Birthright (Residue Series #2)

by Laury Falter

  Jameson wasn’t scolded for his reaction, either. Oddly, it seemed like they were expecting it.

  When they came to, only Miss Celia made a reference to what happened. “Thought that would hurt less than it did.”

  From then on, none of us spoke while we left the cemetery, and only after we’d made it through the gate did I pull Jameson aside.

  As Miss Celia fixed the gate’s lock – the one Miss Mabelle broke when we entered – with a cast, I used the time to thank Jameson for, very possibly, saving my life.

  After speaking my words of appreciation, his reply seemed indifferent. After a slight nod, he muttered, “You’re welcome,” and headed for the car.

  It was a complete reversal from the emotions he showed a few minutes earlier, and it made the pervasive ache in my chest throb. He wanted to say more. I sensed it, but he was holding back. Because that was what I’d asked of him. That ache only deepened as I watched him get inside and close the door, a motion that left me feeling as if he were intentionally shutting me out.

  As I dwelled on this, our housekeepers finished their cast, and without bothering to ensure it was successful, spun around and marched back toward the car. I watched as they came to a halt only a few feet away, suddenly hesitant to move any farther. Whatever they noticed was hidden by the cemetery’s wall, so it was of no consequence to me, until I headed for the car and the obstruction disappeared.

  A stately man with combed, dark hair wearing an elegant, outdated suit strolled toward us, stopping to casually lean against a lamppost. This was peculiar for several reasons, not the least of which was the fact he moved with a swagger. His relaxed confidence was enough to convince me that he hadn’t appeared here by accident.

  From where I watched him, he was looking up over his slender nose at us. His entire demeanor reflecting a stately, reserved Englishman, familiar with proper etiquette – the kind who knew what to say to impress others and always followed proper protocol.

  He stood, leaning against the streetlight, watching us, twirling a pocket watch in his hand.

  “Happen to have the time?” he said, in a cordial English accent.

  There was no missing the fact that Miss Mabelle and Miss Celia did not want to answer the man or interact with him in any way.

  “No,” stated Miss Celia, flatly, and she started for the car again, quickening her pace. As Miss Mabelle looked over her shoulder at me, her eyes were intense, and her lips were pinched, which made her look almost irate. I determined this meant I needed to follow her…quickly.

  As I did, the man’s attention shifted to me and he started swinging the pocket watch at the end of its chain, an arrogant act that made me instinctively dislike him.

  “You sure?” he asked Miss Celia again, tilting his chin at her. “Just got in. Different time zone.”

  “Yes,” said Miss Celia, almost jumping into the front seat of Miss Mabelle’s car. “We don’t have the time.” Then she slammed the door behind her.

  I was thankful for the darkened windows of Miss Celia’s vehicle, or the man might have seen Jameson in the rear seat, which would have divulged the fact that we were spending time together. While he very well could be just an average stranger on the street, something told me he was from our world. Another good look at him confirmed I was right. On the top of his watch, implanted in the lid was a moldavite stone.

  As Miss Celia started the engine and pulled away from the curb, there was a smirk on the man’s face, as if he knew we had the time and were too disturbed by his presence to tell him. Although after looking again, the smirk exuded a smug satisfaction, like he’d just caught a prized animal.

  “Who was that?” I asked, turning in my seat to find the man rotating entirely around to watch us leave. His legs were apart, poised, as the lamp’s light drenched him from above, creating uncanny shadows beneath him.

  Jameson put it together first. “That was Phillip Turcott, wasn’t it?”

  The fact that our housekeepers were unresponsive told us he was correct.

  Phillip Turcott, my mind was racing, trying to place the name. I was in such a hurry, I didn’t immediately settle on where I heard the name before. The image of Ms. Roquette standing before our class, discussing notable Vires came to mind. My next thought was more of a question.

  What is Phillip Turcott doing in our city?

  Jameson, as if reading my mind, answered it for me. “He’s found us.”

