Birthright (Residue Series #2)

by Laury Falter

  “It’s quiet here at night,” he said, almost inaudibly, and in a way that made me think he didn’t want to disturb the serenity.

  “You’ve been here?” I asked and then snickered at myself before answering my own question. “Of course, you have. You grew up in this city.”

  “Miss Celia used to take me here when I was a kid. Bribed me to walk with her every Sunday morning.”

  “N’ what did I tell ya on those walks? Ya rememba’?”

  A smile crept up and he laughed to himself, having just figured something out. “You were teaching me back then, too.”

  “Sho’ was.”

  He nodded to himself, not bothering to hide the respect he held for her.

  “Wharfs and warehouses were built right where we are standing. Back then, this was where the steamboats would line up one after another and unload their cargo, which were things like barrels of molasses and sugar, bales of cotton…but the reason they brought us here tonight, I think, is because this is where most of the casters entered the city. They were mainly slaves back then, bringing their abilities from the West Indies. When our ancestors caught on to what they could do, they learned from them…traded casts and rituals, helped each other avoid the authorities, suggested ceremonial spots, that kind of thing. The slaves, or really Voodoo practitioners, never wanted to integrate with us. They wanted, and still do, prefer to remain on the fringe of our world. But they keep a close eye on us, don’t you, Miss Celia?” He twisted at the waist to grin at her.

  “Sho’ do, boy.”

  “But I don’t see how any of that applies to us…to Jameson and me,” I said, also turning to look at Miss Celia and Miss Mabelle.

  “We been watchin’ ya fer a long time now, n’ not just here but everywhea’.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  “Allies,” pronounced Miss Mabelle. “We’s allies.”

  I chuckled. “Allies? Sounds like we’re at war.”

  “Ya are,” said Miss Mabelle, far too bluntly to be taken as a joke. “Ya just don’t know it yet.”

  I was unnerved at how serious she was in making that statement.

  “Is that why you are telling us all this?” I asked, speaking to their backs, because they already turned to leave.

  Without giving me an answer, the ladies continued heading back.

  I was annoyed and tired, generally in a poor mood, so their lack of an answer really aggravated me. Because of this, I demanded one when we got back in the confines of Miss Mabelle’s car.

  “Well?”

  Our housekeepers glanced at each other and, through an undetectable sign, determined it would be Miss Mabelle to deliver some level of understanding.

  “The history between your two families has been tumultuous. Unity has been impossible, until you two. You two are the bond, you two will bring your families together. Under you, the families will unite and begin to build your own forces. These forces will conquer The Sevens.”

  “You,” I laughed, scornfully. “You rely so much on us.” My snickering died away but my next question came out sounding obstinate. “What if you’re wrong about our birthrights?”

  As that demand loomed in the space between us, unanswered, I knew why I asked it. I wanted to know if my destiny, my birthright, could be avoided. I wanted to know if Jameson would ever be safe with me.

  “There isn’t room for you to be wrong,” Miss Mabelle seethed.

  Then her eyes narrowed at me and her plump hand, twice the size of my arm, came over the shoulder of her seat to latch onto my knee.

  At that instant, from the point of contact between our skins, it felt as if it wasn’t her hand wrapped around my leg but a scorching branding iron. My leg jerked in reaction but didn’t go far. Her grip was too strong.

  Jameson processed what was happening and reached out to defend me, but Miss Mabelle’s hand came down on him, too, sending the same scalding pain up his arm.

  With gritted teeth and wide eyes, Miss Mabelle held on despite the helpless screams of agony and our bodies’ convulsive gyrations. In the midst of it, my hand found Jameson and, having learned what was needed to protect us, we began working together.

  While we had been told in our previous lesson words weren’t the factors helping us overcome these assaults, they certainly did help. So I immediately conjured the energy from within me, Jameson channeled, and I repeated a phrase until Miss Mabelle released her hold.

