The architecture drew her eye first. Exotic and rich, completely unlike any other city in America. Royal Street embodied the entire Quarter. Every building sported lace iron balconies, most had fanlight windows. Flowering plants graced the wrought-iron railings, adding even more color and scent to the sensual mix of sights, sounds, textures and smells.
Perhaps her state of mind made her more sensitive, but she had never felt so much supernatural power surrounding her. Passing the Royal Cafe at the corner of St. Peter and Royal, she got an especially strong sensation. The air pulsed, and her skin tingled with kinetic energy. It engulfed her, making the fine hairs on her arms stand up, prickling the back of her neck. No doubt something terrible had happened here. The spirits of those involved in the tragedy still walked its floors.
New Orleans deserved its reputation of having the most concentrated paranormal activity on Earth. And for once, it didn’t bother her to be responsive to that. It gave her a deeper layer of understanding than the vast majority of visitors to New Orleans could ever hope to experience.
A block over on Bourbon, she passed open-to-the-street jazz clubs, music wafting out to the afternoon shoppers. It was too early in the day to consider alcohol, so she let the music carry her along, past shops displaying Mardi Gras beads, intricate masks, and every imaginable souvenir. A plush purple alligator with a green felt swamp hat and a goofy, tooth-filled grin made her laugh out loud. She had half a mind to come back later and buy him.
Wandering farther afield, she played tourist at Cafe Du Monde in the French Market, where she ate beignets and drank rich coffee. Then she browsed the wonderful mix of trinkets and fresh foods the Market offered before heading back toward Jackson Square. The heart of the Quarter.
She was just off the square when a wave of negative energy hit her like a wall, chilling her skin. It emanated from a short, dead-end alley. Stopping, she peered past the wrought-iron bars and saw the back entrance to a restaurant that fronted the square.
Torrents of suffering and fear poured over her, nearly knocking her to her knees, and Cassie saw in her mind’s eye the alley’s original purpose. Slaves fresh from the slave ships and awaiting sale had been chained to its walls, left standing for hours without food or water, soiling themselves where they stood, some dying and hanging in their chains until their bodies were removed. She could smell the stench of death and human waste, hear the moans of humans suffering in stifling air and confinement. Startled by the strength of her reaction, Cassie gasped, recoiling several steps back into the street.
Right into her mother.
A youngish-looking man stood next to Medusa. Probably Cassie’s age. Definitely a witch.
Oh, please, Cassie thought. Not now.
“WRITE THE INFORMATION here.” Endora’s most pleasant tone rolled from her lips as she gestured to a legal pad in front of a stack of Cassie’s book. “Name, address, and how Cassandra should sign your book. As soon as she’s better, she’ll autograph these. We’ll mail them postage free.”
Mick silently revised his conviction that screaming in frustration was strictly for women and wimps. He’d sat for over an hour listening to Endora’s patter—apologizing to a steady stream of Cassie Hathorne fans for Cassie’s being unable to sign in person, that she’d mail the books . . . It was driving him crazy.
Despite having a constant line of his own autograph-seeking fans, his thoughts were only on Cassie. He hadn’t seen her since the night before when she’d left him standing in the Peabody manager’s office, but she filled his head. One of Jamison’s agents had reported seeing her and Endora board the group’s special sleeper car at the train station, but how the two women had gotten there was anyone’s guess. And Mick didn’t want to guess.
A witch and a familiar . . . He found that almost incomprehensible. And yet, supernatural powers certainly explained several things. Like his allergic reaction to Endora. And the man Cassie claimed was the killer who’d been charging toward Mick and Jamison when he bounced backward as if hitting an invisible wall. Then he’d run like he really had committed some horrible crime. And how could Cassie and Endora possibly have known who the man was if Jamison and his agents had no clue?
Afterward, in the manager’s office, he’d managed to stay calm at Cassie’s admission. But when Endora shape-shifted, he’d almost hyperventilated. Great respect for the supernatural ran in his blood, but respecting something in theory was a damn sight different from dealing with it in reality. Having the woman he loved possess supernatural skills would take adjusting to.
