Birthright (Residue Series #2)

by Laury Falter

  After an abrupt and uncomfortable goodbye, Miss Mabelle, Jameson, and I left the house and were soon sitting in Miss Celia’s car, driving back toward the Garden District where we lived. Although they didn’t drive us home. Miss Celia, instead, stopped outside a wrought iron gate with an iron sign hanging above it that read Lafayette Cemetery #1, and headed for the entrance.

  “A cemetery?” I said, peering out the window.

  “Not what I expected, either,” Jameson mentioned.

  “Maybe we’re here to dig our own graves,” I ventured.

  Jameson scoffed. “I wouldn’t put it passed them.”

  Miss Mabelle’s cane banged against the window next to me then, jolting me. Although she intended to demand we step out, it proved our point, and we both held back a grin as we met them at the gate.

  Miss Mabelle and Miss Celia became preoccupied with breaking the lock, which proved to be challenging, as proven by the cursing under their breath.

  They despised being delayed, so Miss Mabelle finally took the hammer she’d brought along and, just as she’d done on our very first midnight lesson, gave the lock several good whacks. To their satisfaction it shattered, and they pulled the gate wide open.

  Inside were rows of gnarled tombs stretching out for as far as we could see, separated by wisps of grassy patches or broken pavement. Crosses and statues adorned steeples or crumbling rooftops while decorative iron fences embellished others. It was blissfully quiet with only the sounds of the breeze rustling fallen leaves.

  In comparison to learning that Vires are building an encampment outside our city, the cemetery – oddly enough – felt like a peaceful escape.

  That was, until I came across a mausoleum chiseled with the name Family Tomb of Leyton Weatherford. Stunned, I paused for a closer look even though our housekeepers were well ahead of us.

  “I take it you’ve never been here?” Jameson asked, walking up from behind me after noticing I had stopped.

  I shook my head. “Have you?”

  “No,” he said solemnly. “When you’re fighting someone you think is your enemy you really don’t want to know where they’re buried.”

  I only vaguely heard his answer because something occurred to me just before he spoke. “Jameson…” I said in a hushed tone, unable to bring my voice any higher. “My father is inside.”

  A brief second of reflection made the tension grow in the still air between us. This cold stone crypt preserved the remains of someone who had created me, who had brought me into this life and given his life to save mine.

  Miss Mabelle’s voice spoke from beside us then, appearing in order to shatter this illusion.

  “Yer wrong ‘bout that. His body was sent to his own family. That’s how theys requested it. That’s how it was done.”

  Startled by that announcement, I paused briefly before regaining my focus. “Well, where is he now?”

  “Don’t know. Never would tell us the site of his burial.”

  “Uh, are you saying we have no idea how to find my father’s final resting place?”

  She shook her head slowly, showing neither remorse nor pity. Her expression was very matter-of-fact, once again exhibiting through actions her warning that she wouldn’t go easy on us, no matter the subject.

  Our housekeepers whirled around to start back down the path, and we followed, silent and awkward.

  To take my mind off the disturbing fact that I didn’t have the option to kneel at my father’s grave, Jameson kindly deflected my thoughts by pointing at the tombs we were passing. Votive candles lined the stone slabs in front and around them.

  “For the dead,” he explained.

  A few tombs later, a cluster of coins were left on the front step, which Jameson pointed out.

  “Hoodoo money…in exchange for favors. Usually left at notable gravesites.”

  As if well timed, Miss Mabelle and Miss Celia abruptly stopped at a blackened, unmarked crypt, its pile of Hoodoo coins larger than any of the others.

  Miss Mabelle seized Jameson’s arm just above the elbow, as if she were steadying herself. She wasn’t. She had something else in mind.

  “Channel,” she commanded and grasped Miss Celia’s hand, to show she intended his effort to include her.

  “You, too,” demanded Miss Mabelle, tilting her head at me.

