by Cate Tiernan
Marcel had found Jules, Axelle remembered. Almost dead, in the swamp. A runaway. Marcel had brought him to the village and given him to Petra, who was a healer even then. It had taken a month of magick and nursing to bring Jules back to this side of life. The blacksmith had broken the shackles. He’d actually melted them down and made them into an iron knife, and he’d given it to Jules. Axelle couldn’t remember his name.
Then Jules was just one of them, one of their famille. He made himself a little house, he learned their religion, he got work as a carpenter. But it was the little things, the pretty things he carved, that Axelle had always liked best. Jules had changed a great deal over the years.
Sighing with the weight of memories, Axelle went back to the kitchen and started opening cupboards. Richard seemed to have cleaned out all her liquor. Ah! She found a bottle of dry vermouth with maybe a quarter left and poured herself some over ice.
No, owning slaves had never been acceptable in their religion, their clan.
Which was why Luc had caused such a brouhaha when he’d come back from New Orleans, owning Ouida.
Luc’s family, the Martins, had been well-off. Petra would have been well-off too if Armand hadn’t taken all their money when he moved to New Orleans. Armand’s brother, Luc’s father, had sent Luc off to Loyola, in New Orleans, to get a college education. Luc had lasted two years before being sent down for behavior unseemly in a gentleman. Big surprise there. He’d had angry fathers coming after him with shotguns when he was fourteen. Luc’s father had been incensed. Then Luc had shown up, cocky as hell, owning a female slave.
Axelle laughed softly, remembering how the entire village had been in an uproar. What a scandal. Luc was lucky no one had beaten him to death. He and his father, Gregoire, had had a huge row, right out in the village commons, and Gregoire had publicly divested him of ownership. Ouida was free to stay or go as she pleased.
Ouida had stunned everybody by choosing to stay—with Luc. Just for a couple of months until she figured out what to do. She could have headed north, where not many people owned slaves, or gone to Europe. Luc’s father would have given her the money. But Ouida made friends in the community. Petra and Sophie started teaching her the ways of Bonne Magic. Like Jules, Ouida had quickly made a place for herself.
Then she’d decided to see something else of the world and had left. But she had returned, and that time, she’d stayed and become one of them.
It had been around then that Sophie had cut Luc out. Axelle had heard rumors but still wasn’t sure of the real reason—Sophie had never said why, and neither had Luc. The famille had many secrets, and that was just one more of them. Axelle leaned against the kitchen counter and drained her glass. She felt better. Now for a cold shower, and she’d be ready for anything.
It was a shame about Sophie and Luc, Axelle thought as she walked toward her bedroom. They’d been such a handsome pair.
Axelle paused halfway through the main room. She frowned, standing very still. There was an electricity in the air, a heightened sense of … what? Very slowly and quietly Axelle walked the perimeter of the room, trying to feel where it was coming from. Outside, on the street? From the courtyard in back? Had someone spelled her apartment? All her senses sharpened. Then she passed the hidden door that led to her attic workroom. It was open about a quarter of an inch—the latch hadn’t quite caught.
Quickly she draped a shadow spell over herself to make it hard for anyone to pick up on her presence. Leaning closer to the door, she slid one long red fingernail into the crack and pulled. The door opened a fraction, enough for her to hear voices.
It was Jules and Daedalus—but she hadn’t felt them when she’d come in. They had a key and came and went as they liked, but why hadn’t she instantly known they were there?
“Luc?” She heard Jules ask.
“No,” Daedalus said impatiently. “He’s strong but completely unreliable.”
“Not Petra, obviously.”
“Obviously.”
“Richard?”
“Yes, maybe Richard,” Daedalus said, sounding thoughtful. “Possibly Richard.”
“There’s Axelle,” said Jules.
“Please, no,” Daedalus said. “Axelle is fine in many respects, but not for this. We need someone more focused, with more true power. Axelle has let herself grow weak.”
Axelle’s perfect eyebrows arched. Oh, really? Her magick had gotten weak, had it?
