“Madame Belfour, think about this on your way out,” Ruby started. “Enola is far more powerful than my mother ever was. I wouldn’t want to get on the bad end of her ire.”
Madame Belfour stood in the doorway, glaring at her friends. When she realized she was standing on a ledge alone, her eyes softened. She cleared her throat and walked over to Margo’s angry mother.
“Hell, I’m old. Everybody knows old folks ain’t got no patience,” Madame Belfour smiled nervously. “It’s just... Me and Marie been friends for over forty years. The thought of someone taking her place-.”
Moisture pooled in the old woman’s eyes. Even though Madame Belfour had been a fixture in their lives as far back as Margo could remember, it never dawned on her she was acting out because she was mourning her gran. Madame Belfour had always been a busybody, but Margo couldn’t remember her ever being so ornery.
“Madam, please,” her mother said, gesturing toward the sofa. “Would you like something to drink?”
She nodded and walked over to the sofa.
“I’ll have a little sherry.”
Margo’s mom looked her way, silently instructing her to prepare the woman’s drink. Getting the message, she searched the well for a bottle of sherry.
Margo didn’t know that people still drank sherry. She’d only heard the drink mentioned in old movies. Surprisingly, she found an almost full bottle on the bottom shelf in the back. So, she poured a good amount of the dark wine in a glass and walked it over to her.
Madame Belfour thanked her just as Benjamin, the house manager, entered the parlor. He handed Margo an envelope. She stared down at the envelope and flipped it over. There was no name or return address.
“Is this for me?”
“Yes. It arrived by messenger,” he confirmed before leaving the room.
Margo walked back to the bar, tossed it on the counter, and finished making her drink. After adding a splash of soda to her vodka, she tossed in a wedge of lime. After taking a sip, she suppressed an appreciative hum as the clear liquid warmed her throat.
“What’s happening to Enola?” Madame LaRue inquired.
“I believe her powers are growing. She’s gained my mother’s gifts.”
Margo almost choked on her drink.
“What?” she coughed. “Gran’s gifts? Like, telepathy?”
Her mother nodded. “Yea, I believe so, and I think she’s having problems controlling them.”
Margo was so grateful that the burden of leadership didn’t land on her. She was happy to continue her life without being bombarded by debilitating supernatural powers and mean old Voodoo hags.
“If you summon her, we can help her,” Madame Belfour assured.
“Help her how?” Margo questioned.
“There’s a spell. It’ll help her manage the voices until she can learn to control them,” Madame LaRue replied.
“How do you know of such a spell?” her mother asked.
“Who do you think helped Marie all those years ago?” Madame Belfour posed. “Go get the child.”
Margo’s mother looked over at her, giving her another silent command. She downed her drink and grabbed the envelope from the bar. In total compliance, she left the parlor. She would give them an hour of full cooperation. Because when that hour is up, she would meet her friends at Ricky’s, her favorite Bayou hole in the wall.
Margo ripped the envelope open while jogging up the stairs. She rounded the corner and took the hall to Enola’s room. She stood outside the door and pulled the paper from the envelope. It was a note that simply read...
“See you soon.”
On the bottom right-hand corner of the paper, there was a small, abstract sketch of what looked like a mermaid, surrounded by musical notes. Margo stuffed the sheet back in the envelope and knocked on Enola’s bedroom door.
Her friends had never sent her a note reminding her of their night out before. Why they were sending one now was baffling. But it was hard to shock Margo after all the things she’d seen.
When Gideon opened the door, she could see the stress in his wrinkled brow.
“What’s up, Uncle Gideon?” Margo teased, hoping to ease his tension.
He leaned against the doorjamb.
“That’s weird,” he quipped with a grin. “Stop doing that.”
“You’re the one that married your niece,” Margo ribbed.
“That’s not exactly-.”
“Aye!” she interrupted. “I ain’t trying to judge. I’m just saying.”
“Stop just saying. Whadda you want, lil girl?”
She laughed. “I want Enola.”
Gideon seemed anxious. “She’s locked herself in the bathroom- saying something about I’m thinking too loud.”
“My mom says she’s inherited my gran’s gift of telepathy. She can read minds.”
“I assumed as much,” Gideon muttered.
“Well, the old bats are downstairs. They say they can help her.”
Gideon frowned. “Help her how?”
“They say there’s a spell.”
“Now, you know Nola ain’t bout to let nobody cast a spell on her.”
“Madame Belfour and her cronies had to cast the same spell on Gran years ago. They say they can help her manage her abilities until she can learn to control them.”
Enola peeped around Gideon’s broad shoulders. “Tell ‘em I’ll be right down.”
She must be suffering, Margo thought to herself. If she were a betting person, she would have put her money on Enola turning down their offer to help her with magic. Truthfully, Margo wasn’t sure about them ladies putting spells on her cousin.
In Margo’s opinion, all Nola needed was for ole Uncle Gideon to slap some of that hundred- and fifty-year-old dick on her. Dick fixed a lot of shit.
Enola narrowed her eyes. “Get your life- nasty lil bitch!”
Startled, Margo jumped back when her cousin slammed the door in her face. Well, it was official.