  “With this energy I bind your power, protecting us from you this day, this hour. I cast it aside and make it flee. Thine will be done, so make it be.”

  When her fingers recoiled, settling back at her side, she composed herself, drawing in a heavy breath. “Burns have been found on the body of many Weatherfords who did not die by natural causes. This means you will likely encounter some form of it during an attack. Be prepared.”

  While we recovered, Miss Celia interjected, “It isn’t enough to fear The Sevens. You need to know what they are capable of doing. You need to understand this, because you are at risk. Right now, right here, at this very moment. Your enemies want you dead. And they are seeking out ways to accomplish this. These lessons are to help you comprehend what they have done in the past and recognize their approaches. That,” she said firmly, her face constricting with tension, “is what you are learning.”

  There was a long silence in the car before Jameson spoke. “Strategy and tactics,” he said, under his breath. “You are teaching us their strategy and tactics.”

  Pleased with his assessment, our housekeepers settled back in their seats so that Miss Celia could start the car and drive us back.

  In the days that followed, Miss Celia and Miss Mabelle took us through historical sites, referencing the Caldwell’s and the Weatherford’s feud and refusing to ease their testing during these lessons. When Jameson and I least expected it, we would be struck with blindness, muteness, or searing pain, forcing us to find ways of working together to block their casts.

  Jameson continued to be reserved when I was present; masterfully performing as we’d agreed, assuring the Vires we were still enemies. The days and the distance did nothing to lessen my need for him. Eventually I conceded, the pain in my chest steadily becoming permanent.

  Without him, sneaking out for healing errands came easy, while the actual practice of curing others seemed to get more challenging. No one had to tell me why. I already knew, it was because the two of us were stronger together. Still, I tried, slipping by the Vires’ shadows after school and on the weekends to visit emergency rooms around the city.

  The holidays arrived without me paying much attention to them; mostly because I found it hard to be festive while Jameson’s presence perpetually taxed my emotions. It helped a little whenever I allowed myself to admire the city’s decorations - the garlands, the red bows, and the strands of white lights neatly wound around streetlights and drooping from balconies - or as I listened to the carolers in Jackson Square – festively dressed and melodically sharing the joys of the season. The city really did take on a mystical harmony then.

  Yule, or the equivalent of Christmas in our world, was one of the lesser celebrated holidays, but there was still a lot of jolliness. Estelle and Aunt Lizzy decorated every room of the house with ivy, christening it with incantations like “We consecrate and clear this space, letting nothing but happiness remain in place.” Well before the actual holiday arrived, Miss Mabelle filled the tables with gumbo, jambalaya, crawfish etoufee, muffulettas, beignets, and bananas foster. There was no tree and no exchanging of gifts, but there was a constant ring of laughter throughout the rooms.

  I was expecting my mother to come through the door any second, since holidays were the only times we saw each other. Sadly though, the only thing that did come was her phone call, and that was how I learned why Theleo was absent.

  “Jocelyn,” she said, her voice barely audible across the scratchy line. It was a bad connection, I guessed, but it gave me the eerie impression that she was making her ph
one call from a secret location. “You’ll need to spend the holidays with Aunt Lizzy and your cousins.”

  That was my plan, but I wanted her here with us, too. Judging from her choice of words, she actually conveyed two messages. First, she wouldn’t be making it home. And, second, neither would Uncle Lester, who had taken a position to help her at the ministry.

  “There’s absolutely no chance?”

  “None,” she said, unequivocally steadfast.

  “Well,” I sighed. “Why?”

  When she answered, her voice grew fainter, as if she were intentionally lowering its volume. “I need to stay here, because the Vires have found something.”

  Either intuition or the strain in her tone told me it was not good. “What?” I asked, hesitantly.

  “You’ll need to tell Aunt Lizzy right away. Understand?”

  “Yes. What did the Vires find?”

  “You’ll need to tell the Caldwells as well.”