“She has other priorities is all,” said Jules.
“Which are not our priorities,” said Daedalus firmly. “No, Axelle is out. I wonder if Manon…” His voice trailed off, and Axelle could no longer make out their murmuring.
Quietly Axelle backed away from the door, picked up her purse, and let herself out of the apartment. She closed the door soundlessly and went to stand in the dark, covered carriageway that ran alongside the apartment. Leaning against the smooth, cool stucco, she thought.
Well, it was true. She had let her magick grow weak. She’d never been a scholar, a student—instead of learning everything there was to know, she tended to learn only the aspects that would let her perform certain spells. And what was wrong with that?
Besides, she’d thought that she, Daedalus, and Jules were a triangle, an even-sided balance of power behind this whole rite. But they were planning something, the two of them, something they hadn’t shared with her. Perhaps she wasn’t as tight with Jules and Daedalus as she’d thought. Perhaps she needed to look out for herself more, protect herself more. Yes, Daedalus was very strong, but so was Petra, so was Richard, and so was Luc, when he focused on it.
More than one allegiance could be made.
Daedalus had been so convincing about how this rite would answer everyone’s needs, even if they differed, but suddenly Axelle wasn’t so sure of that. Certainly Daedalus’s needs would be answered—he would make certain of that. And anyone whose desires aligned with his would be well served also.
But not everyone wanted the same thing. What Axelle needed to do was really figure out what she herself wanted out of this. Then she would work with whoever could help her get it.
Now, with a plan in place, she headed back to the apartment. This time she let the front door slam shut and made a lot of noise walking around the big room. She rattled some glasses in the kitchen, then lit another cigarette and waited.
Within a minute Jules and Daedalus came down from the workroom.
“Ah! Axelle,” Daedalus said with a smile. “We’ve been waiting for you—there are some questions I have about the old Ville, and I knew if anyone could remember, it would be you.”
“We just got here,” said Jules. “Maybe five minutes ago. Now that you’re here, we can get started.”
“Okay. Just let me get something to drink,” said Axelle. She poured some vermouth into a clean glass and looked at them. “Ready.”
Mine Alone
In his dream, he still had a lifetime of potential. He was still looking forward to being a man, taller and broader, stronger. One day, not too far off, he would leave his father’s house and have a house of his own. One day, when his father struck him, Richard would be big enough and strong enough to strike him down instead.
And he would be a man, a man that Cerise could have, if that sap Marcel hadn’t managed to blackmail her into wifery by then. Another two years, Richard thought. He would be seventeen. Plenty old enough. In the meantime, he had to hold Cerise’s interest. Which he seemed to be doing pretty well.
After months of chasing, where she’d laughed at him and called him a child, he thought he finally had her attention. She’d never been unkind, but she was older than he, and she had Marcel wooing her in his stolid, persistent way. Last month Richard had finally caught Cerise, caught her and held her against a tree, and kissed her till they were both breathless. They’d kissed twice more since then, longer and wilder each time. She wasn’t laughing at him now. Now when she looked at him, he saw his own hunger reflected in her eyes.
T
hen last week Richard had seen Marcel’s patience finally break. After a circle he’d walked her home, while Richard followed in the darkness at a distance. After Cerise’s mother and sister had gone in, Marcel had grabbed Cerise and kissed her. She’d squirmed gently out of his arms and held one hand against his cheek. “Dear Marcel,” she’d said, and Richard had caught the words as if they were leaves borne to him by the wind. His hand had closed around the hilt of his hunting knife, but then Cerise had gone inside and Marcel had gone home.
She was old enough to marry Marcel, and Marcel was old enough to take her for his wife. Legally, Richard could marry at fifteen—he was of age, but he had no profession yet, no way of keeping a wife or providing for a family. It burned him.
But he and Cerise had lain in the meadow together, clinging together, kissing as if their lives depended on it. They couldn’t stop themselves; they were wild with wanting, the air hot and damp on their skin. Richard surely had her attention now.
