by J. D. Horn
Lisette turned back toward her mother. “Now why in the hell would you want to go to Bywater?” She waited, but her mother had fallen silent once again. As still and as dumb as a mannequin.
We have a party to attend. And you watch your tone.
“Party?”
Nathalie gave her a nervous, questioning side-glance. “So Bywater?”
“I have a shop in the Quarter. On Chartres. You can drop us there,” she said, then—remembering herself—added, “please.”
Nathalie’s eyes widened in excitement. She wagged a finger first at Lisette, then back at her mother. “Vèvè. And you, you’re Madame Soulange Simeon,” she said, her voice going up in pitch. She slapped her hand on the wheel. “Man, I can’t believe it.” Nathalie seemed more starstruck than a teenager at a pop concert. “It is such an honor, ma’am,” she said, her eyes fixed on the mirror. Lisette looked back to see a satisfied smile on her mother’s lips.
“I’m pleased to drop you ladies off at your store, but I got to tell you, when I was a girl, Vèvè used to scare me half to death. I’d walk two blocks out of my way to avoid all those faces looking out at me from the windows.”
“Faces?” Lisette said, surprised. “There are no faces in the window.”
“Well, no, ma’am, if you say there aren’t, I’m sure you’re right. It’s your place and all. It’s just I always used to see faces, a dozen or more, looking out at me every time I passed.”
“There’s nothing—was nothing,” Lisette corrected herself, “in the windows, other than the vèvès themselves.”
She’s right. Her mother’s voice rang like a bell. You spent your whole life looking at those vèvès, but you never learned to see them. This Nathalie, she has the sight. You see the symbols, but she sees the loa. She fell silent, but only for a moment. You should try to be more like Nathalie.
“Ah, ma’am,” Nathalie said, “that’s real sweet of you to say, but your daughter here is something special. I can tell—”
“Bywater,” Lisette said.
“I’m sorry?” Nathalie looked over at her with a confused expression.
“Please drop us in Bywater.” She pointed back over her shoulder. “She’ll tell you where.”
TWENTY-NINE
“Did you bring it?” Hugo said.
Evangeline looked into his beautiful, pale-blue eyes, but all she could see there was the mirror of her own rage. She nodded.
“It’s time to take this bastard down.”
“Have you seen him?”
“No. Not yet. But he’ll be here. The vanquished king come to foment discord while speaking of reconciliation. He had Daniel lay out his tuxedo.”
“It’s odd, though, isn’t it?” she said, still trying to process the news that Gabriel Prosper had unseated Nicholas. “Magic is dying. The Chanticleers are mostly dead. Why would Gabriel Prosper challenge Nicholas now?” Something about his timing, about the sisters’ arrival, about Daniel finding The Lesser Key, all one right after the other, didn’t set right. It seemed like everything was being orchestrated.
She grasped her handbag, its beads biting into her fingers. She could feel the weight of the necklace, the weight of the entire world, riding in it. Had she allowed herself to be manipulated? Were they all, even Nicholas, just being moved about like pieces on a chessboard?
“Alice has a theory as good as any,” Hugo said, wrapping his arm around her shoulders, maneuvering her toward the entrance. “The last king hits the history books.”
Evangeline shook her head. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
He stopped, looking down at her. “You chickening out?”
“No,” she said. She still felt Nicholas’s guilt not only in her heart, but all the way down to the pit of her stomach. “It’s time for Nicholas to answer for what he’s done. And the more public his punishment, the better.”
“Agreed.”
He led her to the entrance, pausing to pat the head of a statue of Asmodeus that had been placed there, and then fell in behind her as they came to the leftmost of the three doors. It was evident from her first glance that magic had been used to enhance the venue, the footprint of the church having expanded to equal that of any of the great cathedrals. That bit didn’t surprise Evangeline in the slightest. What did surprise her was the number, even at this early hour, of those in attendance. Evangeline hadn’t realized there were this many witches left in the region, let alone New Orleans proper.
Hugo must have been struck by the same idea. He grabbed hold of her elbow and began counting off, “One, two, three, four, five, six,” pointing at individual guests as he did. Then he turned her toward the other side of the hall. “One, two, three” was as far as he got this time.
