pat on the back and a ‘Just happy you’re here with me, old boy, and did you put starch in my underwear?’” He laughed. “Just between you and me, I might’ve done that once, but I was a bit out of practice with laundry, you know.” He shrugged. “And when was the last time you tried to have a serious conversation with Hugo?”
Evangeline nodded. “Last night, in fact, but I know what you mean.” She slipped another cookie off the plate and broke it in half, handing the smaller piece to Daniel. “So I guess you have a theory or two.”
He stared at the cookie like it was an alien object, then popped it in his mouth. It struck her that she’d already forgotten he wasn’t “real,” and he either appreciated her forgetfulness, or he just didn’t want to embarrass her. “I do,” he said, a boyish grin appearing on his lips, “but one of them is about you.”