by J. D. Horn
She made her way, taking her time not only because she didn’t want Carver to think he scared her, but also because it took her time these days, period. If she failed to obtain the Book, she’d soon have to give up her upstairs bedroom. The stairs were becoming too difficult to navigate. When she reached the landing, she could see the light spilling from her sitting room out into the hall. Seemed that the little bastard felt confident enough to make himself at home.
She eased her way down, one hand clutching the banister as she did. Once she reached the hall, she forced her shuffling feet to step lightly as she traveled along the hall. She concentrated on appearing, on being young, vibrant, and in control. She steeled herself before stepping into the pool of light.
She looked through the open doorway into her sitting room, where Carver indeed sat, a glass of her best whiskey in one hand, the necklace he’d stolen in the other. “La main de gloire,” he said, “the hand of glory, is a corruption, you know, of mandragore, the common mandrake.” Delphine realized there was something different, something wrong about him. His energy had changed. The Carver she knew could never be called lucid, let alone erudite in the history of magic. No, in spite of his appearance, the man before her was not the twitch-nosed white rabbit she’d employed. She was looking into the face of Carver Roy, but something different was looking back at her. Something dangerous. She startled at the realization, but forced herself to recover, to slow her breathing, to calm her pulse.
“The mandrake whose roots aren’t shaped like a man, that doesn’t issue a lethal scream as you rip it from the earth, and that is of absolutely no value when it comes to real magic,” her visitor said. “But that simple error in transcription—mandragore to main de gloire—led to the discovery of a way to capture a witch’s magic.” He held the necklace out before her and shook it so that the bones rattled. “The relic.”
He tossed the necklace at her. She reached out to catch it, but it fell through her fingers to land at her feet. The strand that had held the bones together for two hundred years snapped, and the bones skidded along the parquet. “Who are you?” she said, taking a step back, feeling one of the bones grind to powder beneath her tread.
He stood, dropping the tumbler to the floor. He reached over his head, his fingers curling beneath his chin, digging into the skin there. Then, as if its face were only a simple mask, it peeled the flesh away, holding the flap of skin up for Delphine to see. But she paid the skin no heed—her eyes darted from the blood-rouged, white enamel face beneath Carver’s to the horrible black holes where the creature’s own eyes should be. Freed from his disguise, he began to grow, Carver’s compact, muscular form stretching out into a tall, gangly, almost skeletal creature. A sound like the whisk, whisk, whisk of a knife being sharpened drew her attention to his mouth, where jagged bits of metal formed razor-blade teeth.
“I wonder,” those horrible lips formed the words, “how many such trinkets I’ll be able to make out of you.”
The room around Delphine darkened and brightened twice. Her knees weakened. She realized she was on the verge of fainting. She tried to brace herself, her hand brushing over the pocket holding The Lesser Key as she did. A spark shot up her fingers, and she snapped to full awareness. Reaching out, she pointed at him with a finger of her trembling hand. “I know who you are. Who you really are.”
The creature lunged at her, and she spun around, nearly falling but catching herself. A part of her mind told her that he was playing with her. That he was only letting her believe she might escape him, just so he could watch her, a pitiful, ancient creature who had lived many more lifetimes than anyone should, struggle out into the hall in her nonslip slippers. Still, she ran as fast as her feet would carry her, intent on reaching the door.
She latched onto the doorknob, yanked the door wide, and fled out into the twilight.
She heard a screeching overhead and looked up. Above her, two quickly descending shadows.
A fiery pain shot through her as sharp hooks—no, not hooks, talons, the part of her mind that was still functioning corrected her—pierced her shoulders. She heard the flapping of large wings, and she reached out for, but failed to grasp, her falling wig as she was whisked up into the darkening sky.
SEVENTEEN
“Cursing is dark magic. The darkest,” Fleur said, leading them up Decatur Street, past the old Mint and into the Marigny.
Fleur walked a few strides ahead, her usually pinned-up hair down, breezes from the river lifting it, giving it a wild, untamed air. Her movements were smooth. Fluid. Predatory. It seemed as if she might take to the night sky at any moment.