Then the dream changed and Richard was once again standing outside the general store, which was really just one front room of the Chevets’ house. Marcel and Cerise were arguing. “You have to marry me,” Marcel had said, his pale skin flushed and his fair, reddish hair burning in the sun. “You carry my child.”
Richard’s heart had squeezed as if in a vise, his breath knocked out of him.
“I’ll not marry anyone,” Cerise had hissed, while Madame Chevet had watched with fascination. “The child is mine alone!”
She’d grabbed her skirts and swept away, the market basket hanging heavy from her arm. Marcel had stood watching after her, grim determination on his face.
Several minutes had passed before Richard could breathe again, leaning against the building wall, out of sight. He felt like he was coming down with blood fever.
One truth was seared into his brain: Cerise had not admitted the child was Marcel’s, but she hadn’t denied it, either.
With a gasp Richard woke up, jackknifing into a sitting position. He was disoriented, looking around wildly. His heart was pounding and he was covered in a thin film of sweat that had nothing to do with the temperature.
Okay. He was in his room at Luc’s. The bed felt clammy and he got up, sitting on the mattress edge as he fumbled for his cigarettes. He lit one with shaking hands and swallowed the hot smoke down. With his other hand he wiped the sweat off his forehead.
Sometimes he still hated Marcel so much his soul was black with it and it was hard to breathe.
Cerise. How could she still haunt his dreams after two centuries? God knew there had been hundreds of women since then. But Cerise had been the first. Déesse, how he’d loved her. He pictured her in his mind, then frowned—Cerise didn’t have black hair. Oh no. Richard sucked in a breath so sharply it hurt. Cold sweat broke out on his skin and his hand trembled. Cerise with black hair was Clio. Or Thais.
He shook his head to clear the image out of his mind. He’d kissed Clio. He hadn’t meant to, never planned to. The other day he’d just been rattling Luc’s cage, teasing him about the twins just to mess with him. Last night Clio had been snide and unwelcoming—he could tell she didn’t like him. He’d gotten a kick out of seeing her work like a dog. Even hot and sweaty and covered with dirt and grime, she was a beauty. They both were. Clio had been wearing that thin tank top and those itty-bitty shorts, and suddenly he’d wanted her. Which had been deeply disturbing and totally unwelcome.
But the way women dressed these days—Cerise had always been covered from neck to ankle. All the village women had. The naked female form had been a wondrous revelation that had almost made his head explode.
And here was Clio, on display. Those long, tan legs, slim, strong arms. Black hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. Green eyes snapping fire at him. He’d wanted her, wondered how those legs would feel wrapped around his waist, how tightly her arms could pull him to her. He still hadn’t meant to kiss her, but then he had, and if she hadn’t pushed him away, he wouldn’t have stopped.
But she had. Which was good. He wished he’d never done it. He knew he’d never do it again. Never.
“Do you want to get some coffee?” Kevin asked. “Or something? Before you go home?”
I smiled at him, which made my face sting just a tiny bit. It was almost all healed. “That would be great.” Just for a little while, I would play hooky from the massive house-cleaning job at home. Clio had said it was okay, and I was seizing the opportunity. These days I was so stiff and sore from all the cleanup work we were doing I could hardly move. I deserved a little break.
“Great.” He started his car and pulled away from the curb outside of school. I watched him for a second, driving his little red Miata. “How about Botanika?”
“Uh, no,” I said. No place where I might run into Luc. I had chanced it when I was with Clio and Racey but couldn’t meet him like this, on my own. “How about that other one, on Magazine, off of Jefferson? What’s its name?”
“Café de la Rue,” said Kevin easily, turning off St. Charles Avenue toward the river. I had learned that no one used north, south, east, or west here when they gave directions. It was either toward or away from the river or toward or away from the lake. Since the river curled around the city like a shell, you had to know where you were, first, in relation to those two things before any directions made sense. In my mind, I thought of the lake as being north and the river as being east. But if you went east and crossed the river, then you were on the West Bank. I didn’t get it, but I already knew that New Orleans had lots and lots of eccentricities that people accepted as normal and everyday and didn’t question. It was kind of charming in a way, but it also made you feel crazy sometimes.
