by Debra Dunbar
“Trust me, it would not be rape.” I told her, in what I hoped was a soothing voice. “I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want that guy. Sex with him would be the highlight of my life — and I’ll most likely live tens of thousands of years.”
Jordan frowned. “Then why not do it? I’d give a limb to have one night with someone that looked like that. Is it because he won’t provide you with the energy you need, or something?”
“No, he said he’d transfer some of his energy to me. It’s just… .” I hesitated, my face heating up. “It would be like a charity fuck. He doesn’t like that I’ve been denying myself, in essence starving myself, so he’d have sex with me to ensure I had the energy I needed. Like a feeding tube for someone who can’t eat. But I don’t … I can’t… .”
Realization dawned on her face, and she nodded. “Sex with him would mean more to you than that, and you need him to feel the same way.”
It all came out in a rush. “I’m scared that I’ll be the one who spends my life measuring every partner against him, pining for him. I’m scared that in the morning, I’ll mean nothing to him, that he’ll be completely uninterested in ever repeating the experience. Right now, he wants me. If I give in, he might never want me again, and what little we have now will be gone.”
“You’re in love with him,” she added softly.
“No! Not at all! Not love, but a friends–with–benefits thing. Although we haven’t gotten to the benefits part, and I really don’t want us to.”
It sounded lame. Jordan tilted her head, and her eyes were warm as she patted my hand. “I know the perfect place. There’s a Goth club I go to. The guys there are really nice, but these ‘others’ come in sometimes. They basically do the pick–up–and–dump routine. You know, take someone outside for twenty minutes, then they’re back for another? You wouldn’t have to worry your conscience one bit.”
Sounded perfect to me. “They’re guys, right? Because pretty much any guy will work for me, but for some reason I’m only attracted to one in a hundred girls.”
“Usually it’s a mix, but there are always at least two or three guys. Don’t worry, you’ll have your pick. And if you want more than one tonight, now’s your chance.”
Perfect indeed. I’d prove to Irix that I could take care of myself. Hopefully that would be enough to convince him his job was done, and that he could leave me in peace and return to Hel — the prospect of which left me seriously depressed.
* * *
6
Here’s the tree. It had phytophthora ramorum and was due to be removed today. It’s a severe blight and always fatal, but she cured it.”
I stood by the side like a second grader awaiting judgment of my science fair project while Jordan and an older woman, who had been introduced to me as Bev, examined the tree.
The High Priestess of the Bon Nuit coven had short silver hair, and a neat figure in olive pants and a gauzy top. She looked like she should be volunteering at the historical society or trimming heirloom roses in her prize–winning garden, not running an eighty–person Wiccan coven in New Orleans.
“Are you sure, Jordan?” Bev reached out a hand to touch the bark, frowning first at the tree, and then at me. I tugged at my shorts, suddenly wishing I’d worn a longer pair today. Her expression pegged me as a stereotypical college coed — all looks and no brains in clothing just a few inches from indecent.
“Totally.” Jordan looked at me pleadingly. “Amber, can you show her? Heal another tree, maybe?”
This meeting wasn’t going as planned. I was supposed to have a lovely sit–down with Jordan and Bev to discuss their needs and my significant limitations. Instead, the whole meeting veered into doubt over my abilities. Now I needed to prove myself, perform like a circus dog.
“I’m low on energy, remember?” I’d passed out healing this tree, and although I felt better after all the smoky seduction of the club, I was still far from fully charged.
“Oh … that’s right.” Jordan looked away in embarrassment, obviously thinking about our mission this evening.
Bev did not look away. She stared intently, like she was trying to bore right through my skull and into my thoughts. “If you don’t have enough energy to heal another tree, what makes you think you can do a magical working on an entire section of bayou? Where do you plan on getting the energy for that?”
That was the question on my mind too, along with the doubts that I could even do what they were asking of me.
