Badass Alchemy

by M J Marstens

  They’re like liquid seduction melting me into a puddle of need.

  Over him and my body’s reaction, I cock back a fist to show him how much of a pleasure it’s been, but he freaking disappears. Instantly, I know that he’s slipped into one of the other realms. So, Tall, Dark, and Please Fuck Me is a Realm Guardian, too.

  Interesting.

  I slowly make my way home to my Mèrè’s house, deep in the bayou. I’m lost in thought the entire time, wondering about the mystery man. Realm Guardians are not numerous and, because of this, we mostly know one another, even if we are Guardians of a different area. In all my years, I’ve never seen him.

  I stand at the foot of my mèrè’s porch, rocking on my feet, thinking. I wedge my hands into the back pockets of my jeans and feel a piece of paper there. Pulling it out, I see that it’s the A.S.S. business card, but with two new additions: a name and a phone number.

  When had the fucker slipped this in?

  And added his name and number?

  I glare at the paper like it’s the most offensive thing in the world.

  Smooth- that man is way too smooth.

  And smug.

  Under no circumstances am I ever joining A.S.S. or calling him.

  the voodoo queen

  I feel a profound sense of peace drift over me when I enter through Mèrè’s front door. My mèrè is the current Voodoo Queen of New Orleans. To anyone without Creole blood pumping through their veins, that really doesn’t sound like much.

  In fact, most visitors think that it’s merely a made-up title used for theatrical purposes, but my mèrè is no joke. She’s the real deal and, while you don’t want to mess with me, you really don’t want to fuck with her. But, I swear, she is the sweetest old lady in existence. She’s raised me on her own and is my everything.

  When Mèrè is not whipping up Voodoo magic, she is baking up a storm and always has some treat waiting for me after a long day. Like I said, just the gentlest soul in a human being-

  “Sassafras Colette DeJais! Get your ass into the sitting parlor, now!”

  I wince at mèrè’s use of my middle name.

  It was my mother’s.

  Originally, my mother had just wanted to name Sassafras. No middle name. Not even a last name. Like I was some Beyoncé in the making, but mèrè had pitched a damn fit until my mom had conceded and given me my maternal heritage- a custom in the Voodoo community where the daughter takes the woman’s last name.

  It wasn’t until my mother passed, when I was four, that a middle name suddenly became important to my mèrè. After she was officially given legal guardianship, Mèrè took me in and had my name changed to Sassafras Colette DeJais. Even as young as I was, I understood my profound loss keenly. By adding this small part to my name, Mèrè had given me a sense of peace.

  Something comforting to cling to in the absence of my mother.

  But there’s nothing comforting about hearing my name now.

  I dawdle in the foyer, shuffling my feet, wondering how I can physically fight dick souls and grown-ass men, but I’m terrified of one, little old lady.

  “Because I’m stronger, meaner, and tougher than all of them combined!” Mèrè shouts.

  I’ve never been able to ascertain whether she can read minds or she’s just very, very clever.

  Probably both.

  “It’s definitely both. Now, get in here, child.”

  I drag my feet across the worn carpet until I’m finally standing in front of my mèrè. She proudly sits on an actual throne, holding Voodoo court. I pick up a doll sitting forgotten on the table next to her. Dozens of needles are stabbed through the groin area of the genderless doll.

  “Another pissed off wife?” I surmise.

  “Found her husband cheating. Not no more,” Mèrè answers stoutly.

  For everyone unfamiliar with Voodoo, the use of the doll isn’t to exact unbearable pain on a person’s victim. In fact, it’s far more symbolic. In this case, it could be a myriad of things ranging from the man in question not being able to become erect to something more mundane as never feeling sexual desire again.

  Usually, the people that seek out my mèrè leave this to her discretion, as she has the most reliable read on the person thanks to her connection with the spirit world. Helpful souls are willing to tell Mèrè what she needs to know for her aid in the physical world as they try to solve their unfinished business.

  This is the true nature of Voodoo.