Alice walked beside Lucy, who in spite of the ridiculous appliqué bee on her backpack, seemed diminished, muted, in her athletic trainers and gray T-shirt. But it was more than the change of wardrobe. The beams of a passing car illuminated the apprehension in her cousin’s down-turned eyes.
“I’m tired,” Lucy said. “Why are you dragging us all over the stupid French Quarter in the middle of the night?”
“We left the Vieux Carré when we crossed Esplanade,” Alice said. “This is the Marigny. It was once part of the de Marigny plantation. Its last owner, Bernard, introduced the game of craps to America.”
“Thank you, Miss NOLA,” Lucy said, glaring at her. “And speaking of craps, do you have any other information I couldn’t give one about?”
“Well, the French Quarter. Its architecture is actually Spanish.”
Lucy’s jaw dropped and her eyes opened wide. “Oh, my God . . .”
“I’m sorry. I just had a lot of time to read. Sinclair had a good library, and they’d order anything . . .”
“We’re hunting,” Fleur cut her off, eyes fixed on Lucy. “You’re the one who wants to lay a curse. This is where a good curse starts,” she said, her voice hard, sounding indifferent to her usually coddled daughter’s complaints.
“Hunting for what?” Alice said, feeling uneasy for the first time. When Fleur and Lucy showed up unannounced at her father’s door, going out on an adventure with them had seemed a lark. Daniel had even packed snacks for her to take along, though she had left the brown paper bag beside a sleeping man whose cardboard sign said he was hungry.
“Back when I was a girl, a small girl,” Fleur said, “younger than either of you two, a strong witch could still kill a man with just a needle and a poppet made from his handkerchief. But a curse, a true curse that’s going to settle in and last, that took something more even then. You’ll soon see, but you needn’t worry. This is Lucy’s spell. You’re just along for the ride.”
It was almost two a.m., but a couple of wiry young men–brothers, most likely—with dirty blond hair and similar rakish features, stood outside a closed tattoo shop singing about another lonely night in Cajun French. One of the boys took his hand off the keys of his accordion just long enough to point at a hat on the ground. A sign next to it read “Natchitoches or Beer.” He smiled, winked, but never stopped singing. Alice shrugged and smiled back. She didn’t have even a coin to offer. Still, she would’ve liked to stop and listen for a while, but Fleur carried right on past.
“They’re witches,” Lucy said, glancing back at them. At that moment the duo began a new tune, the words “Chère Alice” reaching Alice’s ears just as Fleur spoke.
“Weak ones,” Fleur said, “but then again, aren’t we all, these days?” She nodded at a woman who shuffled past them, her entire world packed into a deep, four-wheeled metal cart. “How about her?” Then she pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. “Poor dear has faced enough in her life. Besides, I think we need a male. What do you think?” she said, addressing Lucy. “This is your spell. Would you prefer a fresh gutter punk or a seasoned freight hopper? Or maybe we should aim higher on the food chain? How about an inebriated businessman?” They stopped across the street from a galleried, two-story Creole structure that sat dwarfed by its neighbor—an unlovely multistory pile of white bricks. “One of these fine fellows, perhaps?” She waved at a coupl
e of red-faced and thick-waisted middle-aged men who stumbled out of an establishment housed in the older, shorter building. The men both wore khakis. Alice could imagine them coaching a Little League team, or maybe attending a dance recital.
Lucy remained silent.
“Pick one,” Fleur said, snarling at Lucy. “It’s your curse. Your blood to spill. You have to choose.”
“Blood . . . ?” Alice began.
“Don’t be obtuse, Alice,” Fleur said. “Of course we’re speaking of murder. A curse, a true curse, calls for the spilling of blood. That’s what I’ve been trying to explain to your cousin. Even in better days, a curse wasn’t something a witch could just will into existence. So pick one.”
Alice began to perspire and felt sick to her stomach. Was Fleur being serious? The severe set of her aunt’s features made her fear the worst. Alice considered calling out to the men. Warning them away. But she felt her throat tighten, and she couldn’t tell if she was being muzzled by her own fear or Fleur’s magic.