“I’m planning on having more energy after tonight. It’s rather personal how I do that, so I’d rather not say.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “We don’t work with anyone practicing black magic of any kind. If you’re killing something for your energy, then you can just get right back on the plane to Maryland.”
This woman was seriously looking at me, all blond and blue–eyed in short–shorts and a skin–tight lilac crop top, and thinking I was merrily sacrificing goats or small children for power? It was a ludicrous idea.
“You okay with fucking?”
She recoiled in shock from the crude word, and I had to bite back a smile. Deliberately offending her probably wasn’t the wisest choice, but I couldn’t help it. I was half demon, after all.
“Yes. Sex magic is an acceptable source of energy for spell workings.”
“Oh good. Now, let me see if I can find something to do that will prove to you that I’m not a fraud, but not put me in a coma.”
I looked around. Reviving some trampled grass probably wouldn’t suffice. I could increase the size of the bougainvillea blooms, but that might be discounted as an illusion. Blooms!
“Watch that azalea over there.” I pointed to the bushy plant with thick dark green leaves. The two turned toward it.
Walking over, I lay a finger against a leaf, feeling the pulse of the plant, vital and healthy. Sorry, sweetie. What I was about to do wouldn’t hurt the azalea, but the poor thing would be terribly confused. With a steady stream of energy, I adjusted sugar levels, slowed sunlight absorption, and triggered changes in the plant that mimicked six months of seasons in five seconds. Buds appeared and burst into bloom, covering the azalea with a blanket of white. They wouldn’t last long. Once the plant realized it was far too hot for this sort of thing, the flowers would drop off en masse.
“Wow … just wow!” Jordan gushed, coming over to inspect the flowers.
“You’d make a good florist,” Bev countered.
Some people were just really hard to impress. Luckily, Jordan wasn’t one of them.
“You didn’t just force a bloom, you tricked a cold–weather plant that flowers here in January into flowering in August! I can’t even begin to imagine the subtle environmental and chemical changes you had to make to do that!”
It was good to have a fan. Of course, now I felt like I was going to puke. Or take a sudden, unexpected nap.
Bev walked over and stared down at the azalea with her arms folded tightly across her chest. “Okay. I’ll arrange for a ritual tomorrow night. What do you want to target, Jordan?”
“Either the bayous directly south of the city, or the marshes farther toward the gulf. I’ll take Amber out there, and we’ll decide whether to concentrate on the tree growth or indigenous plant volume.”
The high priestess nodded. “Let me know and I’ll choose an appropriate spot based on energy flow. Hopefully, combined, we’ll be able to have some impact.” She turned to leave, calling back over her shoulder. “Make sure she knows ritual etiquette. I don’t want everyone going to all this trouble only to have her going around the circle widdershins or knocking over one of the four–quarter candles.”
Bitch. It’s not like I’d never been to a sabbat.
Jordan sighed, watching the head of her coven walk away. “Sometimes I wish Kristin had stepped up to the plate. Bev can be really inflexible.”
Ya think so?
“Who’s Kristin?” Wiccan covens generally had a male and female lead, with one assuming prim
ary responsibility. Although, if they were Dianic and strictly female, this Kristin might be the second in charge.
“A member. When she moved down from Minnesota, we thought she might make a bid for high priestess, but she insists she doesn’t want to lead. Don’t get me wrong, Bev does a great job and has really grown the group, but she’s polarizing, while Kristin is more about compromise.”
This Kristin sounded more my type. Maybe I’d get lucky and Bev would get run over by a bus or something. We headed for the car, and I stumbled, nearly falling into the grass.
“Here.” Jordan was extending a granola bar and a soda toward me. “You okay? We can grab some barbeque before we head out of town if you need to eat.”
It would help, but I needed a different kind of food. “Thanks.” I took the granola bar and munched on it. “Now, if you could just masturbate a few times, I’ll be good as new.”
I laughed at Jordan’s horrified expression. “Just kidding,” I told her.