  Hoodoo is the magic or the use of the dolls and gris-gris, but real Voodoo is about incantation, protection, and ceremonial possession. It's the only sanctioned soul possession. Because of the high level of spirituality necessary for someone like my mèrè to take in a soul, rogue spirits are not a threat. They simply cannot pierce her aura to take over- making her one badass woman.

  And this badass woman is ready to chew me up and spit me out.

  Why can I never catch a break?

  give and take

  I toss the doll back down, pretending nonchalance.

  “You wanted to talk to me?” I ask Mèrè innocently.

  The old bat rolls her eyes.

  “Look into my mirror and tell me what you see,” she directs instead, surprising me.

  I’m not sure what this little exercise is supposed to do, but I indulge her because I love her. And I really don’t have a choice. The mirror in question is another Voodoo artifact and I stand before its ornate border and reflective surface, waiting. When nothing happens, I look back at my mèrè, but she merely raises her eyebrows.

  I guess she really does just want me to use the mirror to assess myself, not for anything prophetic and extraordinary.

  Not sure what the point of this exercise is, I describe my features. Short, curly black hair that’s shiny and springy. Light brown skin- lighter than my aunts’, cousins’, and Mèrè’s skin. Lighter even than my mother’s, making me wonder if my father was white. My mother never spoke to me about my father, and when I asked Mèrè, she said that the answer was forbidden to her.

  I still shudder when I think about those words.

  Who the fuck was my father that his identity was even hidden from the Voodoo Queen?

  But the souls refused to tell her and I’ve learned to stop questioning, but it doesn’t stop me from wondering, still.

  I have a splash of freckles across the bridge of my nose and onto my cheeks, again, just like my mother, and my eyes are a deep chocolate brown. I’m taller, almost six feet, and slender. Unfortunately, the proverbial black ass was not passed down to me. Instead, I must have gotten my father’s less than shapely derrière, more proof that man must have been white. But my breasts aren’t too bad. They’re not large, but still full and perky.

  I have full lips, long fingers, and small ears.

  What else am I supposed to be looking for?

  Mèrè sighs and heaves herself off of her throne.

  “Not physically, child. I know what you see when you look in the mirror. A mixture of my beloved daughter and, I assume, your father. Lordy knows Colette didn’t have freckles. But, I’m not asking about your pretty shell. I want to know what you see on the inside when you look at yourself.”

  “Um. . . well,” I attempt, tipping my nose up, trying to look inside of me. “I really can’t see up in there that well,” I tell her like a smartass.

  Whap.

  “Ow! Cool it, Rafiki! I was joking!” I yell loudly, rubbing my head where she smacked me with her rattle- another Voodoo ceremonial tool.

  “Who is this Rafiki?” my mèrè demands.

  “A cheeky baboon who thinks he knows everything.”

  “I don’t think. I do know. And I’m not a baboon!”

  “I was teasing. Besides, I don’t know what you want from me,” I mock-whine.

  Mèrè sighs in apparent disappointment.

  “Sassy, my girl, I’ve raised you almost your whole life. Even without parents, you grew up in a large community full of laughter and love, but you somehow
still managed to set yourself apart. I watched, proudly, as you became one of the youngest Realm Guardians, intent on doing your duty and protecting those around you. You love fiercely and fight even more so, but you don’t know how to take.”

  I crinkle my nose at her assessment.

  “I don’t know what to say to that? It’s not my job to take. It’s to give.”

  “Exactly. You’ve let your job consume you. You are not your job, Sassafras. You are a Realm Guardian, but this isn’t your only defining feature. Before this, you are a niece, a cousin, a granddaughter- a woman. When was the last time you took as a woman?”

  I stare blankly at her.

  Did my mèrè just ask me the last time that I got laid?

  poisoned by the voodoo queen

  Mèrè snorts.

  “I’m not talking about your depressing backseat fumble-fucks that happened too many years ago to count. Trust me, that’s just as sad, but I’m talking about you as a person. As a human being. What joys have you derived from your life lately?”