“They’re copies of each other. They aren’t real.” She turned, surveying those present. A good two-thirds of the guests appeared to be filler entities, smiling dumbly, shifting in predictable patterns.
Hugo laughed. “Looks like the new king is worried about low attendance at his inauguration.” Hugo scanned the crowd. “Most of the people who are really here are probably too blind to notice.”
“But this really isn’t about him, is it?” Evangeline said. “It’s about Celestin.”
Hugo snorted. “Yeah. Right.” He offered her his arm. “Shall we?”
She took his arm, catching her bag between both hands as he led her into the now enormous space.
A band, an incredible one, played on a stage built into the enhanced church’s chancel. Dirty, bluesy ragtime that might have spun completely off its center were it not for the cautious shepherding of the ensemble’s pianist. Evangeline had heard a lot of bands blowing before, but the players in this group seemed to predict one another’s next turn as if they’d been performing together for a hundred years. The music made Evangeline wish this were a normal party. The tapping of Hugo’s foot told her it was having a similar effect on him.
Fleur passed by, dancing with a man Evangeline didn’t recognize. She laughed as he spun her past, a sloshing glass of champagne in one hand. “Come on, you two,” Fleur shouted at them. “Don’t let the new king catch you scowling.” She laughed again, her eyes wide, mirthless.
“Okay,” Hugo said, his eyes following Fleur and her date. “That bitch is up to something.”
“So is this one,” Evangeline said, reminding them both to focus. “I still don’t see Nicholas.”
Hugo turned a full circle. “Nor do I,” he said.
Evangeline did her best to ignore the distractions, the artifice of the conjured guests, the preternaturally polished music, the expanded hall that seemed to reach farther back the more it was examined. She began picking out the faces she knew. Alice and her cousin Lucy were circling. The younger girl’s finger was darting around the room, pointing to individual guests. Evangeline reckoned the cousins were just now making the same discovery she and Hugo had made earlier.
Even from a distance, and across the noise, Evangeline could sense Alice growing uneasy. “Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to subject Alice to this,” she said, leaning in to Hugo so she could speak without having to yell.
Hugo turned and looked at the girls. “Not to worry. Lucy’s going to make sure she and Alice have been seen by anyone who might care, then the two of them are sneaking out to the clubs. Lucy’s got this.”
“Fleur’s okay with this?” she said, not sure why she felt it was any of her business.
“It was her idea.”
Evangeline turned, scanning the crowd for Fleur and her partner, only to find they’d drifted away from the dance floor and out of sight. Maybe she was up to something after all.
A tuxedo-wearing male witch from the Chanticleers passed by, an ancient crone with frazzled dyed red hair leaning alternately on his arm and her cane. The woman seemed a fragile collection of bones, bound in gray tulle and sequins.
“Guy and Rose,” she said as she put names to faces.
“Yes, indeed,” Hugo said.
Rose took note of E
vangeline’s interest and nodded at her, a wide and somewhat witless smile on her lips. Guy paused, eying Hugo, his expression telegraphing a satisfied sense of contempt.
Hugo blew him a kiss. “He’s happy that Gabriel has taken the reins,” he said, “in case you didn’t catch that from his leer.”
Another witch who’d been at the cemetery, the sturdy Jeanette, who had challenged her at the gate, passed with surprising grace across the center of the dance floor, the skirt of her unexpected deep-aqua chiffon gown flowing around her as she sashayed. The beaded capped shoulders and sweetheart neckline performed a magic of their own, making her seem more of a woman, less of a traffic barrier.
“Well I’ll be damned,” Hugo said, “the Ancient Wall cleaned up real nice.”
Evangeline realized the members of the coven had begun working their way forward, no doubt readying themselves for their new leader’s arrival.
Les Jumeaux, as Nicholas had always spoken of the pair, passed her hand-in-hand, mirror images of each other in black ruffle-trimmed shorts and sheer beige tank tops over black-sequined bustiers. Without warning, the sister stopped in her tracks, tugging her brother backward. The two froze, piercing each other with their gazes. They were perfectly still, perfectly silent, and still it was obvious they were having a knockdown brawl. After a few moments, the brother gave a slight bow of his head, and the two started back in the direction from which they had come. As they passed Hugo, they stopped and offered him a deep and precisely coordinated curtsy. Then they rose and slipped back toward the exit.