  “Okay.”

  “Immediately,” she demanded.

  “I will.”

  “They found tools in the bayou where Frederick and Anastas died.” She sounded so disappointed.

  “What tools?”

  “The kind unique enough to be traced back to their owners.”

  “And who are their owners?”

  She exhaled, fraught with tension. “The Caldwells. They don’t know it yet, but they’ve found the Caldwells tools.”

  13 COVEN

  After I placed a frantic phone call to the Caldwell household, the next several weeks became a waiting game. When Theleo returned the tension only worsened. Every knock on the door, every car screeching outside, anyone coming up quickly from behind was the possibility of a highly anticipated ambush. We were living on pins and needles.

  For the first time, I didn’t care if I made straight A’s on my report card or if I received a high score in Ms. Veilleux’s evening class after I demonstrated the aptitude to heal the entire school during my final, graded assignment. I didn’t care when Miranda thanked me afterwards for curing her sinus infection or when Ms. Veilleux gave us an appreciative nod for eliminating a pulled muscle that left her with a limp. And I couldn’t have cared less when classes started again after holiday break. These responsibilities seemed inconsequential in comparison to the challenges Jameson, our families, and I were facing in real life, everyday.

  At times, I was beginning to feel as if our only hope were the housekeepers who persisted with their antagonistic and constructive midnight lessons.

  “This is where Jocelyn’s Great Uncle Clay and Jameson’s Uncle Heim started an argument over the interference of a business deal,” Miss Celia announced, as we stood behind St. Louis Cathedral in a gated, grassy area. “One that ultimately resulted in their deaths.”

  It was a little past midnight on Thursday evening, leaving the area where we stood shadowy and unnatural. While streetlights illuminated the sidewalk beyond and parts of the buildings around us, robust trees with thick foliage shaded and darkened where we stood. It wasn’t entirely inviting, especially when considering the ground was moist, causing our feet to sink into the earth, planting us in one spot.

  “Jameson, you were with him that day. Can you recall the memory?”

  We had perfected our ability to channel without touch weeks ago, so holding hands was no longer required. A circumstance that, if I were honest with myself, left me disappointed.

  I immediately began reading his memories as they came. He settled on one in particular, and I began to hear and feel Jameson’s recollection.

  “Accusing me will get you nowhere,” said my uncle, flippantly, playing nervously with a ring on his finger – one that held my family’s stone.

  “I have proof,” boomed a voice, and Jameson turned to look up. Jameson’s head swung back and forth between the men as they argued, each growing tenser as the exchange heated.

  “Proof of what? How can there be proof when I wasn’t involved?” asked Clay.

  Jameson’s uncle, Heim, leaned in. “But you were. That’s why the deal went bad.”

  “It went bad on its own,” said Clay, glibly. “Those men weren’t going to go into business with you.”

  Heim snorted in disgust. “Because you convinced them otherwise.”

  Clay shrugged, his expression showing how appalled he was at the accusation. “They came to me, Heim. Not the other way around.”

  Heim paused, anger boiling from behind his eyes, and declared, “You’re a liar.”

  “What did you-?” Clay looked stunned. “I ain’t no-”

  “Liar,” seethed Heim.

  Both men suspended their argument and each of them cast quietly at one another.

  “Incantatio cicatrix,” whispered Heim; at the same time Clay fumed, “Incantatio ulceratio.”

  The two men spun around and stomped off in opposite directions, Heim passing directly by a Vire wearing a moldavite tie clip.

  Jameson and I opened our eyes then, recognizing each other’s confusion.

  “Ulceratio?” I asked.

  “Translated as…ulcer?”

  “That’d be correct,” said Miss Mabelle. “Yer Great Uncle Clay gave Jameson’s uncle an ulcer. It ultimately took his life. That man…He was always mo’ potent than he knew.”

  “But what does cicatrix mean?”

  “Scar,” Jameson said very quietly.