  “I vindictively stabbed a possessing soul in the ribs today to get even. Does that count?”

  Mèrè shakes her head sadly.

  “You could have died today because of your foolishness. Your pride is much too large for someone your age.”

  Her words sting.

  “I wasn’t going to die! Have a little faith in me. As for my pride- I’ve earned it,” I snap, irritated that it was once more a topic of conversation.

  But, whereas my pride amused Tall, Dark, and Not Going To Think About Fucking, it pained my mèrè.

  In response to my words, Mèrè pokes me in the ribs with her fingers, nearly bringing me to my knees. I grind my teeth and, only through sheer dint of will, do I remain standing.

  “See, too prideful. When are you going to let others help you?” she demands, lumbering away to her potions table.

  There, she starts opening bottles and concocting realms-knows-what. After adding a little of this and that (I don’t ask because I firmly believe that I don’t want to know), she thrusts the smoking glass vial into my hand and directs me to drink it. I balk, the putrid-smelling contents making me gag. I look up to protest, but the stern look on her face has me downing the liquid instead.

  It burns.

  Oh, fuck, how it burns.

  My mèrè poisoned me!

  “Oh, please, you baby. I didn’t poison you. Yet. It’s to heal you from the inside out. You think that kind of work is gentle or easy?”

  “Why couldn’t you have just let me heal normally?” I gasp.

  “Alone, in your room, sipping your uncle’s strongest moonshine for you to just go out tomorrow and do the same work routine over again?” she asks dryly.

  “No,” I argue defensively, even though that is exactly what I planned on doing.

  “Oh, good. I’m glad that isn’t what you were going to do,” Mèrè deadpans. “See, we’re making progress. Now, about you being too prideful-”

  “I’m not too prideful!” I reiterate in irritation.

  “Oh, wonderful. Then, you’re going to join the Assassins of the Shadow Society?”

  “What?”

  “The card- in your back pocket, is that not an exclusive invitation to join the Assassins of the Shadow Society?” she repeats in exasperation.

  “Oh, is that what A.S.S. stands for?”

  “What did you think it meant, child?” she chastises.

  “Association of Sexy Sycophants.”

  “Ah, so you do think like a woman. I was beginning to wonder. . . ” my mèrè crows smugly, and I look at her sharply.

  “Stop being ridiculous. What aren’t you telling me? What do you know?”

  She shrugs nonchalantly.

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “Spiritual contract, my cher. You know that I can’t break that. For the time being, take my advice and just go see what the Assassins are all about. Has it occurred to you that you’ve been invited to join because they need you?”

  “For what? If I’m desperately needed for anything, the Guild would have let me know!”

  Mèrè gives me a pitying look.

  “Sass, the Assassins of the Shadow Society is The Guild of Realms’ most secret faction. It’s an honor and privilege to be asked to join. In this regard, it is all about your job.”

  “Oh? I thought I needed to step away from my work. That I was too prideful?”

  “You do and you are. At least working within this faction, you will be partnered with someone well-trained who can reign your mouthy ass in when necessary.”

  I grin at her words.

  “Do you really think someone is capable of that?” I tease.

  “No,” she sighs irritably, “but at least someone can try, defan pauvre1.”

  * * *

  1 Louisiana Creole for ‘poor soul’

  pride be damned

  I roll my eyes at her dramatics.

  “I’ll think about it,” I hedge, hoping that will be enough to appease my mèrè, but she knows me better than the back of her own hand.

  “Liar,” she taunts. “That’s fine, but meeting with the Assassins would get you out of tomorrow’s meeting with The Guild. The one at the butt-crack of dawn. . .”

  Meddlesome old woman.

  I think about her words, weighing my options, but sleeping-in wins.

  “Fine,” I relent ungraciously. “I’ll call the. . . Assassins.”

  Mèrè smiles like she knew the outcome of our conversation all along.

  “Excellent. Go call your young ma- I mean assassin. Oh, and Sass? If possible, I could use you Saturday night for chanting strength.”