  15 SARTORIUS

  Phillip Turcott’s arrival sent a tremor through our families. It also sent a shockwave through the rest of those in our world, as word passed about who he was and what he did for a living. The Weatherfords and the Caldwells made certain everyone else was watching for him too, knowing this was the only way to ensure we knew when he would make an appearance. While he lived on the verge of absolute anonymity before, now he was a spectacle. And none of us expected the resulting fervor that followed.

  The gossip raged through our private world for one reason…

  If Phillip Turcott was in the city, he must think either The Relicuum or The Nobilis was here also.

  Whisperings of this suspicion could be found in every store, at every gathering, and within every clique and coven. Suspense rose to an almost feverish pitch each time Turcott was spotted at a French Quarter shop or attending an event held by someone in our world. All the commotion made it feel as if Turcott’s presence indicated a celebrity would soon be arriving in the city.

  News, even more disturbing than that of his arrival, reached me at lunch one day a few weeks after he first appeared.

  We were teasing Estelle about her bright purple silk blouse when Vinnia slid onto the bench at our lunch table on the school patio.

  “He’s asking about you,” she announced, keeping an eye on me while pulling out her sandwich.

  The hand holding my sandwich halted midway to my mouth.

  Vinnia saw my nervous reaction and nodded, assuring me I’d heard correctly.

  “What kind of questions?” I asked, and I lowered my sandwich, no longer interested in food.

  She successfully gained the attention of all my cousins then.

  “He’s asking about your likes, your dislikes, your friends, your family…” She paused, allowing her answer to register with the rest of the table. “You know, those kinds of questions.”

  She watched as nearly everyone around the table lost their appetite, too, shoving their lunch aside; all but Nolan, who continued chewing. Nothing ever seemed to faze him.

  “Turcott’s doing it subtly, but it’s being noticed.”

  “So, he’s evaluating me,” I clarified.

  “Yes…” she replied, her voice heavy and reserved. “He is.” She let that sink in before adding, “He’s also asking about where you go after school and on the weekends.”

  I stifled a groan because I’d been sneaking out on healing errands every day since Jameson had taken me, trying to ease my pain of our separation. These errands gave me a sense of relief. I had fallen into a comforting routine, losing Theleo - or the Vire trailing me - and stealthily rotating between the hospitals and clinics around the city.

  “You’ll need to hold off for a while,” Oscar said, openly acknowledging that he and my other cousins knew about my secret trips.

  “No,” I said, emphatically.

  My cousins exchanged hesitant looks.

  “He’s just another Vire,” I concluded.

  “Who clearly has an interest in you,” Estelle pointed out.

  “It’s too risky,” Spencer stated.

  “People out there need help.” Truthfully, the excursions were as healing for me as they were for those I healed. Either way, I wouldn’t stop. I couldn’t.

  “You won’t be able to offer any help if you’re dead,” Nolan said, always managing to bring in a hint of the gruesome into whatever we were discussing. His insinuation was a good one though. I had to admit. But it still didn’t change my mind.

  “I’m not going to hole myself
up because of them.” I knew I was being indignant, but I wouldn’t back down. They recognized it and ended the conversation there, wisely.

  The next day, I learned the harsh reality of why they were so insistent.

  It was Saturday, and I stayed true to my word, awakening just before dawn to crackling thunder and preparing for a day-long healing errand. I made my usual check on the Vires outside the house and found two of them standing in puddles at our gate, neither one being Theleo. They were suffering through the downpour with coats pulled up over their heads. Because of the weather, their focus was far less on our house and far more on trying to avoid the rain presently assaulting them.

  “Perfect,” I muttered, excitedly, and headed for the back door.

  I couldn’t have asked for a better cover and easily lost my Vire-shadow on the streets.

  Spending the next few hours on my rotations, curing those accessible in hospital waiting rooms, made me feel free, despite the threat of Turcott’s presence in the city. I was being irresponsible, and I acknowledged this several times throughout the day but my compulsion to bring aid to others blatantly disregarded the forewarning.