“Marin loyalists,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant. Still, in spite of himself, Evangeline sensed Hugo was touched by their fidelity.
A dapper couple she didn’t recognize cut across at an angle to position themselves at one of the café tables lining the shadowy walls. A swiveling spotlight caught the woman’s hand, betraying a gaudy piece of glass.
Evangeline continued looking from one guest to another, picking each of them apart, setting herself apart. It struck her that she was an outsider, even in this collection of outsiders. Worse than that, she realized she was looking for reasons not to fit in with these people. Too much him. Too much him. The truth of Marceline’s words dawned on her. She had inherited her father’s distaste for witches. For magic. For herself. “I’m getting a drink,” she said, already making a beeline to the bar set up in the south transept.
“Not without me, you don’t,” Hugo called out, rushing to catch up to her.
She stopped just short of reaching the bar, for Alice and Lucy had popped up in her path.
“Good times, huh?” Lucy said, a glass already in her hand. The girl took one look at her and held out the drink. “Here. You need this worse than I do.”
“You’re right,” Evangeline said, accepting the glass and knocking it back. She lowered the glass and looked at Lucy. “Vodka, neat?” she said. “A bit advanced, no?”
Lucy gave her hair a toss. “I wasn’t really going to drink it. I just wanted to let Mom think I was.”
“Cry for help?” Hugo said from behind her. She turned to see him smirking at his cousin.
“You know what?” Lucy said, hands on her hips. “I’m gonna give you that one. Yes. In less than one week, the whole damned world has gone mad, and frankly, at the moment I don’t even know where my mother is.”
“Then I’ll have what she’s having,” Alice said, smiling.
“Right?” Lucy said, turning to her, then, “Oh, okay, you win again, but still . . .”
“Why don’t you two get out of here?” Hugo said, surprising Evangeline with the true sympathy she heard in his voice. “Wait,” he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a credit card. “Take this.” He leaned in toward his sister. “It’s Nicholas’s. I’ve often wondered just how high the limit is. Why don’t you two do the testing for me?”
Lucy reached out and swiped it from his grasp. “Anything for science, right, cuz?”
Alice answered with a quiet smile. She nodded. “But we should wait for Gabriel. It would be rude to leave, since he’s toasting the last Marin head of the Chanticleers.”
Almost as if Alice’s words had summoned it, a fanfare from the front of the church caught everyone’s attention. Evangeline looked up to see one of the Chanticleers, an older man with the worst toupee she’d ever witnessed, waving his hands. She couldn’t think of his real name, but she knew Hugo always called him Perruque after his hopeless, matted wig. “Silence, please,” he said into the microphone, his voice too smooth, his elocution a bit too polished. “Tout le monde, s’il vous plaît.”
Evangeline scanned the room, confused. Nicholas was surely here, somewhere. She turned back to the front of the bandstand, surprised to see that Fleur had deserted her date and slipped in next to the other coven members onstage. Evangeline hit Hugo’s shoulder with her bag, then nodded toward his aunt.
He responded with raised brows and a shrug.
Perruque turned back toward the drummer and gave him a silent signal. The musician brought his sticks down hard on his cymbal, and the sound reverberated through the cruciform, rendering the entire congregation instantly mute.
Perruque put his hands over his ears until the sound dissipated, only then realizing he had slid his toupee to the side. He coughed, adjusted it, and turned back to the mic. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my great pleasure to inform you I have been chosen to introduce the new head of the great Chanticleer Coven.” He raised a hand toward the audience, leading the crowd to turn back. “Mesdames et Messieurs, je suis ravi de vous présenter Gabriel Prosper.”
A gasp rose up, and the crowd parted to let Gabriel and his sister pass. Julia led the way, her hair up, her head held high, entirely nude except for the most spectacular emerald necklace Evangeline had ever seen. Gabriel walked behind his sister, fully dressed but in a style of suit that hadn’t been in fashion, she would guess, for a hundred years. Their sartorial choices were odd enough, but even odder was the carrying pole balanced across his shoulders.