  “Really?” I couldn’t help sounding astounded or holding back a quick, ironic laugh. “You Caldwells…You really like casting those scars.”

  Although I was intending to be humorous, Jameson didn’t find any humor in it, but he didn’t break his stare. I quickly learned why when he changed the subject.

  “Something happened, Jocelyn, when my uncle cast, right when he said the words. One of your memories invaded mine.”

  I tensed, wondering which one that might be. Still keeping our fate a secret, any mention of a memory instantly put me ill at ease.

  “I no longer saw my own,” Jameson continued. “Yours took over.”

  “Oh, I didn’t-I didn’t realize that.” I grew more nervous. “What was the memory?”

  “Your scar. The one that crept up your arm during English class back in New York.”

  I was instantly relieved. “Right, the one that brought me here,” I replied, wondering why he was so thrown by it. “What about it?”

  “You think that my family cast it,” he stated, concerned but no accusatory.

  “That’s…” Now I was stumped. “That’s what I was told.”

  Jameson shook his head slowly, deliberately. “We didn’t.”

  “Maybe Charlotte did it without telling anyone?”

  “Jocelyn,” he said tenderly. “None of us knew you existed, until you and I met in Olivia’s shop.”

  “Well,” I said slowly, processing what he was telling me. “If you didn’t cast it, who did?”

  Miss Mabelle cut in. “Time we moved on.”

  “Just a second,” I said, not close to being ready. “I want to figure this out.”

  “N’ ya will,” reassured Miss Celia, bringing Jameson and me to look at her.

  “Do you know about this, Miss Celia?” asked Jameson, evaluating her. “Did you know about her scar?” There was a hint of defensiveness in his tone even though he knew full well I healed completely.

  “I sho’ do,” she pronounced, but didn’t speak another word about it. Instead, she turned and strolled back to the car.

  “Miss Mabelle?” I asked, inquisitively, even though she was following Miss Celia.

  “Next lesson,” she stated, resolutely, not bothering to turn around. “Ya’ll find out next lesson.”’

  Unfortunately, the next lesson wouldn’t come for several days. They said they were making arrangements, whatever that meant so I pestered Miss Mabelle every time I saw her, hoping she’d eventually tire of me and just give in. She never did.

  They gave us no warning when they were finally ready for the next lesson, instead,
breaking the news with a knock to our bedroom doors at midnight on the fourth day.

  Once we were in Miss Celia’s car, and Jameson had moved from his place in the back to sit next to me, I noticed that his eyes looked just as groggy as mine. I deduced he’d also been woken up spur of the moment.

  As if he sensed me watching him, he turned suddenly and caught me staring. I flinched and then froze in place, unable to look away when his translucent, green eyes locked with mine.

  His face, so handsome in the passing streetlights, remained expressionless, void of any emotion that might hint at what he was thinking. Only the stillness of his breathing told me that he was stirred by our private moment. His jaw tightened and his chest rose, attempting to control the feelings unraveling inside. As if instinct took over, he slowly, sadly turned to stare forward and didn’t dare to turn in my direction for the rest of the drive.

  From that moment, I had no doubt Jameson was still suffering through our separation and I had to fight the urge to reach out my arms to him. That, of course, would only cause him more pain and make me feel the pierce through my own heart, a feeling far too common these days.

  Since our housekeepers gave us no hint as to where we were headed, we again traveled at their whim. After just ten minutes of driving, once the Vires were lost, Miss Mabelle entered the Uptown neighborhood where streets of small, stylish shops and restaurants intermingled with streets lined with oak-shaded, frame houses. This neighborhood felt more like a quaint village than part of New Orleans. It was behind one of these houses – blue with white trim and ferns hanging over the porch – where Miss Celia pulled to a stop. There was just one other car in the back lot, which bordered a small garden and wooden shed. Yet, the house was lit up, despite the late hour, and there were more than just a few muffled voices coming from inside.