That is, if Cassie gave him the chance to make the adjustment.
Are you a good witch or a bad witch? Could he have asked a more idiotic question if he’d tried? Doubtful. Then he’d followed that brilliant line by questioning her honesty in their relationship. Mister Sensitivity. Not! In that moment, Mick admitted he loved Cassie more than anything else in his life. Yet he had acted like the king of Neanderthals when faced with the truth about her. He prayed he hadn’t completely blown his chance in Memphis.
Damn his tongue-tied stupidity in the face of emotional crisis. Cassie should have turned him into a jackass for being one. What he’d told Jennifer in Chicago was true. He was miserable at off-the-cuff witticism. Why hadn’t that knowledge stopped him from opening his mouth and sticking his foot so far inside that his toes were scratching his colon?
He had to keep his wits. Convince Cassie their differences wouldn’t doom their relationship. Otherwise, the best thing that had ever happened to him would slip through his fingers, all because he was oratorically challenged.
But if he was honest with himself, he had to admit there might be little choice but to let her go. If she continued avoiding him, he couldn’t explain himself or make amends for being a royal bastard to her.
His only hope lay in Endora. To get to Cassie he had to go through the familiar. A terrifying prospect. She was more than willing to defend Cassie to the death, and Mick knew full well that for starters she’d exploit his damned cat allergy. Maybe he should stock up on antihistamines before approaching Endora to attempt an alliance.
Amazingly, with ten minutes remaining in the signing, Mick realized neither he nor Endora had customers in line. Opportunity presented him the chance to talk to her—before she could bolt back to Cassie’s suite and barricade the door. He mentally took a deep breath, checked that he had his handkerchief handy in case Endora hawked a hairball on him, and cleared his throat.
“Endora, we need to talk.” His breath caught as she turned her exotic eyes toward him. Would she cooperate?
“We have nothing to say to each other.”
He raised a brow. “I disagree. I have plenty to say to Cassie, and since it’s obvious you’re running interference, I want to talk.” As the familiar contemplated his statement, Mick dared to hope. “Please, Endora. I love her. Help me.”
A slight shake of her head preceded, “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“Can’t or won’t?” Panic rose in Mick’s chest, and he fought hard to stem it. Endora was his only chance. He prayed his voice wouldn’t crack when he said, “I deserve an explanation for your refusal.”
Endora rose and began to pack up her briefcase. Mick thought he’d grind his teeth to dust as he waited for her to turn to face him, and it was obvious she deliberately took her time. Lockjaw was seconds away when she finally acknowledged his statement.
“Sorry, Mick,” she stated flatly as she turned around, “but a familiar’s job is to protect her witch, and I don’t think being with you is in Cassie’s best interest.”
His jaw had dropped, but he couldn’t help it. He was about to demand an explanation for that asinine assumption when Endora volunteered the information.
“Longevity is an issue. The average witch lives twice as long as the most long-lived human. Even though Cass is almost ninety and you’re less than half th
at age, you’re going to die before she does.” She picked up her case and headed for the convention hall’s main doors.
Mick dogged her heels. “Not a good enough reason to keep us apart.” When Endora kept walking, he grasped her elbow to stop her. “She and I need to discuss this, not the two of us.”
Endora glanced down at his hand still on her elbow, and Mick’s throat and eyes got scratchy. He pulled out his handkerchief, blew his nose. “I’ve had allergies all my life, and I’ve never let them stop me. You’ll have to do better than that to keep me from Cassie.”
Endora’s green eyes fairly glowed. “Don’t tempt me.”
“Oh, I know you’d love to hammer me. But Cassie’s feelings are holding you back.” When he saw guilt flicker in Endora’s eyes, hope again leapt in his heart. “She kept you off me last night, and I’m thinking she’d do the same today if she was here.”
The familiar straightened to her full height—about even with Mick’s shoulder—and bored him with a hot green glare. They stood toe-to-toe, neither giving an inch to the other, neither so much as blinking.
