Bewitching Belle

by Debra Kristi

  “Yeah, I think so. That’s what was suggested to me by another somewhat familiar with the darker side of magick,” I say, keeping my voice low.

  “You spoke to someone vested in dark magick?” Michael stops and stares at me.

  “It’s not like that.” My hands flare at my sides.

  “Like what?” he counters.

  “Like what you’re thinking,” I say.

  “And what am I thinking?” he pushes.

  I sigh. Attempt to shake off the irritation festering within me. “I spoke to James’s brother, okay? It’s not like I went to some stranger looking for help and answers.”

  “And who is James? What is his brother to you?” He presses his fisted hands into his hips.

  “James is one of my coven members, and his brother… well…his brother… his brother is…”

  “You don’t know James’s brother, aside from your one meeting, do you?” His brow lifts.

  “No. Not true. I saw him a half-dozen times before he moved to the other side of the river.” I cross my arms.

  “You might trust James, but that doesn’t automatically make his brother trustworthy. Got that?” He leans into me, waits for my answer.

  “Yeah, but…”

  “No,” he interrupts. “Trust no one. You are a Roussard of ancient blood. When it comes to your safety, no one can be trusted.”

  “Is that why you feel safe in your secret school?” I jab. “Because you don’t trust any of them?”

  He closes his eyes and breathes deep. When he opens his eyes, any building rage seems to have dissipated. “Come on.” He motions me toward the house. “There are things to be done, and we aren’t going to get them accomplished standing out here on the sidewalk bickering.”

  He’s right, of course. My shoulders drop, and my lips relax into a downward curve. I lead the way, unlocking the door and inviting him in.

  “We’re looking for some sort of trigger,” I say, closing and locking the door behind him. “Something that, when viewed or read or heard, resets whatever behavior Caleb tried programming into her.”

  “You know that could be just about anything, right?” he says.

  “No.” I shrug. “It won’t be anything with a limited life span. Which means we can rule out any calendars, planners, magazines, soap, lotion, stuff of that nature.”

  “Glad you cleared that up. You’ve seriously narrowed down the search with that thorough list.” His voice seeps with sarcasm.

  “Just get to looking, will you?” I say. “Mom mentioned a self-help journal when I questioned her about a regular routine. I suggest we try to locate that.”

  “Self-help journal. On it,” he says and heads to Mom’s bedroom.

  I follow, guessing it is the most likely location for any such trigger to be located.

  We start with her nightstands. Finding nothing there, we move to her dresser, riffle through the doors. Coming up empty-handed, we check under the bed, between the mattress and box spring, inside the pillowcases.

  Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

  We move to her closet, looking in boxes, around and under folded and stacked clothing. Still, nada.

  We relocate our efforts to the bathroom. Only, it’s a one-bathroom house, and I can’t think of a single thing kept in the bath space that could possibly act as a trigger. Cramped in the space, I move to the hall closet—another unlikely spot—and Michael double checks my doubts about the washroom.

  Another couple of failures and it’s off to the bigger rooms. I stand in the center of the kitchen, evaluating the walls and cabinets, and my brother shifts items around in the front room. We’ve been at the search less than a few minutes when the front door creaks open.

  I spin, jolt toward the home entrance.

  “Michael! What a surprise? I didn’t know you were coming over today,” Mom says.

  I pop into the room just in time to witness her embrace him in a hug.

  “It’s an impromptu visit. I didn’t know I was coming until I was here.” He steps back from their embrace and glances over her, a fake smile pressed to his lips. “Belle was just grabbing us a couple of drinks.” He turns his attention to me. “Weren’t you, Belle?”

  “Oh.” I jolt, my gaze bolting between them. “Yeah. Sorry.” Dashing back into the kitchen, I dart straight to the refrigerator and grab two canned cold drinks without discriminating flavor.

  “Will you stay for dinner?” Mom asks. “I hardly see you anymore.” She sheds her jacket. Drapes it over the hook on the wall.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Michael says. “I have to work later. That might make the timing tight.”