  By late afternoon my stomach was rumbling and, being on my way to a clinic on the eastside of the French Quarter, I decided to make a quick stop at Café Du Monde. The storm had passed, which brought out the sun and the tourists, so it was busy enough beneath the green and white shade to blend in and hide sufficiently from any passing Vires.

  I bought an order of sweet, powdery beignets and strong, black chicory coffee, and then choose an inconspicuous seat near the center. The coffee tasted bitter but woke me right up and the beignets gave me the sugar I needed to stay alert.

  The Jackson Square vendors were busy today, despite the early morning weather. Tourists perused the work of local painters, who lined their canvases along the wrought iron fence surrounding Jackson Square, and the mystics’ tables were full and bustling too.

  I then heard the deep rumble of a motorcycle on the opposite side of the park. Knowing who it would be, I finished the last of my beignet and strolled toward the sound, keeping beneath the eaves to stay unnoticeable.

  I hadn’t spoken to her since nearly fainting in the hallway at school, which left us on awkward ground, and I didn’t want that. I figured a quick hello would clear everything up. But as I reached the corner of the park, Maggie and Eran came into view, along with her current customer. Jameson sat in the chair opposite Maggie. Unfortunately, Eran saw me approaching and motioned for me to join them before I could turn back.

  Catching on, the customer turned in his seat, and after recognizing me, his eyes widened in surprise.

  There was no stopping now. So, I continued my stroll, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible.

  “Hi,” I said when reaching them, smiling to chase away my nerves.

  By this point, Jameson was standing and staring at me, awaiting my reaction.

  “Jameson,” I said with a casual nod in his direction.

  “Jocelyn,” he replied, just as rigidly.

  An uncomfortable silence followed, surrounding the four of us.

  “I’m-I’m sorry. Did I…did I make a mistake?” Eran asked, rapidly trying to assess the situation. “I thought he was your boyfriend.”

  “Was,” I countered. “He was.”

  “Oh,” he replied uncomfortably.

  Maggie didn’t seem as uneasy with Jameson and my new relationship status. She had something else on her mind, a question that I couldn’t have expected. While gawking at Jameson, she asked, “So why are you asking to speak to her father?”

  He reacted by snapping his mouth closed.

  “He is?” I asked and turned to Jameson. “You are?”

  “I can explain.”

  “Please do,” I insisted.

  He gave Maggie and Eran a quick, hesitant glance before answering.

  “Should we step back?” Eran offered.

  “No,” Jameson replied. “You probably know most of it already, although you might not have pieced it together yet.” Turning to me, he said, “Jocelyn, we are in danger. And while I don’t care so much about me, I do care about you. So when your grandfather is in the city I want to know why and-”

  “Sartorius is here?” I asked, bewildered.

  He paused. “You didn’t know?”

  “No,” I said, blinking back my astonishment.

  “He is. And I’m hoping your father can tell us the reason.”

  I’d never met my grandfather, but I knew of him and his colleagues’ reputations, which lead me to believe that, regardless of the reason, the effect of his visit would very likely cause trouble. Jameson had probably considered this already as well, which perfectly explained his motive for consulting my father. Once again, he was looking out for me.

  As I came to this conclusion, my tentativeness softened to appreciation, and I was just about to convey this when Maggie released a moan.

  Eran, who also sensed something was wrong, turned to her. “Magdalene?” he said, rotating around to face her. “Are you all right?”

  “I-I…” She started, but the words failed her.

  She didn’t look fine. Her face had gone pale, and she started to perspire.

  “What’s wrong, Magdalene?” Eran pressed, firm but urgent.

  I watched as her trembling hand slipped to the back of her neck.

  “Were you stung by a bee?” I asked, because that’s how she was reacting.

  “No,” Eran answered for her, tersely. His relaxed disposition was gone.

  “It can’t be,” she mumbled, clearly shaken. “It can’t be…”

  Eran was holding her up by her arms now as she rapidly scanned the area but he ducked his head to catch her gaze.