Finally, Endora’s right eyebrow rose. “You want to talk, human? All right. Let’s have words.”
“MOM!” UNEASE CREPT up Cassie’s back. “What are you doing here?”
Medusa was dressed in her usual garish outfit—this one in purples, blacks and reds—but in New Orleans she didn’t look out of place.
“Visiting friends,” she stated innocently. Her guileless expression didn’t fool Cassie for a moment. “What are you doing here, dear?”
“Skipping out on a book signing,” Cassie muttered under her breath.
Medusa’s hearing was every bit as good as her daughter’s. Both carefully plucked black eyebrows shot up. She started to speak, seemed to think better of it, then smiled warmly.
“Where are my manners?” She turned to the witch standing patiently beside her. “Cassie, this is Mandrake Tod. Mandrake, my daughter, Cassie Hathorne.”
Cassie shook the witch’s proffered hand, barely noticing that he held on a bit longer than necessary. “Nice meeting you.”
“It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance,” Mandrake said smoothly.
“Finally make your acquaintance?” Mandrake’s words kicked Cassie’s Parental Setup Detector into high gear.
Her expression must have warned Medusa that her ruse was discovered, because the elder witch’s smile sweetened to insulin-shock-for-diabetics level. “Mandrake’s a journalist just like you, Cassie,” she said brightly. “What publication did you say you wrote for, darling?”
The witch’s chest puffed a bit with pride. “I’m a feature writer for Playbat Magazine.”
“Playbat?” What started in Cassie’s chest as a bubble of hysterical laughter burst from her lips as uncontrolled sobs, and for the second time in less than two weeks, she found herself crying in her mother’s arms.
Medusa looked at Mandrake over Cassie’s bent head. “That went far worse than I’d expected it would.”
At her words, Cassie cried even harder.
Twelve
THEY SAT IN A dim booth in the hotel’s bar, the only patrons at that afternoon hour.
Mick could see Endora’s eyes glowing like a tiger’s in the low lighting, and he cursed his overactive writer’s imagination for conjuring that image. No doubt she’d enjoy munching on his limbs. Or just breaking every bone in his body. He sucked in a breath. She wasn’t going to intimidate him. Not much, anyway. Yet her predatory half-smile, full of gleaming teeth, almost made him revise that promise. As he cursed the acute powers of observation that had helped put him on the New York Times best-seller list, he wondered how he’d look in a full body cast.
“Speak your peace, human.”
“Mick will do, Endora.” Going for the appearance of casual confidence, he leaned back against the booth cushion. He hoped her feline hearing couldn’t pick up the thundering of his heart. Should that be true, he’d never be able to fool her and would have to go to Plan B. And since he had no Plan B, running like hell sounded like a viable option. “And, for your information, I’m done talking. It’s your turn. Tell me why you’re keeping Cassie and me apart.”
Would his bluff work? As they stared at each other, neither blinking, Mick tried to make his mind go blank. A futile attempt. Cassie filled his every thought, refusing to be put aside. If Endora, like Cassie, was telepathic and got into his head, that’s all she’d see.
The familiar stared right through him, then stated coldly, “Historically, men have dealt with troublesome women by accusing them of witchcraft. Wife won’t give you a son? Mother-in-law a shrew? Spread rumors they sneak into the woods at midnight. Get your neighbor’s coveted land by suggesting to the local clergy that he shelters witches. The women are taken off to be raped, tortured and executed, and the accusers get what they want.”
Mick stiffened, but held his comment until the waiter had set their drinks down and left. “I know the history. That has nothing to do with Cassie and me.”
“It has everything to do with you two. Back in Salem, not a single woman executed for witchcraft was a real witch. Not one. Even Wiccans didn’t die in 1692. Only Puritans.”
“I’m not seeing the relevance.”