Café de la Rue was very different from Botanika. The people seemed to be mostly college students, and it had a slightly more formal, Old World feel, whereas Botanika was all about being funky and mystical and on the fringe.
We ordered our drinks and sat down at a little wooden table by the big sidewalk windows. There was a wide ledge there with potted plants and one of those little tabletop fountains that run on electricity. Its subdued trickling sound was soothing. All around us, people were working on laptops, alone or in pairs, some with headphones on. I drank my iced coffee, looking around, and I realized two things: one, I had drunk more coffee in the last month than I had in the seventeen years before then, and two, New Orleans has some of the best people-watching in the world.
“The whole long-lost-twin thing with Clio is so weird,” said Kevin, dumping sugar into his iced tea.
He had no idea. “Yeah, it really is. But it’s great because I have a family again. Without my dad, I was just lost.”
“That must have been really hard on you,” Kevin said sympathetically. “My mom died when I was seven, and my dad got married again within a year. I still think it was because he didn’t have any idea of what to do with me and my sister.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Do you get along with your stepmother?”
Kevin nodded. “Actually, I do. I mean, I remember it as being horrible at first, but she’s been really good to me and my sister. Now she really seems like a mom.”
“That’s good,” I said. “My dad never got married again, so it was always just me and him. Then he was gone. But now I have Clio and Petra, and things are starting to feel almost normal again.”
“I’m glad.” Kevin gave me a smile that went right from his eyes to my heart. He was just so sweet. Unfortunately, it was impossible not to compare him to Luc, and every time Luc seemed like the movie and Kevin like the TV show. Which was so awful and unfair of me. But Luc wasn’t going to happen, and Kevin definitely could. I was determined to like him. And so far, it wasn’t hard.
I don’t know how long we’d sat there—Kevin was telling me stories about some of the teachers at school, and I was cracking up. He told me about getting cut off the football team after he broke his wrist, and he gave me the lowdown on some of the kids at school who I’d wondered about.
&n
bsp; “Yeah, so she was on the debate team, and she was so stuck-up,” he told me. “She just looked down on everyone, you know? And I worked my ass off—no one was more prepared. I mean, I had notes taped inside my shirt, I practiced on my whole family, I just got everything down cold, because I wanted to crush her.”
“What happened?” I loved stories like this, especially because the girl he was talking about was in my French class and I couldn’t stand her.
Kevin grinned, and I couldn’t help laughing. “She never had a chance. Every single thing she came up with, I was totally ready. I just demolished her. If it had been anyone else, I would have felt really mean. But that girl so had it coming. I tore apart her arguments and hung her out to dry. She was near tears by the end.”
“Oh, I wish I could have seen it,” I said. “I would have loved it. What was your topic anyway?”
Kevin smiled wider. “Women on pro football teams,” he said. “I was for.”
I started laughing again and put my hand on his arm. Then suddenly I felt, literally felt, someone staring holes into the back of my head. Slowly I turned around.
Luc stood there with Richard. He looked better than when I had seen him at Axelle’s—he had shaved and was wearing clean clothes—but his face was still drawn, almost haggard, and his eyes were filled with pain. And, uh, a bloodthirsty hatred.
And here I was, my hand on Kevin’s arm, laughing up at him, our knees touching.
I was so, so thankful that it was here and now that I was running into Luc and not, say, when I was sobbing on Clio’s shoulder or alone in a grocery store with a big zit or something.
Except, of course, that he was looking at me and Kevin like he was about to pull out an ax and come for us.
Kevin turned to see what I was looking at, and his eyes widened as he caught Luc’s glare. “You know him?”
I shook my head. “Just a little,” I said, thinking sadly how true that was. “He goes to the same church as … my grandmother.”