Enola could definitely read minds.
ENOLA
Once they made it to the bottom of the stairs, Enola turned around and gave Gideon a narrow-eyed glare. “Are you seriously thinking about my ass right now?”
“If you don’t want to know what I’m thinking, stay out of my head.”
“If I could, I would.”
Gideon reached around her waist and pulled her close. “Well, let’s see if the Golden Girls can help.”
He laughed and gave her a quick peck on the lips before leading her to the parlor. As soon as she entered, the thoughts of everyone in the room invaded her head. Enola clutched her skull and closed her eyes tight. The voices weren’t one at a time. They were screaming at her all at once.
“Oh, this poor child,” one woman breathed.
Enola could feel hands on her skin as she was being pulled to the middle of the room. She opened her eyes when she was urged to sit in a chair. Her aunt Ruby was mixing something in a bowl made of clay.
Gideon stood out of the way in a corner as the ladies surrounded her. Enola hummed, doing her best to silence the voices. But it wasn’t working. She couldn’t think straight. The noise was driving her insane.
Enola tried to think about her beloved grandmother as the ladies prepared the spell. Ruby walked over and stood in front of her. She swirled her thumb in the bowl, scooping out some of its contents. After drawing a line across her forehead, she sat the bowl on a nearby table. Ruby joined the other ladies and gestured for Margo to complete the circle.
The women held hands, encircling her with a mystical bond. Madame Belfour was the first to speak.
“We call upon this child’s ancestors. Laveau, Moreau, and Roux grant the gift of control.”
Ruby and Margo chimed in. “We call upon the ancestors. Laveau, Moreau, and Roux grant the gift of control.”
Enola’s family repeated the mantra, “Laveau, Moreau, and Roux grant the gift of control.”
The three elders chanted in Latin. “Da imperium.”
“Laveau, Moreau, and Roux, grant the gift of control!”
“Da imperium. Da imperium. Da imperium!”
Suddenly, it was like a thousand-pound weight was lifted from her head. The room was eerily quiet until Madame Belfour broke the silence. “How are you, child? How do you feel?”
Enola opened her eyes and looked into the inquiring eyes around her. “They’re gone,” she breathed. “The voices are gone.”
“Not gone, controlled,” Madame Bennett corrected. “You can still hear the voices, but only if you concentrate on the person you’re listening in on. By the time this spell wears off, you’ll be capable of governing your power.”
Enola stood with the biggest smile on her face. These women couldn’t possibly know how grateful she was.
“Oh, my God. Thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome. But thank God first. Contrary to what folks think of us, it’s only through his grace that we are afforded these gifts,” Madame Bennett pointed out with a smile.
“Nola, can you hear anything?” Margo asked as she walked over to the bar.
“Nope. And I ain’t trying to hear nothing. Fix me one too.”
“Goose?” Margo asked.
“Yeah, that’s cool.”
Margo went behind the bar and dropped a few cubes of ice in a glass. As she poured with a smile, she said, “I’m really glad you’re feeling better, Cuz.”
“Aww, thanks, Margo.”
“I’m serious. I thought your mental meltdown was gonna mess up my plans for tonight,” Margo said with a chuckle.
“Of course.” Enola grimaced. “Forgive me for threatening your, so very important, social life.”
Margo slid a glass of vodka over ice down the bar and knocked back her iceless shot of chilled Vodka.
With a grunt, Margo muttered, “Forgiven.”
She slammed the glass on the bar and waved without looking back as she left the parlor.
Chapter Five
BISHOP
Bishop hadn’t been to Louisiana since its colonization by the French and had to admit he was impressed. When last he was there, there was more dirt than civilization, and shacks that posed as estates. Somehow, in Bishop’s mind, he’d pictured it at a standstill. But the Louisiana plantation that sheltered his coven was as, if not more, beautiful than the most elaborate manors in Calais. And, to an even greater surprise, Bishop’s sleeping quarters were perfectly crafted for a vampire of his years. There were plenty of windows that allowed for the sun’s invasion and a most beautiful view of a field of Jasmine.
Bishop sat at a table of Louisiana elders, frustrated by their butchered French.
“I speak English,” he grumbled with boredom. “I can no longer tolerate this swamp French.”
“Forgive me, Monsieur. As I was saying, we were genuinely concerned about Gerard’s alliance with the witches. But as our regent, his orders were not to be questioned.”
Bishop sighed and pointed out the human he wanted. A curvy brunette with green eyes and rosy plump lips. The extremely low-cut dress would give him access to what he wanted most- the blood pumping artery in her neck.
She clacked over on extremely high-heels and kneeled dutifully in front of him.
“Good evening, beauty. What is your name?”
Her eyes widened. Bishop guessed that it shocked her he was actually speaking to her. In the short time he’d been there, he noticed how the vampires treated their humans like pets.
Bishop knew better than any how important humankind was to his kind. But what his American coven didn’t seem to realize was loyalty didn’t come from fear. It came with respect.
“Beth.” Her voice was soft and timorous. “My name is Beth.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Beth. I’m Bishop.”
“Bishop,” she repeated in a whisper. “You’re very handsome, Bishop.”
