by Sara Clancy
“Is Ma in?”
One of the regulars eyed him carefully. “Are you sure this is an action you want to take, boy?”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you for your concern.” In an impressive feat, he managed to keep any frustration from seeping into his voice. He placed a hand on Marigold’s shoulder and gently began to push her behind the counter. “I’m sure she’s just in the back. Please excuse us.”
Their exit was followed by a few calls of how Marigold shouldn’t be allowed back there. He pretended that he couldn’t hear them. The back room now served as his mother’s makeshift office and conjure room, since it was too small to hold a mass of any real size. The walls were bare and painted a sky blue that his father insisted was calming. Beside the bookshelf that held most of her ingredients, the altar that was pressed against the far side, and a table that sat next to it, there wasn’t much in the room. To the left was the door to the store room and it was through there that Ma emerged. Marigold’s shoulders jumped and he gave her a reassuring squeeze.
“Hi–”
“Unless the next words are an apology for bringing that girl back in here, you best shut your mouth now.”
Once again, Marigold tried to exit the situation and once again her plan was thwarted as she ran into him. This time hard enough to make her wince.
“Ma, before you make any rash decisions, may I show you something?” Gently leaning into Marigold’s personal space he rubbed his thumb across her shoulder in a way that he hoped was soothing. “Maggie, she needs to see your back.”
Slowly Marigold turned, her eyes fixed on him with something that bordered on panic as he gathered up the mass of crimson strands. The sundress came together at the dip of her spine, so when her hair was scooped over her shoulder there was nothing hiding the layers of cuts that created groves along her pale skin. Last night’s attack had left deeper cuts over the ones that had barely begun to heal. They weren’t deep enough to need stitches, but were red and raw and looked more ghastly than any of the other damage that marred her body.
Marigold couldn’t see his mother’s face, but the older woman’s sudden catch of breath was enough to make her flinch. With trembling hands she shoved her hair back over her shoulder, letting it fall as a curtain over her wounds.
“Have you treated those?”
It was a start. At least she wasn’t a second away from throwing Marigold out onto the street.
“Yes,” he said.
“Good.”
“Maggie, can you please tell my mother what’s been happening to you?”
Marigold’s eyes widened but her resolve set in and she slowly turned to his mother. She couldn’t meet the older woman’s eyes and ended up recounting each event to the floor. When the stories came to an end, Ma turned her eyes onto Louis.
“You’re thinking the family curse?”
“I don’t think she’s crossed,” he said. “I think it’s a Diab.”
“Well, that makes things a lot trickier.”
“So you’ll help me?”
The words were barely more than a mumble of vowels, but it was enough to instantly grab both of their attention. Ma shifted her gaze to Marigold and examined the marks that crossed her arms.
“The Black Lamp should help.”
“Thank you, Ma.”
The woman’s jaw hardened. “I don’t like this. But neither will it.”
“And don’t we just live for that?” Louis smiled, bright enough that even in her sullen mood, Ma returned it.
Quickly stifling it, she ordered him to gather the necessary items. He hurried to the bookshelf, Marigold following his every step, hovering close to his side like it would keep her from gathering any kind of attention. He tried to silently soothe her, but his attempt never amounted to much. Each item he pulled down only made her more anxious.
“Why do you need a pumpkin?” she whispered.
“It’s what we make the lamp out of. Here, cut it in half.”
Having something to do seemed to settle her a little and allowed him to gather everything else they needed without fear that he was about to elbow her. Stones, cotton wick, dried and ground chilli peppers, and red paint pigment. He loved that his mother kept the supplies well stocked because it saved him a trip to a crossroads for soil. And they didn’t have to waste time crossing some bone fragments. Marigold almost cut herself when Ma suddenly showed up beside her.
“Okay, flower child, are you almost ready?”
She had a lamp oil in one hand and a small statue in the other. Marigold just blinked owlishly and backed away from the halved pumpkin, babbling about how she wasn’t sure if she had done it properly.
“It’s perfect, cher,” Louis said as he came closer, juggling his mountain of items.
“I’ve never done anything like this.”
“None of us are shocked, sugar,” Ma said as she began to arrange the items. “Are you sure about this, Louis?”
“Most definitely.” Seeing Marigold’s confusion, he leant closer to whisper. “This spell conjures Agwe. If he doesn’t like the reason you called him, he tends to make the ritual have the opposite effect.”
“So I could be in more danger?”
“It’s okay. This isn’t a trivial issue.” And before she could ask, he added, “In some ways, the structure of voodoo has a few things in common with how the Catholic Church is set up. Think of Agwe as a saint.”
The comparison seemed to be a slight comfort and she relaxed as much as he suspected she could. Voodoo wasn’t something everyone took to easily, especially when they had been raised with no exposure to the religion. They watched as his mother arranged the items into a kind of candle.
“This ritual is easy,” he whispered so as not to disrupt his mother. “When the time comes, all you have to do is light the wick.”
“And then what?”
“Then we let it burn until it goes out.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.” He lifted his hand to gesture her forward.
Hesitantly, she took the box of matches his mother offered and inched towards the halved pumpkin. The items within kept the wick upright, the little slip of white poking out from the small lake of oil. It took her two tries but she finally succeeded in lighting a match. He had a moment to note how closely the color of the flame matched her hair before it was blown out. She lit another match. This time, he heard the huffed breath that killed the flame.
“Light the wick.” There was iron in his mother’s voice as she surveyed the room.