“I don’t care,” Lucy said, her eyes refusing to single out either man. “Does it even matter which?”
“Of course it does. This is magic. Everything matters.”
The men stood there, acting confused, seemingly besotted with Fleur. One of them waved and then began to weave across Frenchmen toward them.
“You’re beautiful,” he yelled from the middle of the street.
Alice felt her pulse quicken.
“And deadly,” Fleur called back, laughing. “No. I don’t think they’re quite what we’re looking for.” She raised her hand, wiggled a finger in a circle. The man stopped in his tracks and turned back toward his friend, a taxi pulling up as if on cue. The men got in, but they turned, their eyes fixed on Fleur until the car was out of sight.
Only then did Alice realize she’d been holding her breath. She exhaled, hoping the men’s departure signaled the end of their macabre outing.
“If we’re going to do this, really do this,” Fleur said, “then we have to make sure the sacrifice we pick is perfectly suitable.” She began walking again.
“But we aren’t going to hurt anyone. Not really,” Alice said, finding her voice.
Her aunt ignored her. “Like calls to like,” she said, her tone pedagogic. “The sacrifice should share the characteristics you hate most in your intended victim.” She stopped and turned back to Lucy. “Who is the man you want to curse?”
“You of all people should know.”
“Oh, I know. I know, my dear, but you’re the one working the spell.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “Your father. Who is he really?”
“I don’t understand.”
“What is his defining characteristic?”
“He’s selfish,” Lucy said through gritted teeth.
“Yes, my dear, but we all are.” Fleur turned away, unimpressed. “Who is he at his deepest level? What is his greatest flaw?” She picked up her pace, leading them over Royal Street and past the nondescript Washington Square, whose gates had been locked since before sunset.
“He pretends to care about people . . . ,” Lucy said, chasing after her mother.
“Yes?”
“He talks about helping people, but he just takes advantage of their problems to build himself up. All he cares about is getting more power and prestige for himself.”
Fleur stopped dead in her tracks and looked back and laughed, a rough cackle. Alice could swear her aunt lifted a few inches off the ground.
“Oh, yes,” Fleur said after she regained her composure. “We are out here seeking a sacrifice because your father’s private face doesn’t match his public one.”
“Yes. He’s a hypocrite.”
“Great,” she said, excitement building in her voice. “A hypocrite. I can work with that.” She held out both hands, and a tiny light, a will-o’-the-wisp no larger than the head of a pin, lifted from her palms and drifted in front of them, leading them down Frenchmen, then back toward the city once it reached Dauphine. They followed the light over Touro Street, where it came to rest over an elderly man, bald except for a greasy white fringe, who sat sprawled back on a bench that belonged to a closed corner café, his open mouth snoring. A glass bottle peeked out from a paper bag at his feet, and a strip of cardboard, half covered by his dirty, full-length wool overcoat—a garment no one with a place to lay his head would be wearing in this weather—showed the misspelled name of Jezebel.
“I think we have a winner,” Fleur said, looking down at the old man. “I do hope it won’t take long to sober him up. We’ll need him to be fully awake, fully aware, to participate in our little endeavor. It’s important he feels fear.” She held out her hand, and the light returned to her grasp. She held the spark out to Lucy. “Here, darling, touch it. Taste it. Does this man’s sin feel like your father’s? Is this man hypocrite enough to make it worth the trouble of slitting his throat? I mean, if not, we’ll be wasting our time.”
Lucy backed away, refusing to let the light touch her.
Alice wondered. If she had the chance to curse Nicholas, to punish him for deserting her, for believing that she could’ve killed Luc, would she turn away or would she grasp this spark? If she dug deep enough, would she find the darkness that might allow her to end this vagrant?
Fleur shook her head. “But I need to know why you’re so intent on cursing your father.”
“You know why I’m cursing him,” Lucy said, her hands on her hips, defiant. “Because of how he’s used you.”
Fleur’s head tilted; her eyes widened. A silent challenge.
