The Final Days of Magic

by J. D. Horn

  But what the hell? It was still Bourbon Street, not the Avenue Montaigne.

  Still, the most striking change was the absence of the boxy electric sign that used to hang down from the lower balcony displaying the name of the club.

  Evangeline Caissy’s Bonnes Nouvelles was no more.

  Although as popular as ever with the tourist trade, gritty Bourbon Street clubs like Bonnes Nouvelles had fallen out of favor with the powers that be. It was rumored municipal leaders were making it hard to open new clubs, and harder for the existing establishments to stay afloat. The city wanted restaurants along Bourbon now—nice, respectable venues like the holy Creole quaternity of Brennan’s, Arnaud’s, Broussard’s, and Antoine’s. And that was exactly what the former club was to become. The gold and jewel-toned display over the entrance was the idea of the new chef, a nod to the King of Mardi Gras, a figure, it seemed, created by his own fancy. Fleur had proven incapable of disabusing him of either the notion of the king’s existence or the idea of the garish tribute.

  Hugo was bankrolling the renovation. He’d given Fleur a blank check, several of them. He couldn’t bring himself to let the building go, but he knew Evangeline wouldn’t want the place left empty. Fleur believed him, but she also recognized this renovation was a lifeline he’d tossed out to her. She’d caught it with both hands.

  Fleur waited for a car to pass, then crossed over Bourbon.

  She didn’t have a key to the space. She didn’t need one. Whereas six months ago, witches had resorted to collecting grotesque relics to prop up their failing powers, now, magic was everywhere. The witches who had managed to hold on were now using it with little discretion, tossing it about like nouveaux riches burning through their newfound cash. Once again, it seemed everything ran on magic. Ironic, really, that after how hideously wrong Nicholas’s scheme had gone, these foolish, power-drunk witches hailed him as the hero who’d restored magic to them.

  Her big brother had undoubtedly planned a grand entrance, emerging whole from the flames of the burning effigy, but something had gone wrong. A normal man would have most likely been dead by the time he dropped to the ground, but Nicholas’s will had allowed him to survive long enough to rise and stumble toward the river. She thought of Nicholas in the newly reopened hospital on Sinclair Isle. A poetic fate, a fate well-earned. Still, as he lay there slowly recovering, in a magically, medically induced coma, she hoped his dreams were not the ones he deserved.

  As Fleur approached the door, she heard the lock click, and the door eased open.

  Fleur could feel her own power pulsing through her, a vitality like she’d never known before. The magic had returned at a terrible cost, the lives of Evangeline and Lincoln and Nicholas’s pathetic acolytes, but what sickened her most was that it had returned too late. Fleur couldn’t bring herself to use magic, though, as with the automatic opening of this door, she occasionally triggered that of others.

  This magic, she recognized at first touch, was Wiley Boudreau’s.

  Hugo had contracted for the renovation with the man who’d taken over Vincent’s company without even asking for an estimate first. Hugo had only insisted on two requisites. The first, Fleur knew, was that she would design it. The second was that Wiley, who had only minimal experience in construction, be placed in charge of the subcontractors.

  Hugo being Hugo, he’d found a way to hold on to Wiley while still keeping him at arm’s length. Hugo had lost Evangeline, his best friend, the cornerstone of his world, and it would be a long while before he’d open himself up to hurt again. Fleur hoped Wiley was a patient man.

  Fleur stepped over the threshold and cast a quick glance around. Wiley and the framers had managed to carve out a good-sized main dining room and two private dining rooms, one for up to twenty guests, the other an intimate space for two.

  Her design took inspiration from the heydays of Storyville. New dark oak flooring had been floated over the chipped concrete. The black lacquered walls had received a fresh skim coat to hide dings and cracks, then they’d been primed and covered with what had seemed like endless coats of ivory paint. Wiley had sourced an exquisite period Brunswick mahogany bar with a brass footrest, a dentiled cornice, and an original back mirror flanked by columns with intricately carved capitals.

  Fleur wouldn’t have a hand in the installation of the new kitchen. The chef himself would be seeing to those details. From what she could make out by craning her neck, he’d better get a move on, as the restaurant was scheduled for a soft opening on Independence Day. The event would include an early dinner seating before the fireworks, followed by cocktails on the rooftop to watch the dueling pyrotechnic displays shot from barges on the river. Friends and family and influencers, friendly influencers, by invitation only. An opportunity to get the figurative, but—Fleur shuddered—no longer literal bugs out. Evangeline had always kept the club spotless, which took more than magic. In the intervening months between the closure of the club and the beginning of the renovations, however, it seemed every manner of vermin and insect and, worse, spider, had sought sanctuary within its walls.

  “Is that you, Fleur, love?” Daniel’s voice drifted down to her from the upper floors. With the resurgence of magic, Daniel had blazed back into this reality, as real to the eye and to the touch as any man Fleur had ever known, and—given the circles in which she’d traveled over the last two decades—more real than many.