  “No. Stay.” I nod my head vigorously.

  He gives me a stop-it-you’re-being-too-suspicious glare. I cross the room and hand him one of the cold drinks.

  “Would you like one?” I turn to my mom and offer her the second can.

  “You got that one for yourself. I wouldn’t take it from you,” she says. “I can get my own.”

  The phone rings.

  She raises a one-moment finger high in the air. “Hold on. Don’t go anywhere.” She spins toward the phone.

  “I can get it, Mom,” I offer.

  “It’s quite alright. I’ve got it.” She crosses the kitchen, picks up the phone, falls silent. She remains steady, tall, unmoving. She stands beside the calendar and my wall rack of herbs and spices, holding the receiver to her ear.

  “Mom?” I call after her.

  Michael moves into the room. Walks in front of her and studies her state.

  “Mom,” I say again, following his lead and approaching her. Her expression has fallen slack. She’s like a living mannequin in the kitchen. Responding neither verbally nor physically to our inquiries.

  Michael takes the phone from her hold and puts it to his own ear. His brows pinch, and he hands it to me for a listen. I take it. Hear nothing more than static and clicks. I hand the phone back to him.

  “I’ve heard this once before,” I say. “One morning when Mom was in the shower and I answered an incoming call.”

  Mom shifts, snagging our attention. In her not-so-unfamiliar zombie state, she shuffles to the kitchen table and takes a seat.

  “What just happened?” I ask.

  Michael doesn’t answer, but moves around me, studying Mom’s state. Mom fiddles with her pendant, rubbing the long silver sliver between her fingers. The necklace is stamped with the word strength.

  “Definitely a programmed response,” Michael finally says. “But I’m getting the sense that this may be far more complex than originally thought.

  I sigh. Take a seat at the table beside Mom.

  Michael hangs around for close to an hour. We put Mom to bed and evaluate all the possibilities but end with no solid solution. Nevertheless, we will attempt to break Caleb’s control with a strong unbinding cast under the full moon tomorrow.

  Unfortunately, Michael can’t stay with me all evening. As it turns out, he wasn’t lying when he told Mom he had to work. He makes sure I have his correct work number and promises he’ll come should I need him. Before he leaves, he takes a few snippets of Mom’s hair.

  After his departure, I check in on Luna. Everything is still set for her to join us tomorrow. With the zombie version of my mom in the next room, I’m not particularly loving being alone in the house, so she stays on the phone with me and we talk about nothing in particular, until we’re both ready to crawl into bed.

  Thursday’s school session drags far too slow. I’m not emotionally or mentally present. All my focus is set on my intentions for later. Our intended casting works. When the final bell of the day rings, my brother is waiting out front to drive Jeanna, James, and me home. Or rather, to James’s house.

  Having dealt with their early glimpse yesterday, Jeanna and James show zero surprise when faced with my brother and his distinguishing facial scar. They are completely normal and pleasant.

  By the time we get to James’s, the full moon is at its peak. Michael follo
ws at our backs as we head into the house and make our way to the kitchen.

  “You guys are aware that now is not the ideal time for the spell you’re planning, right?” he says. Jeanna, James, and I come to a full stop and I spin around.

  “What?” My voice spikes. “Why didn’t you bring this up sooner?”

  He shrugs. “You’ve been so on top of your game, I thought you knew.”

  “Clearly, we all failed on this one,” I say. “I thought the full moon would give us the largest punch of energy.”

  “And it will, with the right spells,” he counters. “Usually banishing spells are performed during a waning gibbous.”

  “Seriously?” My shoulders droop, and I feel as if my entire body is melting into the ground. “I don’t want to wait several more days.” A deep frown presses into my features.

  Michael steps forward and slaps his hand upon my shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ll make it work. After all, moon cycles are suggested, not mandatory.” He releases his hold and steps past me into the kitchen.

  “What are you saying?” I turn and follow, as do James and Jeanna.

