by J. D. Horn
“This isn’t Astrid.” Guillaume—just-call-me-Guy—Brunet rose from one of the lolling chairs and rushed to Rose’s side. Guy, who in his late thirties counted as the youngest of the elders, was the last member to have been accepted into the coven’s ranks. “This is her daughter, Alice.”
Rose tilted her head from side to side, examining Alice. “Oh,” she said, at first sounding unconvinced, then nodded in apparent acceptance of Guy’s words. “Of course. You must forgive me.” She held her hand up by her head and shook it. “Things get so jumbled up in here of late.”
Alice was aware that dementia was on the rise among older witches, another consequence of the world’s waning magic. The condition struck some with greater speed and severity than others. Some of the residents of Sinclair had been sent there because of it. She smiled. “No problem,” she said, placing her hand over Rose’s and giving it what she hoped was a reassuring pat. She stopped and considered, thinking of Celestin’s gifts—at least, the ones he had shared with her. “Grandfather could hold an old photo and carry you back into the moment it was taken. They were mostly frozen moments, but sometimes he could capture a few instants before. Never after . . .” She thought of the once cherished photo of her family, which she’d lost track of years before. How many times had she begged Celestin to take her back to that moment just one more time so she could stare into her mother’s eyes?
“Your mother,” Rose said. She leaned in and spoke in a stage whisper, “I never believed she went willingly.”
Guy flushed and took hold of Rose’s arm. “Come now, Rose. Not the time for old gossip.” He tugged her away from Alice with great gentleness. “I’m sorry,” he said, shifting his gaze to Alice. “So good to see you. So sorry for your loss.”
Alice stood there dumbfounded. It took a moment to recover, but she gathered herself enough to nod and say, “Thank you.” Guy nodded, then guided Rose away, easing her down into one of the upholstered chairs.
Alice forced herself to look past the gathered mourners, and toward her grandfather’s casket.
Is this what they did? Sit around conjecturing? Making up stories so that they could better relish her family’s misfortunes? The only thing worse than losing her mother to the Dreaming Road was the thought that her mother might not have had a choice in the matter. She began to make her way to the casket’s side. She didn’t look any of the other mourners in the eye for fear she might scream.
As she approached, a woman with long gray hair, a square jaw, and a sportsman’s shoulders rose from one of the face-to-face settees, of which she’d been the sole occupant. Alice recognized her as Jeanette, whom Hugo had always jokingly called “The Ancient Wall of Jeanette.” The settee groaned in relief, though the floorboards moaned as the imposing witch planted her full weight on them. She tilted her head back and sniffed the air, as if she were trying to catch scent of Alice’s magic. For all Alice knew, Jeanette might be doing precisely that.
A pair of witches known as “les Jumeaux”—or “the Twins” when the phrase felt too awkward to slip into a mouthful of English—as if the two were a single unit without any independent existence, sat together on the second settee. The twins leaned in toward each other, perfectly mirroring each other’s gestures as they pressed their temples together and linked hands. Though one was female and the other male, they were identical in every other way, their dress contrived to accentuate their great similarities and hide their small differences. They, too, had aged, though time seemed to have helped buff away any distinctions between them. Alice had neither opportunity nor desire to make a detailed study of the pair. Still, while passing them, her mind cataloged two noticeable variances—a slight coarseness to the male’s skin, which he had attempted to erase with a theatrical-grade layer of foundation, and a marginal increase in the width of the female’s hips. Alice surmised that the twins were communicating with each other in silence, their gaze locked on her as their temples remained pressed together.
As she passed them, Alice felt a tickle. A slight tingling. She realized the two were trying to work their way into her thoughts, though whether it was a mercenary effort or simply an act of psychic voyeurism, she couldn’t say. She closed her eyes and drew a breath, forcing their energies out as she exhaled. She turned back over her shoulder to find the two of them staring back with wide, innocent eyes. Their attempt, weak and easily shrugged off, she intuited, came down to curiosity, maybe even boredom. The female twin shrugged and offered a wan smile in apology.