  “You know it is,” she called back, sounding impatient, not intending to. She shifted her bags and headed to the foot of the newly installed interior stairway. Evangeline had only leased the street-level space, and until now the upper floor could only be accessed from a stairway at the back of the building, which itself could only be reached via a narrow, gated alley on the building’s right side.

  “Of course I do, love,” Daniel replied, “but it would seem rude to leave you knocking about down there by yourself without acknowledging your presence. Pop on up. I’m in the kitchen preparing a wee bite for you.” Thanks to Daniel and his “wee bites,” Fleur had put on four pounds in a week. Her pride protested, but she’d caught sight of her own reflection enough to realize she had gone from a disciplined petite to skeletal since last December. Daniel was waging an undeclared campaign to bring her back to a normal weight.

  The scent of vanilla wafted down from the upper floor, the space Daniel had reserved for his own private living quarters. Fleur continued up, stopping when she noticed the glow of peridot eyes on the landing above. “Well, hello, pretty girl,” Fleur called up to the cat, who if not for the shining eyes, might have been invisible in the gray shadow. Sugar purred in appreciation, it seemed, of the compliment, then performed a corkscrew turn and disappeared through the doorway into Daniel’s apartment.

  The doorway opened into an enormous, at least for one, combination living and dining room that was full of natural light thanks to the new skylight they’d installed. On one side of the living space were two bedrooms. Daniel had claimed the smaller one, leaving the larger of the two for “the children,” as he still called Hugo and Alice, for whenever either of them felt a need to get a taste of “home.” A full bath sat between the bedrooms, and the small kitchen with its eat-in breakfast space was tucked into the far corner next to Daniel’s room.

  “Come through, love,” Daniel called from the kitchen. “Hugo called to say he’s running a little late.”

  “I hope that means Wiley will be detained as well.”

  “Knowing our Hugo, more like restrained.”

  “Yes, thank you for that image,” she said, trying to sound disapproving, but undermining it by choking back a chuckle. “I’ve brought the samples to show you.” Fleur set her shopping bags beside the dining table, pausing there to take note of the postcards scattered over the tabletop. Daniel seemed to be trying to arrange them in some order, though Fleur couldn’t decide if it was a temporal timeline or a chromatic scale that served as his guide.

  Lisbon. Madrid. Barcelona. Andorra. Toulouse. Bordeaux.
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  Alice and Nathalie were on their grand tour. For the longest time, neither of them had ever been anywhere. Now it seemed the two young women were determined to go everywhere. They’d left six weeks ago; they’d be gone twenty more. “What is this, then?” she asked Daniel, whose head popped through the doorway.

  A wide grin cracked his face. “Oh, those. Postcards.” His head disappeared back into the kitchen.

  “I can see they’re postcards,” she said, beginning to flip them over. The upper left quadrant of each was covered in a detailed description of the place and customs, printed in Alice’s neat, careful hand, while the lower quadrant contained the same nearly identical scrawled sentiment. “Wish you were here. Love, Nathalie.” Sometimes the word “Love” included, and other times was superseded by, a heart.

  “Then why did you ask?” She heard an oven door open and close, a pan being placed on the stove top. “Scones,” he announced. “Lemon–poppy seed and plain, clotted cream.”

  Fleur felt herself roll her eyes, as her Lucy had always done. “I meant what are you doing with them?” She was worried he’d planned to unleash a decoupage monstrosity on the restaurant space below.

  She could hear him moving about in the kitchen, no doubt sliding the pastries from a parchment-lined pan to a cooling rack. “A little present for Alice and Nattie.” He had hung the nickname on poor Nathalie, and she’d seemed unable to resist him. Daniel poked his head back out. “The postcards, not the scones. Raspberry or marmalade?”

  “You know the answer is both,” Fleur responded. “The postcards?”

  “I made them promise to send poor old keep-the-home-fires-burning Daniel a postcard from every place they visit. I’m putting together a scrapbook for them as a welcome-home gift.”

  “I’m sure they’ll love it.”

  He flashed a bright, crooked smile. “I do hope so.” The smile faded, and he bit his lower lip. “I’ve had a bit of an inspiration,” he said, his eyebrows rising as a line formed between them, “about the name for the restaurant.” Fleur tilted her head and raised her own brows, a signal to continue. “I was thinking, perhaps . . . if Hugo doesn’t mind . . . we could call it ‘Evangeline’s Rest.’”

  “I think it’s perfect,” she said. “I’m sure Hugo will agree.”

  Another broad smile. “Do make yourself comfortable, love.” He nodded to the sofa at the same moment Sugar came padding out of the larger of the two bedrooms. The cat sat and looked up at them, issuing a commanding yowl. Daniel jolted. “Yes, it was your idea.” His brow lowered as his lips pulled into a tight pucker. “I was going to give you full credit—”

  Sugar cut him off with a dismissive mewling, and turned away from him.