  I stare at her for a beat.

  I know that she knows more about the man whose name is on the card, but if the information was truly granted to her by a soul and it requested her silence, then my mèrè was spiritually bound to hold her tongue. Still, it galled me that she knew something that I didn’t.

  “Of course, Mèrè. I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I promise, referring to the upcoming ceremony.

  “Good. Now, go make your call and, then, get to bed so that you can heal. And remember, my potions can only fix so much. It can’t cure the stupidity of the young and proud.”

  I laugh at her insult and walk away, pulling out my phone. Once I’m outside, I look at the Spanish moss swaying in the trees from the wind. I really don’t want to join A.S.S. but, moreover, I really don’t want to call him. I refuse to use the name scribbled on the card. I won’t give him the satisfaction, but Lord knows how smug the bastard is going to be if I ring him up.

  I wonder if tomorrow’s meeting with The Guild is a better option, but I come to the horrifying conclusion that I might be met with a worse fate. They might partner me up with someone not of my choice. Or demote me for today’s carelessness. At least with the Assassins, I might retain an iota of my freedom.

  Maybe.

  Hopefully.

  Sucking in a breath, I dial the number on the card before I can second-guess my actions. I wait anxiously while it rings and, then, nearly groan out loud when I hear his delicious, silky voice.

  “I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon, Ms. Dejais.”

  “Yeah, well, I was coerced by a little old lady with noxious tonics and an airtight logic,” I grumble.

  My stomach clenches when he chuckles.

  “I imagine the Voodoo Queen is very enlightened. It is wise to heed her words.”

  So, Tall, Dark, and Starring In All My Fantasies knows my mèrè. . .

  Of course, that didn’t mean much. She is the Voodoo Queen of New Orleans. That’s like genuine royalty here.

  “Listen, I’ve decided to. . . take a look into your little club, Mister . . .”

  “Please, call me Ferro1.”

  “No,” I retort.

  I refuse to call him by his first name. It’s too personal. Too intimate. When I say his name in my head, it reminds me of
the word ‘feral’, and that’s exactly how I picture him fucking me.

  He gives another low laugh.

  “Very well but, eventually, you’ll call me by my name. And scream it. Until then, I’m pleased that you’ve decided to grow up and leave B.U.T.T. behind. Let’s meet tomorrow morning to discuss more details; say, at seven over breakfast?”

  “Seven A.M? Gross. Fuck no. Say, at ten over breakfast. At The Camellia Grille and you’re buying. Oh, and one more thing, you’re right— I will eventually scream your name. When I finally lose my shit and stab you repeatedly with my trident for pissing me off. Have a nice night.”

  I hang up to him laughing uproariously.

  * * *

  1 Pronounced FAIR-oh

  like lionel ritchie

  I sleep like the dead, my body internalizing my mèrè’s potion and healing me from the inside out. When I wake up, it’s 9:12.

  P.M.

  Fuuuuuuuuuuuck.

  I quickly fumble for my phone, seeing dozens of missed calls and texts. Mostly from him. I open the most recent message and I can sense his amusement in his words.

  Ferro: I spoke with your mèrè. She mentioned that you were a late sleeper. I didn’t realize that you meant that you wanted to meet for breakfast at ten at night. Is it still called breakfast at that time? How about we skip breakfast and have a quick rendezvous instead.

  Heat spears me at his last sentence.

  Quick rendezvous sounds way too similar to ‘quickie’ and, sadly, my body seems entirely on board with that plan.

  I fix my face into its perpetual scowl for whenever dealing with this man and write out a brief text back.

  Sass: Sorry, Mr. Smartass. I was recovering and slept longer than intended. If a quick rendezvous is all you can do, that’s fine. Let’s just meet at ten at Woldenberg Park at the riverfront.

  Ferro: I’m glad to see that even your pride sleeps and you let yourself recover. Ten at the riverfront it is. And to appease your curiosity about my sexual prowess, I can go all night.