  Jameson’s hand extended and I took it, his fingers curling around mine, enveloping my hand in warmth. His touch was calming for so many reasons. At that instant, just before Miss Mabelle’s words came into my mind, I learned that Jameson had heard my thought. I knew this with certainty when his head jerked back slightly, and he blinked in surprise. Thankfully, I had no time to be embarrassed, because Miss Mabelle began to speak.

  “This tomb contains our beloved sisters. Wilda, Ursyla, Astryd, Laurette, Chantale, and Mahalia. These women were raised together from birth, trained to hone their gifts, to control them at a level no one had ever seen before. Over the years, as they cultivated their ability – to see the future of others – it became stronger, clearer. As it did, so did their reputation and the number of those who sought them out. Stories of their services were told and retold around the world, passing from sailor to sailor, king to king, peasant to peasant. They were dedicated to their craft, seeking only to help others and to improve the gift they had been given.

  “Then they secured the interest of seven particular individuals. These seven came to meet our legendary sisters, to confirm the reports of their abilities, and to have their fortunes and misfortunes read. And when those seven disappeared our sisters did, as well. Taken as slaves, they lived the rest of their lives in the ministry, secretly imprisoned there to appease the seven who had come for them. Once the future of those seven had been recounted on paper, our sisters’ bodies were discarded on the streets.”

  At this point, I had to actively hold in the anger starting to boil inside me. I could tell by looking at Jameson, he was doing the same. It was a good thing Miss Mabelle continued speaking.

  “Our sisters and brothers found them and brought them here, where the rest of their families now lay. Here, Jameson and Jocelyn, are buried the ones who knew you before you were born.”

  “Knew us?” I stumbled, but it was Jameson who was quicker and able to deduce the point of what she was trying to tell us.

  “Miss Mabelle, are you saying these women were the first channelers?”

  “Yes, I am,” she replied, stiffly. “We brought you here tonight for two reasons. First, you have a right to know…our sisters were the ones who saw you coming. While never naming you directly, they identified you in other ways.” I immediately remembered the description Miss Mabelle had given me in Aunt Lizzy’s library the night I’d read about The Relicuum and wondered what other clues the first channelers had found to help identify us as the ones. My attention was pulled back to Miss Mabelle, as she continued on. “Only after the rest of The Sevens’ futures were channeled and recorded did they recognize what they had done.”

  My gaze drifted to the crypt holding their sisters’ bodies. At some point in time, they were moving, breathing people. They had likes and dislikes, dreams they aspired to, and memories of their own. They had been people. And right now, despite the devastation they brought on, I forgave them. Their intentions seemed to be innocent. It was the people who used them who made my insides crawl.

  “Why did they channel – or mention what they saw – to The Sevens?” asked Jameson, perplexed, looking between the two of them. “The Sevens were the ones holding them against their will. Why give them anything?”

  I turned to evaluate Jameson’s profile. His jaw was defined, chiseled, and handsome, jutting out in rebellion.

  Miss Mabelle responded but not before releasing a distressed sigh. “They gave away the information in an attempt to save the lives of their sisters.”

  It took me only a second to comprehend it all. They were imprisoned with the only hope of release coming in the form of giving their captors what they wanted.
How else would they ever be able to convince their captors they were of no more use and they should be released? But it didn’t work.

  A powerful feeling of sadness came over me then. These women, despite their purity, or possibly because of it, had been used…giving until they had nothing left to give. They must have been waiting for The Sevens to release their sisters, but died holding onto that hope; when in truth, their sisters had already been tossed to the street like bags of garbage.

  The Sevens lack of humanity was staggering, nearly shutting down my mind entirely to keep any more distressing revelations from entering. Unfortunately, one did creep its way in.

  “Miss Mabelle,” I said, disregarding my unsettled stomach. “There’s something I don’t understand…” As I said this, all heads turned in my direction. “If your sisters died in the ministry, all of them, how do you know any of this? How did any of it get out?”

  She shocked me, albeit momentarily, with a show of respect. “Good question,” she said, “Collectively, over time, channelers have pieced together portions of the past until we learned what you have just been told.”