Endora’s sound of disgust was suspiciously like a cat’s hiss. “A real witch wouldn’t have been jailed in the first place. Witches can protect themselves. Humans can’t control them unless witches allow it. That’s where you and Cassie come in. Not being in charge—not dominating a relationship—drives some men crazy. Makes them abusive. Obsessive. You’ll have to convince me you love Cassie, abilities and all, before you get to see her.”
Mick’s hand curled around his beer mug until his knuckles were white, but his voice was level when he said, “If you knew anything about me, you’d know I was raised to respect women for their capabilities. And I do. I also know good writing, and Cassie’s the best writer I’ve ever read. I have tremendous admiration for her talents. I admire her for the career she’s fashioned.” He paused a moment to settle his emotions. “But even if she couldn’t write a line, I would have fallen for her. She’s incredible. I loved her before I knew about her supernatural powers. I won’t stop loving her because of them.”
“How do I know that?”
Something told Mick this was a test he had to pass. He locked down his temper. “Look, Endora, I’m a Catholic Slovak from Detroit. My ethnic roots run deep. Hell, my grandmother practically tore me a new one when I told a classmate my family spoke Czech. ‘Slovak, Mirek. Not Czech! We speak Slovak.” I didn’t get any of YaYa’s pastries for dessert that night. Nearly killed me. But my family aren’t bigots. If Cassie was Jewish or black or any other minority, I’d still love her. And they would love her, even YaYa. And not just for my sake, but because she’s worthy of love in her own right.”
Unblinking, Endora stared at him for so long he started thinking she’d gone catatonic. He badly wanted a sip of beer, but feared his hands would shake so much he’d spill it all over.
When Endora’s eyes again focused, her voice had an edge to it. “Better make it right with Cassie, or I’ll book you on the Extreme Swamp Boat Ride. Strictly for my own amusement.”
“What’s that,” Mick asked uneasily.
“A ski boat excursion for the sociopathically macho. It literally costs an arm and a leg, and if you don’t lose one of each during the course of the trip, there’s no charge.”
“You’re kidding. Right?”
Endora’s eyebrow rose. “It’s across the street from a med center that sits beside Prostheses ‘R Us.” She paused a beat. “Kidding! You gotta lighten up, Mick. Where’s your sense of humor?”
He didn’t relax until he saw her Cheshire cat grin. “Considering I may never convince the woman I love to marry me, I’m rather short on that commodity
right now.”
“Well, ill humor is better than no humor at all.” Endora cocked her head. “I actually like you. Of course, tell anyone I said that and I’ll deny it. Then I’ll bring down a plague of frogs on you.” His expression must have looked as pained as those words made him feel, because she laughed. “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Getting that four-alarm-chili-heartburn look. I never tease people I don’t like. I just torment them with, say, clouds of pet dander or somesuch.”
Mick had to laugh, and the resulting release of tension made him feel better than he had in far too long. “What changed your mind about me?”
Although her shrug appeared nonchalant, the expression in Endora’s eyes was serious. “You really love her.”
“Will you help me get her back?”
“Probably.” Endora sighed before knocking back half of her glass of Kahlua and cream. “It’s no fun being a familiar to a depressed witch. They mope around the house, turning the rhododendrons to plastic . . . rain clouds hovering over their heads, pouring water everywhere they walk . . . Not a pretty sight.” She shot Mick a look. “Think you can put up with that kind of mood?”
A smile threatened to ruin his sobriety. “I’ll never give her a reason to be depressed.”
“Ooooh, good answer, human.”
“Thanks.”
“Completely unrealistic, of course, but a good answer.” Abruptly, Endora assumed her manager persona. “Enough pleasantries. Let’s get to business. My first piece of advice for getting Cassie back is this. Write down your spiel beforehand. Frankly, you suck at spontaneous repartee, and I don’t want you pissing her off so she turns you into a newt. That would spoil all my efforts on your behalf.” She yawned, stretching. “And if you know me, you know I expend as little energy as possible. So, when I do decide to take on a project, I don’t appreciate someone else messing it up. No offense, of course.”
“None taken.” Something that felt a lot like hope filled Mick’s heart.
Some Practical Magic Page 17