But I wasn’t. Irix was right. I was starving. If I didn’t get laid tonight, I was going to be in serious trouble come tomorrow.
* * *
7
I guess this is as good as spot as any,” Jordan said, parking her car on the side of the road. We’d crossed the Mississippi and jumped off the highway south of the city to travel down a long, flat country road. Eclectic wasn’t quite the right word to describe the landscape. Expensive new homes were flanked by neat ramblers and not–so–neat trailers. Signs for fishing charters, swamp tours, and crawfish boil dotted the roadway. The only consistency was in the land itself — flat as an ironed bedsheet with stretches of trees and rushes broken by canals, inlets, and small lakes.
We’d driven as far south as the road went, to a narrow strip of sand that would have looked like any other inland beach if not for the lacy network of grassy marshes right behind it. Huge shallow lakes were divided by narrow strips and patches of green that became thinner and sparser as we journeyed further south from the city. It reminded me of southern Maryland, where the Potomac River joined Chesapeake Bay. Wide bodies of water lapped against the shore. Half–submerged grasses waved in the breeze. Egrets screamed as they flew across the horizon. People stood at the edge of the docks, casting their lines into the water and hoping to take home redfish or pompano.
“Pretty,” I commented as Jordan and I got out of the car and walked along the short pier. It was pretty, and I couldn’t see anything wrong with the area — at least by my eyes. Rushes and grasses thrived, and the water appeared to be reasonably clean of pollution.
Jordan got right to the point. “Remember when I said that the levees kept the river from flooding and spreading soil nutrients to the areas along the shore? Well, this is where all the nutrients go — out to sea. It’s causing algae blooms at the delta basin, which creates a dead zone for fish and other plant and wildlife species.”
I grimaced. “So I’m assuming you want me to increase depleted oxygen levels, and kill the algae blooms in a way that won’t result in the release of neurotoxins or biotoxins?”
“Exactly!” Jordan clasped her hands, spinning toward me. “You can do that?”
“Uh, no.” I’d never killed a plant before, and wasn’t sure how to do it without further damaging the water chemistry. Then there was the tricky fact that the bloom was far enough away that it was out of sight. I’d need to take a boat down the inlet to the gulf to be close enough to do anything at all to the algae. I couldn’t work my magic on it from this distance, especially when I didn’t even have a good solid idea of where it was. This Bev woman disliked me enough already; she’d truly hate me if I killed off a few miles of marsh grass instead of the algae bloom.
“Hmmm.” Jordan chewed her lower lip.
I had a bad feeling that everything she was going to suggest today would be a “no”. I appreciated her enthusiastic optimism, but I just wasn’t all that skilled when it came to my elf side.
“It’s probably just as well. I’m not sure if Bev would allow it.”
Why the fuck would Bev not want me to kill a lethal algae bloom? If she was that worried about my skill, or lack of, then why didn’t she just tell Jordan “no”?
“Do you need more grasses? I could try that.” I ran a hand over the tops of the blades coming up to the height of the pier. Surely Bev wouldn’t doubt my ability to grow some grass after my azalea display.
“No, that won’t work. The bank drops off here to a depth that won’t support the plants, and I wouldn’t want to mess up the outline of the bay.” She shook her head, dark red spirals of hair bouncing around her face. “Bev really would throw a fit if we mess with the water flow.”
“What is that woman’s problem?” I got the feeling from Jordan that it wasn’t just me on Bev’s bad list.
Jordan shifted from foot to foot, staring out into the tranquil bay. “There’s a reason our coven is so large. Bon Nuit claims the southwest section outside the city as ours — for rituals and to draw energy. Over the last few decades, the energy streams have shifted, and we have the lion’s share.”
She didn’t have to say anything else. Bev might care about the environment, but her primary interest would always be in maintaining control of the energy sources that gave them, and her, power.
“And you still stay with her?” It was a shitty thing to say, and I wished I could take it back the moment it came out of my mouth. Jordan’s eyes jerked to mine. She looked like I’d stabbed her in the chest.