Her mind flashed to Daniel. His book. The illustration at its center. She turned to Hugo. “We have to get the girls out of here,” she said.
“What?” he said, laughing like a total idiot. He turned to Lucy, who was staring at her as if she’d gone mad. But Lucy’s contemptuous look melted like a snowflake. She blanched and grabbed Hugo’s arm.
“Get out of here. Get the girls out of here, now.” Evangeline gave him a shove, but even as she turned around, she knew.
Alice was already gone. She turned, scanning the shadows for her. No trace of her in even the darkest corners of the magically extended space.
“I’ll find Alice,” Evangeline said, turning toward the others. “Get Lucy away from here. Take her somewhere safe . . .” She paused, unsure of where that might be. “Take her to Bonnes Nouvelles. Tell them I said to let her in.”
“But I should help you find—”
“Just go,” she said, regretting the harshness of her tone.
“I’m not going without my mom,” Lucy said, evading Hugo’s grasp and darting across the room to Fleur’s side. Evangeline watched as Lucy whispered into her mother’s ear. Fleur looked on, concern playing on her features, but she didn’t budge.
“What is your . . . ,” Hugo began. He didn’t finish. Whatever he read in her eyes was enough. “We’re in trouble, aren’t we?”
Julia made her way over the crossing and climbed onto the stage built over the chancel. She turned—beaming, proud, vindicated—as the lights shimmered over the cascade of emeralds resting on her breasts. Two of the musicians rose to greet Gabriel. Bowing their heads in reverence, they relieved him of his carrying pole and buckets.
Gabriel mounted the steps and stood beside his sister. Guy was the first to approach them, offering Gabriel a jewel-encrusted athame with both hands. The newly crowned king accepted it, grasping the hilt, and then tapped it on Guy’s bowed head as if he were knighting him. Guy turned and fell in line between Rose and Jeanet
te, their square-shouldered sentry in aqua chiffon.
Knife in hand, Gabriel approached Fleur. He stood before her, just to the side, so the audience would be able to see her offering of obeisance. Neither Nicholas nor Vincent were anywhere in sight, which meant that Fleur stood as the head of the Marin family. Her acceptance of Gabriel would seal his power as the new head of the coven.
Gabriel took his time, seeming to enjoy the moment. He held the blade out, waiting for Fleur to lower her head.
“We bow before our new king,” Perruque called out.
Fleur spat in Gabriel’s face and laughed. She held out her hand behind her, reaching for Lucy. Lucy caught hold of her mother’s hand, and with a flash, the two were gone.
Gabriel stood there, seemingly shocked, though something in his bearing suggested happiness rather than umbrage. Evangeline knew Nicholas would never accept an act of open defiance with such grace. Maybe the new leader was just glad to have an excuse to cut another Marin loose, but still his reaction struck Evangeline as another sign something was seriously off. Perruque rushed forward and offered him a handkerchief. Gabriel accepted it, wiped Fleur’s spittle from his face, and returned it to its owner, who held it awkwardly for a moment before stuffing it back into his pocket.
The two men stood there for a moment, considering each other. “We kneel,” Perruque said once again, “before our king.” He braced himself on Gabriel’s arm as he lowered himself into a full kneeling position. From there, he smiled up at the coven leader with open admiration. Gabriel took the knife and tapped Perruque’s toupee—then, with a quick flick, flipped the blade and cut through the old man’s throat.
Julia screamed. The audience began screaming. Evangeline realized she was screaming.
Gabriel took the blade and plunged it into his sister’s eye. He held the hilt in his right hand, then shoved her body back with his left. Guy flung himself at Gabriel, but the blade sliced clean through Guy’s neck, his head spinning across the stage, his body splaying beside it. The crowd pushed back as one, rushing the door, but Evangeline stood frozen. She watched as the two musicians who had relieved Gabriel of his yoke took the buckets he had been carrying and began collecting the blood of Julia and the two fallen men as it dripped from the stage.