  “We’ll do the spell anyway,” he blurts.

  “How did we all manage to mess this one up?’ James says.

  “Hive mind,” my brother answers.

  “I’m not following,” I say at the same time Jeanna says, “What?”

  “Short answer.” Michael stops beside the kitchen counter and presses his spread fingers against the hard surface. “One picked the date and the others followed along blindly.” His gaze lands upon the ingredients gathered in the center of the table. “I’ll do my best to compensate for the offset.”

  “How are you supposed to do that?” I ask.

  “Just leave that to me.” I open my mouth to speak, but he cuts me off. “Should we wait for your friend Luna?” he asks, redirecting the conversation.

  “No.” I shake my head. “She won’t be here for a bit, but we can handle this part without her.”

  “Alright then.” He turns his attention to James and Jeanna. “Shall we begin?”

  Chapter Eleven

  We each take a seat at the table, and everyone closes their eyes, begins their preparation meditation. I fight the desire to steal glances at my brother, and I fear my distraction will affect my ability to clear my mind. I may need thirty minutes instead of our usual twenty. Only, I am determined to help my mom, so I force all my blooming brother-related questions behind a wall and focus on joy and gratitude.

  “Here and now, I enter the sacred space of my heart,” I silently say. “With eyes closed, I go deep, diving into the sanctuary of my soul. I pray for divine guidance and leave myself open to receive. May I live my highest and most great good.”

  My mind quiets, finds a sense of serenity, and my energy rises. With what time remains, I solidify my intentions. After our meditation, we get busy sprinkling ingredients into our stone smudge bowls. We add pine and lilac, cloves and sage, and a few others, then mix and crush them with a heavy pestle, blend them into a fine herbal mix. While we mix and crush, we chant.

  “Mother Moon come to us. We call and gently ask of thee… Help us feel your strength at its fullest. Help us find the Goddess that resides within. We are ready.”

  James passes a roll of toilet paper around the table, and we each take a square, write upon the paper what it is we want to banish—the evil influence upon Mom.

  Michael hands us each a rabbit’s foot.

  With all the components ready, we move to the backyard and combine our altars. We stand in a circle with the altar at the center. And in the center of the altar, I place a picture of my mom. “This picture represents my mom’s physical being,” I say and sprinkle a salt circle around her image. “Goddess, protect her body and mind as we cast upon this representation. Pull the negative influence out of her and into the salt.”

  The others step forward, and we place our bowls at the four corners of the photograph. Using white candles, we set the ingredients to burn, and drop our toilet paper square into the blaze. We then step back and link hands.

  “As above, so below. As within, so without. As the universe, so the soul. Gracious Goddess, be here with us,” we say in unison, then release our handholds and place our clutched rabbit’s feet to our hearts. “With rabbits’ foot and magick verse we turn around this wicked curse. And as these words of ours are spoken, let this evil curse be forever broken.”

  The fire in our bowls sends swirling plums of smoke, and tiny toilet paper ash, toward the sky. There is no lightning or electrical show. There is simply a verve in the air. Nothing for the untrained eye to witness.

  “How long before it works?” I ask Michael. We move inside, make our way to our usual spot at the kitchen table. There is nothing to do now but wait for Luna to arrive.

  “We should know fairly quickly if it had any effect or not,” he says.

  “I hope it worked,” James chimes. “That was some seriously powerful work.” He ogles my brother.

  “For sure,” Jeanna adds. “That could become intensely intoxicating.”

  The addition of Michael to today’s coven work amped up our creative energy to unpredicted levels. We are all riding on a bit of a casting high.

  The phone rings and my heart jumps.

  “I don’t recognize the number,” James says, regarding the caller ID.

  “I do.” I bolt forward and grab the phone. My heart squeezing, slamming, squeezing. “Luna?”

  “He’s dead.” Her voice is rough with sobs. “My dad is dead.”