  “Are you certain?” he asked, making no sense to me. Apparently, it made sense to her, because she nodded, and when her eyes rose they were filled with dread.

  Eran stood up to his full height, a good foot over her head, and did an entire sweep of the area. “I don’t see any…” After a good inspection of the area, he gave up on finding whatever it was he was looking for and turned back to us. “We’re leaving. We’ll see you at school.”

  “No,” Maggie quickly insisted. Her eyes stopped and narrowed in on something over Jameson’s shoulder. “No,” she repeated, more firmly, and took a step in that direction, but Eran held her back.

  The rest of us turned to see what she found. Obscured by the shade of the buildings and the distance from where we stood, only one thing seemed to be out of place. A man in a business suit with his hands clasped behind his back and his feet astride was staring directly at us.

  “This isn’t the time,” Eran declared, already urging her onto their motorcycle. She must have agreed with his assessment, because she slipped her leg over the bike, keeping her sight pinned on the person in the shadows.

  “Can we help?” offered Jameson, stepping forward in a show of support.

  “No,” Eran replied, remaining entirely focused on the conspicuous person who mysteriously upset Maggie.

  The motorcycle engine rumbled to life, and they left Jackson Square opposite from where the man stood in the shadows.

  “Apparently, we aren’t the only ones with enemies,” Jameson surmised, watching them leave. Then his gaze locked on something over my shoulder, and his face grew rigid. He mumbled something under his breath, maybe a curse word, and leaned in toward me, grabbing my elbow. He then began whispering rapidly.

  “Listen. We have company.” At that, I was just about to follow Maggie and Eran’s exit when Jameson hastily warned against it. “Don’t look. It’s Turcott. We need to separate but I’m not going to lose you. It’s too risky. He hasn’t seen us so I’m heading toward the cathedral. You go down Pirate’s Alley. I’ll meet you there once he’s gone.”

  “I have my car back-” I turned to motion behind me, but Jameson quickly stopped me.

  “You’ll run right into Turcott.” His wide eyes held mine as he reite
rated, “Pirate’s Alley, all right?”

  I nodded and casually strolled in that direction, trying not to call attention to myself. After I reached Pirate’s Alley, and Jameson came strolling around the corner a few minutes later, my breathing finally slowed, and the throb of my pulse against my eardrum calmed to a more even pace.

  With Jameson close by, I began to feel somewhat safe. I thought maybe this was only a coincidental run in with Phillip Turcott, and then I saw the Vires step around the corner behind Jameson.

  Spinning around, I found Vires closing off the opposite exit, too, their legs straddled, their hands clasped together in front of them, and their eyes pinned on us.

  We were trapped.

  Jameson quickly came to my side, taking a position in front of me and swiveling his head between threats on both sides of us. As we gauged our situation, a single glance indicated there was no possible way to avoid them. Vires were blocking all exits. Behind us, stood the expansive exterior wall of St. Louis Cathedral, and in front of us, was a row of closed, inaccessible doors.

  The balcony above, draped with flowers and ivy, and the tall palm trees at one end darkened the pathway from the afternoon sun, casting shadows across our enemies’ ominous faces as the most sinister one of all stepped forward.

  Turcott strolled confidently around the line that formed to enclose us, taking his time, shuffling along the cobblestones. He stopped a few feet away, hands resting in the pockets of his cuffed, pinstriped pants and a snide grin lifting one side of his face.

  “And so we meet,” he declared, cordially, his smooth voice bringing to my mind one word: conniving.

  Neither Jameson nor I responded.

  He scrutinized us as one would expect when finding something of value after years of searching. If we’d been an object, he would have rotated us in his hand.

  The hint of a smile lifted his meager lips before speaking.

  “Your families have been particularly effective in keeping us from reaching you. Protection casting and secrecy are two traits the Caldwells and the Weatherfords excel in. And yet, after all these years, after all that effort,” he grinned maliciously, “we have, finally, reached you.”