“The loss of Celestin . . . ,” Julia Prosper, a striking woman with jet hair, large obsidian eyes, and hollow cheeks, said as she peered around Guy’s shoulders, “is shared by us all.” She circled around Guy. “Though, of course, your sorrow must be more acute, as you share blood.” Her shoes made staccato taps as she stepped from the undoubtedly imitation Savonnerie carpet in the room’s center onto the parquet.
“From what I hear, we all share his blood,” Alice said, an unexpected flare of temper causing her to speak words she regretted the next instant. She could feel a wave of affronted hostility wash over her from all directions.
Julia’s eyes flashed. The witch was petite, but still imposing as she drew up to Alice, only stopping when they were almost nose to nose. “And where do you find your magic?” With her head tilted to the side and her cheeks puffed out, impatient and hungry for any tasty tidbit, the woman reminded Alice of the puffins who visited Sinclair’s rocky shore.
“This girl, she has magic,” her tone turned sharp as she looked around Alice to Vincent, who was coming up behind his niece. “Abundant magic. You and your brother swore that the family would forgo any taking of relics.”
“She has no need of relics.” The voice, a man’s, came from the far corner of the room. “She is a Marin witch. And feast or famine, the Marins have always enjoyed a surplus of magic. That’s why a Marin has always been at the head of our coven.” Alice went up on the balls of her feet to get a better view of the man who stood there, his face bathed in shadow. “Please forgive my rapacious sister. Envy is her defining characteristic.” The words were spoken in the same tone a pleasantry would be delivered, but they carried a bite. Gabriel Prosper stepped into the light, pressing a tumbler to his lips as he did. When he lowered his glass, Alice could make out the ghost of a wry smile underlining a cool earnestness in his deep brown eyes. “And please forgive me as well, dear Alice. I would have . . . could have . . . never participated in the draining of Celestin’s blood if we weren’t all pressed up against the proverbial wall. He was more than a friend. I thought of him as a brother.” Julia barked out a callous laugh, but Gabriel ignored her. “Perhaps you could speak to your father about allowing us a few keepsakes?” Alice grimaced at his euphemism for ‘relic’. “Before we entomb Celestin in Précieux Sang, and his residual power is forever lost?”
Guy approached and planted himself between her and Julia. He spoke with a firm voice. “Don’t let them pressure you.”
“Oh, no,” Julia said. “Let the gods forbid that a Marin feel pressured into acting in an unselfish manner.” Gabriel approached and stood by his sister’s side. Alice had no doubt that the rancor between them was real. She also had no doubt that—if the need arose—they could and would set their differences aside in a heartbeat. Brother and sister looked out for each other. Alice felt a twinge of jealousy at the thought.
“You’re a fine pair of jackals.” Alice turned at the sound of her father’s voice. She felt cold, though her pulse quickened. She hadn’t seen him in the flesh since his last visit to Sinclair, three years ago. He seemed somehow diminished. More compact. Less powerful. She realized she had grown, both in stature and magic. She shivered from the light touch of her neglected magic as it traced down her spine, tempting her to use it, to try herself by testing Nicholas.
“We’re only saying . . . ,” Julia began, but Gabriel’s hand on her cut her off.
Her father approached them, looking down at her with tired eyes. He held out his ha
nd, palm down. She felt she had no choice but to take it. It was cool, dry. He grasped her fingers, but only for a moment, then released her. “Good to see you, ma chère.”
“Good to see you, too, Father.” She was surprised that it was good to see him. A part of her had missed home so much. Longed to be near him.
A tiny spark flashed in his eyes, and the right corner of his mouth pulled up into a crooked smile. “Really, Alice. You’re an adult now. Accountable for your own actions. You may as well call me Nicholas. Seems all my children do sooner or later.”
“Oh,” she said, taken aback, her heart tumbling into her stomach. In spite of Dr. Woodard’s claim that her father had left her to wither on the island, she had hoped . . .
She had hoped. But his cold, fixed gaze underscored his cached message.
Adult. Accountable for your actions.