  “Were any of those portions part of the records the channelers made?” I asked, expectantly.

  “Our futures would certainly be easier if that were the case.”

  “But it’s not?” Jameson clarified.

  “No,” she replied, flatly.

  “They didn’t see any of the records made?” Jameson pressed.

  “Not enough of them, unfortunately.”

  “That’s it?” Jameson sounded almost appalled. “We don’t know anything else?”

  “We can be certain of just one other thing,” said Miss Mabelle, ominously.

  Jameson exhaled sharply and vocalized her insinuation. “The Sevens know what’s coming because they have read the records.”

  We waited for a slight nod of acknowledgement from Miss Mabelle, before Jameson and I, each, released a loud, discouraged groan.

  “So, our enemies know what to expect before we do…” I mumbled, my optimism diminishing all together.

  Jameson had a more insightful response, which didn’t surprise me. “How can you win a war when one side knows what to anticipate? Especially when they know what to expect before the other side even plans it?”

  In an effort to offer us hope – yet failing miserably - Miss Celia replied, “They know the equivalent of headlines in the newspaper, chapter headings in a book. They don’t know the details.”

  If there was any question in the deep recesses of my mind about how much trouble we were in, it was erased right then. For the first time, I understood the uphill struggle we faced. The Sevens were formidable. They used inhumane, ruthless practices to get what they wanted. And the only ones they wanted, the only things in this entire world they wanted, were us.

  Jameson, evidently trying to piece it all together, asked, “How does this explain why you took Jocelyn from school?”

  Miss Mabelle and Miss Celia traded glances, each one conveying there was something deeper and more disturbing than what Jameson and I were assuming.

  “That is the second reason we brought you here tonight,” said Miss Celia, stoically. “We, our people, are indebted to you-”

  “Indebted?” I blurted, which she casually ignored.

  “Because our sisters, as unintentional as it was, put you in grave danger, Miss Celia and I were called upon to serve as chaperones, to guide you in understanding what has happened…and what will happen.”

  Miss Celia spoke for the first time, her voice cutting through my mind - sharp and distinct - summarizing it all for us, so concisely it left me silent. “We gave Jocelyn the scar to bring her to New Orleans, so she could begin the process of learning to protect herself.”

  There was an unspoken meaning behind her words, one she didn’t need to elucidate. It wasn’t just time for me to learn how to defend myself…the war they foretold was about to start.

  I looked at Jameson who was focused on the horizon directly in front of us, his face taut with emotion. Trying to hide the emotion, he mentioned, “School starts in a few hours. We should get home.”

  I followed his gaze and found a small portion of the sky beyond the tombs starting to brighten and agreed with him.

  Miss Mabelle and Miss Celia released their hold on each other, effectively ending our channeling and signaling their concurrence. Jameson kept our hands intertwined just a second longer, I noticed. He didn’t want to let go. I wanted to tell him he wasn’t alone in that wish but, of course, I couldn’t. All I could do was loosen my grip and allow my arm to fall to the side.

  As we left the cemetery, Jameson and I strolled together toward the exit, our feet scuffing the dirt and gravel, deep in thought and completely unprepared for what came next.

  Without warning, Jameson fell to his knees, hands braced against the dirt, face twisted in pain. Knowing instantly it was our housekeepers, I turned on them.

  “You said…you said we’d be safe tonight,” I shouted, but they only shook their heads, Miss Celia’s hand remaining firmly ground into Jameson’s back.

  “Yer never safe,” was her simple response.

  I lunged for Jameson, anxious to end the attack. Then, I felt a shot of searing heat spread across my back as Miss Mabelle’s hand slammed down between my shoulder blades.

  I landed against the gravel driveway, hard, knocking the air from my lungs but it was incomparable to the heat radiating from Miss Mabelle’s hand.

  I opened my eyes and saw Jameson writhing in pain.

  “Jameso-” I began, but my voice cut off and I became mute as blindness set in. Then everything faded.

  Jameson’s lips moving to the sound of my name was the last thing I saw.