“Thank you. Will you allow me to feed on you?”
She appeared surprised that he’d actually asked. When she smiled and nodded her agreement, Bishop patted his lap where he wanted her to sit. When she sat, Basile entered the great room. As he made his way over, Bishop recognized the expression of a man coming to him with results. Basile took the seat next to him. After acknowledging the young woman on his lap, he leaned over and whispered, “I found her.”
Bishop assumed, hopefully, that he was referring to the Roux woman.
“Oui?”
Basile nodded. “According to her lovely friend, Georgina, she’s headed to a place called Ricky’s.”
“What sort of place is this?”
Basile’s eyes roamed Bishop’s Dolce’ suit coat.
“Maybe you should change,” he said through a chuckle.
Bishop caressed the back of the young woman’s head and pulled her close. He opened his mouth and extended his fangs.
“After,” he agreed just before biting into the delicate skin of Beth’s neck.
With Beth on his arm, Bishop entered the Cajun watering hole. Though it was a diverse crowd, there were more blacks than whites. Looking around at the modestly dressed patrons, Bishop was thankful that he’d listened to Basile and went with a simple pullover and jeans.
Bishop walked further inside, capturing the attention of a short, balding man in a tacky red suit. The man hurried over and introduced himself as Chicago. As he led them to his best version of a VIP section, Bishop looked around for the Roux woman. He’d learned that her name was Marguerite, a beautiful French name for a beautiful woman. He didn’t see her, but he’d wait. Bishop pulled out a chair for Beth and then took his seat.
“What would you like to drink, mademoiselle?”
“Would champagne be okay?” she asked, naively.
“Of course, normally. But I don’t believe this is a champagne kind of place.”
“Well, in that case, I’ll take a Jim Beam on the rocks.”
Bishop chuckled.
“Good choice.”
He gestured for the server and ordered two glasses of Jim Beam on the rocks. As soon as the waiter walked away, the most retched sound blurred from the speakers. A terribly close comparison to wailing farm animals.
Bishop grimaced. “What is this... noise?”
“Don’t they have Karaoke in France?” Beth asked with a giggle.
Bishop shook his head.
“The French are too cultured for such nonsense.”
“Lies,” Basile accused with laughter.
Basile leaned toward Beth. “We too have Karaoke.”
“I’ve never experienced such a thing in Calais. There’s isn’t even a French word for this... Karaoke,” Bishop maintained.
The server returned with their drinks just as Bishop was contemplating leaving. Although alcohol didn’t affect him like it did humans, a gallon might drown out the horrible singing.
“Bring the bottle. No, bring two,” Bishop instructed before the server could get away.
When he agreed and disappeared in the crowd, Bishop grabbed his and Beth’s drink from the table. He handed her the whiskey and raised his glass.
“To new friends,” he toasted.
“New friends,” she repeated, clinking her glass to his.
For the next forty-five minutes, they were working on the second bottle, severely suffering through tone-deaf singers. There was still no sign of the Roux woman. Bishop looked over at Basile, displaying his disappointment.
“She’s supposed to be here. But you know women, they’re always late,” Basile pointed out.
Bishop poured more whiskey in his glass and aimed the bottle toward Beth. She covered her glass with her hand.
“Oh, no, thank you.” She chuckled, shak
ing her head. “I can’t handle* hiccup* another drop. I’m a little tipsy.”
“Very well.”
Bishop put the bottle down and grabbed his glass. He scanned the area and decided that he was truly uninterested in anything going on in the hole in the wall. He downed the brown liquid and placed the glass on the table.
Just as he’d decided it was time to go, someone with the sweetest voice began to sing Celine Dion’s “Pour Que Tu M’aimes Encore” in perfect French. Bishop stretched his neck for a better view of the stage. Whoever she was, she had the voice of an angel.
The crowd had quickly moved closer to the stage, impeding the view from his seated position. So, Bishop stood, and that’s when she came into sight. The woman with the voice of an angel was no other than Marguerite Roux.
MARGO
Margo gripped the microphone and belted out French lyrics to one of her gran’s favorite songs. It brought memories of breezy spring days with open windows that allowed the silk sheers to dance in the wind. She would often wake to fresh air and the smell of sweetbread with sweet songs in French reverberating throughout the house.
She closed her eyes, delighting in memories of her grandmother as she sang. Remembering the love, life lessons, and encouragement her gran gifted her, which offered her peace. Unfortunately, the peace was short-lived. Margo heard a loud crash and raised voices. She opened her eyes to total chaos. Men were pushing past each other, even pushing women out of the way, to get closer to the stage.
Margo jumped back with wide eyes when one man reached for her ankle. When she’d first arrived, the vibe was smooth and mellow. Suddenly, she was standing in a madhouse. To say the sudden pandemonium shocked her would have been an understatement.
Ricky’s was a small neighborhood joint. They’d never needed heavy security. So, they were ill-equipped to handle what looked like a riot in the making. Margo tossed the microphone and ran off the stage. She thought of leaving the way she came in, but the rowdy crowd’s attention was focused solely on her. And they seemed to come for her.
BLOODLUST Page 3