“I know, I just… . We get things done. Good things. The other covens, heck even the other paths, are losing members to Bon Nuit. There aren’t many other alternatives if I want to make a difference.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not judging,” I patted her on the shoulder.
“Well, I am. I hate that we turn a blind eye to things we could do outside our territory.” She gestured toward the wide mouth of the bay. “I hate that we suffer a massive algae bloom to exist, that we don’t address the nutrient issues in the river because it might jeopardize our near monopoly on power.”
I held my breath, unsure what to say. Back home, my Wiccan friends had always seemed to be free of such politics and selfish motives. Perhaps these undercurrents ran there too — I’d just never taken the time to see them.
Jordan sighed and shrugged, turning back toward the car. “Let’s head back, closer toward the city, and see if there isn’t something you can do in the bayous.”
We were silent as we drove. The large stretches of water began to narrow, grassy marshes becoming crowded with an explosion of green, broken here and there by the gray skeletons of dead trees.
I frowned at the silhouettes. “What happened to them?”
Jordan glanced out the side window before returning her eyes to the road. “Rising sea levels are turning the brackish wetlands into saline ones. These trees just can’t exist in a saltwater marsh. There’s nothing that can be done for them now. In a few years, this area will look like the marshes toward the south. It’s the freshwater bayous that worry me. Trees there are dying, and I can’t find a natural cause for it. If they die, New Orleans is more vulnerable to hurricane damage.”
“Three miles of wetland can reduce the height of a storm surge by a foot,” I added, remembering the fact from one of my textbooks.
The woman beside me nodded. “The cypresses especially provide a natural storm barrier. They’re our last line of defense before the levees.”
We pulled off the main road onto one of crushed gravel. Dwarf palmettos stretched their palm fronds toward us. Behind them, prickly bushes vined around the plants and low–lying tree limbs.
“Dew berries,” Jordan commented, noticing my interest in the thorn–covered vines. “They’re in the blackberry family. Too bad you’re here so late in the summer. In April or May you’d see flowers in bloom, and be able to pick some of the berries to eat.”
A strange longing coursed through me. I’d pegged this to be a rare visit. As much as I’d love to visit Darci more
often, my scant finances wouldn’t allow it — especially after graduation when my massive student load debt became due. Maybe I could find a career here. The prospect was exciting — rooming with Darci once again, surrounded by the diverse plant life that fueled my elven soul. Heck, if I could withstand a week in the heat of August, I could manage the rest of the year.
“This is as good a spot as any,” Jordan announced, pulling the car off the side of the road. I’d need to scoot over and out her side, since my door would open into knee–high vegetation.
I scrambled out, thankful that I’d worn shorts and sensible shoes today, and not a miniskirt and heels. I followed Jordan down a narrow path of wood decking, raised a few inches off the ground. Green closed in around me, and the sound of crickets and tree frogs drowned out the noise of our footsteps. It was rather claustrophobic, the press of life around us, reminding me that the steady, persistent power of flora and fauna was far more everlasting than any magic I held. Surrounded by nature, hubris melted away.
“There.” Jordan pointed ahead where the wall of green gave way to an algae–speckled swamp.
It was picture–perfect — the bayou of my textbooks. The wooden decking widened to a five–foot by five–foot square; a few feet of black ground separated the raised surface from the still water. Trees rose majestically from the swamp, ornamented with silvery Spanish moss that draped the sprawling limbs. I started at the sound of a splash and watched a long–legged egret take flight, its feet trailing a line in the still water as it flew by.
I stepped tentatively onto what I thought was firm ground, only to sink past my ankle into thick, brownish–gray water. Yikes. With a backward leap, I returned to the wood decking, my shoes covered in mud
“Is this where you’re thinking of holding the ritual? Are we going to all be in hip waders?” The vision of Wiccans in robes, or even skyclad, with huge rubber boots intrigued me.