  This was the first time our housekeepers had combined their lessons into one. It was also the first time I wondered if Jameson and I would fail.

  Enclosed by darkness, I heard his grunts and his body scraping along the gravel, he was desperately trying to reach me, just as fiercely as I was struggling to find him.

  As a result of us now being separated completely, I concentrated on casting against Miss Mabelle on my own. When that didn’t work I conjured energy from within, although it was rapidly diminishing. When that effort proved futile, I heard Miss Celia’s voice next to my ear, close enough to know she was bent down between Jameson and me.

  “When them Sevens’ strike,” she hissed, “they’s will be employin’ everythin’ they’s got against ya. How ya gonna fight back? How ya gonna overpower ‘em?” She paused, allowing this to sink in, waiting to ensure there would be no confusion over the warning that followed. “Ya think ya safe? Ya think we’ll only take ya to the brink of death?” She laughed, contemptuously. “I don’t care if ya live or die. Don’t care if ya win yer war or not. This war ya got comin’ ain’t mine. It ain’t Miss Mabelle’s. It’s yer people’s war. It ain’t ours. Only obligation me and Miss Mabelle have’s in preparin’ ya. If ya die while tryin’ there ain’t no skin comin’ off our backs. You understand me, boy? Ya understand what I’m tellin’ ya?”

  Miss Celia’s warning wasn’t meant for me, I realized. It was designed to inspire Jameson. I understood this with absolute clarity by what immediately followed.

  Miss Celia’s hand came down on my arm, increasing the intensity and the pain until my body tightened into a catatonic state. I couldn’t breathe, or think, or flex a single muscle.

  The abrasive sound of shifting gravel faded, and Jameson was left writhing in pain, alone.

  It only took him a second to understand what had happened. Across the void, inside his own darkness, he finally comprehended what they were doing to me, and he fought back.

  Only a millisecond passed before I heard the slam of two bodies, pounding against unforgiving stone, loud grunts following. I felt another set of hands on me, as Jameson’s tender, yet frantic, voice called out.

  “Jocelyn, are you…are you alive?” His hands trembled as they rolled me over. “Jocelyn
!”

  Able to feel the persistent heat still searing through my torso I concluded that I survived, but I was deliberately fighting to regain consciousness.

  “Jocelyn, talk to me,” he demanded, still urging me back.

  My lungs began working, just enough to afford me the air required to answer. “Stop shouting,” I whispered, hearing him snicker with relief.

  “Open your eyes for me, sweetheart.” This last word was a mistake, spoken in a moment of mindless passion. We both knew it, but he didn’t bother to correct himself.

  My lids twitched and fluttered and, after a few blinks, I was staring up at Jameson’s beautiful, concerned green eyes.

  The side of his mouth flinched, revealing a cautious smile. “Can you sit up?”

  “I-I think so.”

  Noticing my effort, he gently helped me to a sitting position.

  By then, my sight was just beginning to work at a distance again so I surveyed the area, scouring for our attackers. They hadn’t moved from their spots in the rubble of the tombs they collided against.

  “What did you do?” I asked in amazement.

  Turning his head to check on our housekeepers, he replied, absentmindedly, “A spark. Like the one I used on Mrs. Gaul in class.” His eyes returned to me, evaluating me closely. “I thought…” A darkness rose in them, and despite the fact he probably caused our housekeepers serious injury, I had no doubt he’d do it again. “I thought they were going to kill you.”

  He didn’t need to tell me. I could sense it in the tension radiating from him.

  “I should probably…” I started to say but didn’t finish, because it took more effort than I expected to stand. When I made it to my feet and headed toward our housekeepers, Jameson understood what I meant and scoffed in reaction.

  “I’m not so sure they deserve your help.”

  I questioned it myself, but I wasn’t about to let anyone die in my presence…not if I could stop it. Still, it was a struggle to place my hand on each of them and even more of a struggle to utter the words, “Incantatio sana.”

  I received no thanks for it, of course.