She had her explanation. Maybe he didn’t believe in Babau Jean, but he blamed her—or her magic—for Luc’s death. He’d given her a free pass because she’d been so young. He didn’t love her. He feared her.
“Of course. Nicholas,” she said.
“Where’s Fleur?” Vincent said. “Did she leave?” His tone grew sharp.
“Yes,” her father . . . Nicholas . . . said, then with an annoyed wave of his hand, “well, no. Fleur is in the office up front, availing herself of their computer.” He held up his hand. “I’ve been with Celestin almost the entire time.”
“Almost?”
“Nature called.” Her father’s lips pulled into a near snarl. “Shall we check the body? Perhaps go through the ladies’ purses to see if they’re attempting to smuggle out some soft bit?”
Her father’s flippant tone made Alice wonder if Vincent had been giving his brother the credit for his own efforts to preserve the integrity of Celestin’s remains. That Vincent wouldn’t meet her gaze when she looked at him convinced her it was true.
“So,” her father’s head tilted as he turned his focus to Alice, “how long do you intend to visit with us?”
“Well, she isn’t exactly visiting,” Vincent said, “this is her home.”
“Eight days,” Alice blurted out the words. “Eight days,” she repeated in a calmer tone.
“Good,” Nicholas said, nodding his head. “You’ll find your old room waiting for you,” he said, and Alice instantly began replaying his words in her mind, scanning them for any touch of warmth, if not for the woman she was, at least for the girl she had been. “It’s just as it was,” he continued. “A bit ridiculous perhaps for the young woman you’ve grown into, but I’m sure you’ll find a touch of nostalgia enjoyable . . . for a week or so. You’ll be pleased to find an old friend waiting there for you.”
Alice had opened her mouth to speak when she heard angry voices, those of her aunt and cousin, echoing down the hall. The door to the viewing room burst open, and Lucy stomped across the threshold.
“Have they caught you up yet?” Lucy said, catching sight of her. Anger simmered in her blue eyes.
“Lucy.” Aunt Fleur’s voice came out sharp, a pin meant to burst Lucy’s incipient—or was it ongoing?—tirade.
All a matter of perspective, Alice decided. “Caught up?”
“Seems that Mother has decided to divorce my dad, and she thinks . . .” Lucy looked back toward Fleur with a venomous gaze. “She thinks she’s going to make me leave my friends, my school, my life, and move to this swamp.”
“Well, in all fairness,” Vincent said, “D.C. is a natural swamp, too, so—” His words stopped short when Lucy slapped both hands on her hips and glared at him. “I’m just saying you should give New Orleans a try.”
Lucy’s eyes widened in exasperation, and she shook her head. “Whatever.” She raised her hands, palms held out, to Vincent. “It isn’t going to happen.” She turned on her mother. “You can stay here, but I’m going home to Dad.”
“Sweetheart,” Fleur said, her tone sad. She approached Lucy, leaned in. “Let’s take a moment to talk about this. Really talk about it.” She reached out for her daughter, but Lucy took a step back. “Just the two of us. In private. Please.” No sign of acquiescence. “Please, dear, there are things you should know.” Alice noticed that the Twins had scooted forward, literally sitting on the edge of their seat, feeding on the fiery emotional charge Lucy and Fleur had brought into the room with them. Seasoning it with the dregs of her own quietly bitter exchange with Nicholas. Rose, too, watched with a rapacious, lizard-like gleam in her eyes. They’d been denied their share of Celestin. Perhaps they felt this bit of psychic vampirism was their due. Still, Alice wished they would choke.
“No,” Lucy said, with a toss of her blonde hair. “You can let this midlife crisis or whatever it is ruin your life if you want, but I’m not going to let it ruin mine. I’m going home. I’ll stay for the funeral, but I’m leaving right after the ball.”
“Your father doesn’t want you,” Fleur said, a long-unspoken truth that hung in the air, then came crashing down around them. Alice’s gaze grazed Nicholas’s face before darting away.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Sweetheart, I wouldn’t say this to hurt you.”