“Because of the way he’s used me,” Lucy said. “He trots me out for photo ops. To show what a family man he is. His great moral fiber. But we both know he’s been screwing his assistant. And she’s not even really that much older than me. And . . .”
“And?” Fleur pushed her to finish. “Yes? Say it.” Fleur stood almost nose to nose with Lucy. She leaned in. “I know you know. I’ve tried to hide it from you for as long as I could, but I know you know. You always know.”
“She’s pregnant,” Lucy said, her voice turning into a shriek. “He’s going to marry her. He’s leaving us for her. For them. He always talks about the sanctity of marriage, the permanence of family, but . . .”
“He’s a hypocrite?”
“Yes.”
Yes. Alice responded silently, thinking of her own father.
“And you hate him?”
“Yes.”
Yes. Alice’s heart agreed.
“And this man, as miserable as he may be, he should die to salve your broken heart?”
Lucy made no response.
Alice’s inner voice hesitated. She stifled it before it could respond, fearful of the choice she might make if she were standing in Lucy’s shoes.
“I need to know,” Fleur said. “Is this what you want? Is this who you are?”
Lucy’s eyes filled with tears. “I don’t want to hurt him. I don’t want to hurt anybody.”
Fleur pulled Lucy into a tight embrace. “I know you don’t.”
“I’m just so angry.”
“Of course you are. I’m angry, too.” Fleur looked up over Lucy’s shoulder at Alice. “We’re all angry, my dear. We’re all hurting. And we’re all scared, because we don’t know what to expect next.” She took Lucy’s chin in her hand and lifted it. “You said you want the Marin women to work magic together.” She held her other hand out to Alice, who hesitated, unsure, but when Fleur waved her forward, she took a cautious step toward her aunt. Fleur reached out and caught hold of Alice, pulling her in. She wrapped one arm around each of the girls. “How about we fix what’s been too long broken? How about you two help me begin to mend this family?”
Lucy looked at Alice and began laughing through her tears. “Couldn’t we just take Alice shopping first?”
Alice smiled at her cousin. At her aunt. She laughed along with them. She wanted to believe healing was possible.
But Alice knew some things were too
broken to fix.
EIGHTEEN
“You’re gonna burn a hole clear through that check if you keep staring at it,” Isadore said, skepticism evident in his voice. “And you should know rubber stinks when it burns.”
“The check is good,” Lisette said, folding it once again. She’d done this enough times to put a sharp crease down its center. She needed to handle it more carefully, lest she rip it in half by accident. “The offer is good.”
“Oh, it’s good, all right,” he said, leaning over the counter. “Too good. Too good to be real.” Lisette didn’t respond. At least not verbally. She pursed her lips and looked down her nose at him with one eyebrow raised. They’d been married going on twenty-five years now, and this well-practiced expression would tell Isadore that if he hadn’t already crossed the line, he was getting close to it.
He got her message loud and clear. He shrugged, then his shoulders relaxed. “Ah, honey, you know there are a lot of crazy folk in this here town. That woman is just one more.”
Isadore had already made his point.
As per Delphine’s edict, they hadn’t removed a thing from the shop. Still, seven gray plastic industrial-sized trash cans, the kind on wheels, were lined up beneath the boarded-up windows. Three large green ones, like Isadore’s guys used to haul away yard debris, sat before the counter. They were all filled. Filled and waiting. Waiting for her to come to her senses and realize no one in their right mind was going to drop a half million dollars on Voodoo doll key chains and urine-scented garbage.
Remy, squatting in front of the nearest shelf, looked up at them through bleary eyes. This was the earliest the boy had gotten up since he got handed his diploma six weeks earlier. Curiosity about the Brodeur woman’s offer had driven him to tumble out of bed and dress himself. Lisette decided to reward him by putting him to work. She looked at him and flicked her finger at the shelves. “You just keep stocking,” she said. “When that box is empty, you got a dozen more.” She glanced over at what he’d put out so far. “Go on, spread things out a bit. Make it look like we got something in here.”