  My heart is a sinking stone in a pit of agony. I told Luna we’d keep her father safe, and now a man is dead; someone I care about is hurting. It takes fistfuls of strength not to add my scream to her sobs.

  “Come on.” Michael ushers me around the car.

  Before hanging up the phone, I collected Luna’s physical address. Now, Michael and I are heading over to comfort her as best we can. In truth, I’m the one who will attempt to sooth. Michael is merely my ride.

  With a weak wave to James and Jeanna, I slip into the passenger seat and stare at my friends huddled on the front porch. The expressions on their faces say it all; fear, fury, failure, a fixed uncertainty. The car door closes, and I jolt.

  I failed. Failed Luna.

  I’m so lost in my misery; it barely registers when Michael slides into the car and starts the engine. But the squeal of the wheels when we pull away from the curb scratches at my ear and pulls me back to the now with a cringe.

  Wordlessly, we roll away from Algiers, onto the highway, across the river, through and past the French Quarter, to the place where Luna waits—her home in the seventh ward.

  When we pull onto Luna’s street, Michael parks two houses back, like he’d done at my place. A paramedic vehicle is parked in front of the home, lights off, and a man in uniform is loading equipment into the back. The other is standing in the doorway talking to a woman I assume is Luna’s mom.

  She is holding a clipboard, scribbling something. She hands the paperwork to the man, and he, in exchange, hands her what looks like a business card. He descends the steps and returns to the vehicle.

  Michael hits my arm and motions for me to glance across the street. Standing in the shadows, between the houses, are two men. Due to the distance and the darkness, I can’t tell if they are the same two men that chased Luna and me the other day or not.

  The sight, and the memory, cause me to shiver.

  “I want to go in. See her,” I say.

  Michael heaves a heavy breath. “I understand. But this situation may not be safe, so I am going to hang back and keep an eye on things out here.”

  “Okay.” I open the door and step out. The paramedic vehicle pulls away from the curb and drives away. I spin back, lean into the car. “I may be a while.”

  “I would expect.” His fingers tap on the steering wheel. “Don’t worry about me. Do what you need to do.”

  “Thanks.” I close the car door and head up t
o the house.

  With my arms wrapped around me tight, as if the action will hold my emotions and composure in check, I approach Luna’s house. Climb the first step.

  Mrs. Flores’ attention snaps to me. Her eyes are red, and her cheeks wet. She sniffles. “Can I help you?”

  “My name is Belle,” I say. “I’m here to see Luna. She called me.”

  She swallows hard and nods. “Belle. Yes. Won’t you come in?” She steps aside, allowing me entrance into her home.

  With a meager smile, I climb the remaining steps, my gaze dropping to the ground before me. We move inside, and she closes the door. Bolts the lock. Grabs a tissue from the collection of boxes gathered on the side sofa table set near the door. The kitchen, living room, and dining room are all open, easily flowing from one to another. Those are all updates that would have cost a ton of money, and I can’t help but wonder if that’s where Mr. Flores’ debt was accumulated.

  I position myself with a clear view down the hallway. It runs through the center of the house, and a bath and bedrooms are clearly located to either side.

  “Luna, you have a visitor,” Mrs. Flores says, then blows her nose.

  Luna pops out of one of the doorways, a washcloth in her hand. At the sight of me, she drops the washcloth back into the room… I’m assuming the bathroom counter… and dashes toward me. Crashes into me. I throw my arms around her and hug her with all my heart and soul.

  “They believe it may have been a heart attack, but nothing is yet confirmed,” she says through thick distress into the curve of my neck. “A heart attack!” She steps back, holds my hands, glances at her mom, then to me. Her face is newly damp from the washcloth, but no amount of scrubbing could wash away the pain she is currently experiencing. “I know better,” she whispers. “The bokor killed him, just as he had promised.”

  “I’m so sorry, Luna. I should have been here. We should have stopped it,” I say.

  “What could you have done?” She tightens her hold on me and the agony flows from the corners of her eyes. “Your magick may be stronger than mine, but it isn’t bokor strong.”