“No,” Lucy said, shaking her head. “You’re nuts. I’m going to call Dad. He’ll set you straight.”
Fleur rifled through her shoulder bag and produced a phone. “Here, use mine. He won’t answer your number. He’s not man enough.” She paused, her shoulders slumping forward. “I’m no longer of use to him. He no longer needs the Marin money, and what magic I have left . . .” She seemed to remember herself, straightening her spine, raising her chin. “He wants his freedom, and he’s left me to deal with the aftermath. I wanted to spare you, but if you need to hear it from him . . .” She tried to force the phone into Lucy’s hands, but Lucy pulled her hand free from Fleur’s grip, refusing to accept it. The girl took a step backward, then turned away.
The look on her face said she knew the truth, had known it for a while even, but didn’t want to accept it.
“Your man has wronged you.” Rose’s voice broke the silence. She stood and began making her way forward, the spark in her eye intensifying with each thump of her cane. “It sounds to me like an old-fashioned cursing is in order.”
“Oh, Rose,” Fleur said, focusing on her daughter rather than the old witch. “Thank you, but that isn’t necessary.”
Lucy spun around to face them. The spark from Rose’s eyes couldn’t compare to the full conflagration that had bloomed in Lucy’s. “Oh, yes,” she said. “It is indeed necessary.” She came forward and caught both Alice and Fleur by the hand. “But we Marin women can handle it all on our own.”
FOURTEEN
“I’m sorry, the what?” Evangeline said, tracing a gloved finger along the book’s cover.
“Its full name is The Lesser Key of Darkness, though most refer to it simply as The Lesser Key.”
“And if this is the ‘lesser’ key, that implies there’s a ‘greater’ one.”
Daniel nodded. “Yes. The . . .”
“No, wait,” she said, holding up her other hand, “let me guess. The Book of the Unwinding.”
“You’ve heard of it,” he said, taking advantage of her gesture to tug the second glove on her upturned hand.
She looked at the glove. “Is this really necessary?”
“Look at it,” Daniel insisted, pointing at the book. “Really look at it. See it with a witch’s eyes.”
Evangeline fought the urge to strip off the gloves and leave. The visit from the sisters, the fool’s mission they’d manipulated her into accepting. If they had any interest in Alice’s well-being, it was purely tangential to whatever they were really after. She’d been tricked. Hell, even Sugar had somehow been influenced, guided into thinking of a creature she’d despised since kittenhood.
Evangeline felt her blood pumping. It was one thing to mess with her, but another thing entirely for them to mess with her cat. Still, she let her eyes shift to the counter, peering at the book�
��s edges and looking outward from them, seeing how the book interacted with its surroundings—examining it in negative space. Along the cover’s red edges, she began to see tiny cilia, shadows reaching out. It struck her that this wasn’t just a book, it was somehow a living entity, reaching out, sensing, testing those who held it in their hands, determining whom it might infect. She pulled back with such force, her stool rocked back.
Daniel reached out and righted her. “Not to worry. You’re safe to handle the book. I don’t think it can corrupt you,” he said. “After all, I sense you’ve already visited dark places. And you . . . well, you’re still you.” He nodded at the gloves. “Those are just a precaution. They’ve been blessed. The cloth the book is sitting on has also been blessed.”
She eyed her hands with suspicion. “Blessed by whom, exactly?”
“By me, of course. You don’t think I just bought blessed gloves off the Internet, do you?”
“I suppose not.”
“Though I did learn how to bless them myself from a video I watched online.” His face was lit with pride.
“Of course you did,” she said, then drew a deep breath, envisioning the purple rubber gloves changing into sleeves of white light. She opened the front cover on her exhale, then began flipping through. There was no title page, no mention of an author. A drawing. Pretty generic stuff, really, the all-seeing eye pierced by two crossed swords. The illustration reminded her of student tattoo work—heavy in ambition, light on execution. She glanced up at Daniel.
“A witch’s eyes,” he said.
She turned the page. Writing, symbols that looked like an uneasy marriage of runes and the Greek alphabet, dominated both pages. At the center of each page was an illumination.