  “I have most certainly not forgotten your bowl is almost empty,” Daniel said, his voice indignant. He looked up at Fleur. “I’m five minutes late with the can opener once, and I’m never allowed to live it down.” Another yowl. “Why don’t you call the ASPCA, then? Tell them how misused you are. Really.” He turned on his heel and went back into the kitchen in a huff. A cabinet door thumped. The sound of a can opener biting through metal followed.

  Fleur took a seat on the sofa, and Sugar looked up at her, her eyes shining with triumph. A quick leap and the cat landed by her side.

  “I interviewed someone for the manager position yesterday.”

  “Oh?” Fleur said, wondering if she should have asked to be part of the interview process for Daniel’s sake.

  “Bright young woman,” he said to the sound of clattering plates and clinking silverware. “College degree. Good experience. A native New Orleanian, even.”

  It seemed he’d found an ideal hire. Fleur was impressed. “She sounds perfect. What’s her name?”

  The kitchen fell silent, and Daniel poked his head sheepishly through the door. “Manon Perrault.”

  “Oh, Daniel,” Fleur said, unable to believe her ears. “Her parents will not be happy about that. And Alcide—”

  “I know, love, I know,” he said. “Not to worry—she excused herself with the utmost politeness the moment she learned my last name was Marin.” He disappeared once more into the kitchen. “A shame, really . . .”

  “A shame that is ours,” Fleur said.

  Sugar bumped Fleur’s hand with her head, a clear demand to be petted. Fleur obliged. “I’m sorry, ma petite. It’s my fault you were pulled into this madness in the first place.” The cat pushed back and stared at her, as if looking to her for an explanation. “It’s only when I first saw you, a tiny speck of gray fur with that perfect pink dot of a nose”—she risked touching her index finger to that nose—“and beautiful eyes, well, I had a premonition Alice would need you.” It was true. It had seemed an odd idea at the time, but she had taken the kitten anyway.

  Fleur stroked her hand down the cat’s head and back. “Do you think you’ll ever forgive me?” Sugar stepped up on her lap and began purring as she gently kneaded Fleur’s skirt. The cat fixed her with her magical green eyes, willing Fleur to meet her gaze. It seemed ridiculous, really, but once their eyes locked, Fleur found she couldn’t look away. Sugar peered deep into Fleur, touching the hurt in her heart. Then, to Fleur’s amazement, the cat opened herself to Fleur, revealing her own bereavement.

  Mama.

  “I know, you miss Evangeline.”

  Sugar moved forward, reaching up and resting her paws against Fleur’s chest.

  Girl who shines.

  The image of Lucy, her bright essence not quite contained within her form, impressed itself into Fleur’s mind. Sugar leaned in and rubbed her head against Fleur’s cheek.

  Gone not gone.

  As the skylight overhead flooded with warm sunlight, the cat dropped from Fleur’s lap onto the floor. The sun’s rays touched Fleur’s skin, and all at once she understood. “You’re right,” she said, her voice catching, sensing Lucy’s love as it enveloped her. “I can feel her . . . everywhere.”

  Sugar looked up at Fleur, blinked her peridot eyes slowly twice, then turned. With a proprietary purr, as if the sun were hers alone, the cat eased into the golden light.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  In 2011, when I began writing the manuscript that was to become The Line, I never dreamed I would spend the next seven years writing about witches. Now that I’ve arrived at my final days of magic—at least for the time being—I’d like to thank David Pomerico once again for seeing the potential in that first odd little book.

  I’d also like to thank Angela Polidoro, who has been with me since the beginning of this journey, making me look a thousand times better than I really am. No, seriously, maybe even two thousand times better.

  Beginning with The Source, I’ve had the incredible fortune to have Jason Kirk as my head editor. I will always be grateful to him for the freedom he has granted me, the trust he has shown me, and the friendship I’ve been lucky to share with him.

  One of the greatest pleasures I’ve had while writing these books has been getting to know Pat Allen Werths, a beta (and sometimes even gamma) reader whose sharp eyes have helped spot many a typo.

  I’d like to thank my spouse, Rich Weissman—my cheerleader, my rock, my friend, my most ardent promoter, and my love—for putting up with this writer’s insanity and occasional—okay, habitual—surliness.

  I also couldn’t do this without the love and emotional support of the best little dog in the world, Kirby Seamus Weissman-Horn, rescue Chihuahua extraordinaire. (Adopt, Don’t Shop.)

  And finally, I’d like to thank Sugar Chloe Weissman for inspiring the character of Sugar Chloe Caissy. You’ll always live on in Daddy’s heart. (Uh, uh, yesssssssss.)

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © 2017 Mark Davidson Photography

  J.D. Horn is the Wall Street Journal bestselling author of the Witching Savannah series. A world traveler and student of French and Russian literature, Horn also has an MBA in international business and formerly held a career as a financial analyst before turning his talent to crafting chill
ing stories and unforgettable characters. His novels have received global attention and have been translated into more than half a dozen languages. Originally from Tennessee, he currently lives in California with his spouse, Rich. Visit www.JDHornAuthor.com.