It must have kept itself hidden from even her because her eyes never settled on one spot. Marigold’s hand was shaking too much to make lighting the match an easy task. His mother’s chanted words filled the otherwise silent room as he reached into his pocket and closed his hand around his protective gris-gris. The next match flickered to life.
A feral roar broke through the room like a thunderclap and shattered the overhead lights into a hail of sparks and shards of plastic. Darkness swallowed them as they each ducked for cover. He heard Marigold shriek as he flung himself to the back wall to wrench the door open. A block of light streamed in and washed over Marigold where she sat huddled on the floor, her eyes fixed upon the lamp.
Louis rushed to her side and searched her for any injury while his mother continued the ritual chants, her voice climbing louder.
“Maggie, you have to light the wick.”
She didn’t respond, didn’t move. Only sat and stared, her eyes wide and her lips trembling around words that wouldn’t be released. As gently as he could, he pulled her onto her feet.
“Maggie, it’s trying to scare you because we can hurt it. Come on.”
“Jas?”
He whirled around to see what she was staring at, one hand instinctively reaching for his gris-gris. A plush toy now leaned against the Black Lamp. Fire had ravaged its mattered fur, with whole chunks eaten away to expose the inner stuffing. Water seeped from the Carebear and trickled down the sides of the p
umpkin.
Shaking himself from his shock he snapped his eyes over to his mother. It would have to be strong to infiltrate the boundaries and blessing his mother had in place over the store.
How could it materialize objects while being forced out?
His breath quickened at the thought. What the hell are we dealing with?
Gasping her sister’s name once more, Marigold burst forward. He tried to catch her but she slipped from his grip and raced to the toy. The matches. The box lay discarded on the floor a few inches from his foot. He snatched them up but by the time he turned his attention back, Marigold was focused not on the toy, but on the lamp.
“Maggie.”
She ignored him, her gaze focused solely on the thick layer of oil that welled in the bottom of the pumpkin. Again he called to her, tried to break her concentration, but she still wouldn’t respond. A solid weight formed in the pit of his gut when she whispered, ‘Jasmine’.
The oil swelled and solidified into a clawed hand as he ran for her. The twisted fingers lashed out and latched onto Marigold’s slender throat. It squeezed until her scream choked off into a broken grunt and then dragged her forward. Her limbs thrashed as the phantom hand brought her face down into the oil. She couldn’t break away.
Louis grabbed her around the waist and tried to pull her free but it held her tight, mouth and nose submerged in the few inches of oil. He braced his feet, tightened his grip, and pulled with every ounce of his strength, but he couldn’t pull her free.
Her hands raked at the pumpkin, nails unable to do more than gouge grooves into the sides. Still pulling back as hard as he could, he stomped his heel down on the pumpkin. Once. Twice. His mother’s words turned into a demanding shout. The third strike created a deep crack and the oil began to leak out. Another blow and a large chunk cracked off. Oil sloshed over the floor. He pulled again and the grip suddenly released.
The floor slammed into his back and Marigold’s full weight crashed down onto his chest. Quickly he rolled onto his side but kept one arm wrapped around her waist. Marigold hacked up mouthfuls of the thick liquid as she vainly tried to wipe it from her eyes. He held her close enough to feel each of her sobs rebound within his chest. He brushed back her oil slick hair and turned to his mother. Fear lurked in her eyes. It made his bones turn cold.
Chapter 13
The sheeting rain struck the sun-heated roads, creating a thin mist that churned and clogged the empty streets. Driven inside by the rain, the usual crowds kept to the bars and rarely scattered out into the weather to search for another place to buy a drink. Jazz music and laughter rose up over the pummelling rain, but instead of bringing its usual comfort, it sounded taunting to Marigold’s ears. Louis’ mother had promised that she would perform the ritual, with a few added elements to expand the protection to her, but had insisted that Marigold couldn’t be present.
She had barely listened to their hurried explanations and whispered private discussion. All she had wanted in that moment was to find Braveheart. She had held it, felt the soft push of the fabric in her hand. It had been real. For a moment, she had had something of Jasmine’s once again, but somewhere between the attack and coming to her senses in Louis’ arms, she had lost it. Her only connection to her sister and she had lost it. Louis had finally pulled her from the room and into the newly fallen night.
As a good New Orleans boy, Louis was ready for the sudden downpour. He had grabbed an umbrella on the way out and with swift skill had managed to open it before she was soaked through. They had walked for a while, the puddles swelling until even her high wedges couldn’t keep her feet dry. She didn’t know where they were going and she didn’t want to ask. There was the possibility that he would tell her that he was walking to her house, back to that place that her family had filled with death and horror.
“Maybe they’ll let me stay at a homeless shelter.”
“I beg your pardon?”
His response startled her. She hadn’t realize she had said it out loud.
“I was wondering if they would let me stay at a homeless shelter.” she said. “Just until I can get a job and find my own place. I just can’t go back to that house.”
“You can stay with me.”
She looked at him and noticed for the first time that he had kept the shelter of the umbrella solely over her. Consequently, he was soaked. His white shirt was almost transparent as it plastered to his chest and rivets of water streamed down his glasses until she could barely see his eyes.
“I can’t ask you to do that.”
“You’re not asking. I’m offering. Actually, I’m pleading. I don’t think I’d sleep knowing you were alone with it.”
“Thank you.”
She wasn’t going to argue. Relief flooded her so quickly that she felt it slice her in two and tears began to well. Swallowing down the urge to break down, she wiped at her eyes as discreetly as she could. Looking to him again, she forced a weak smile.
“You know that umbrella could have covered both of us.” She was pleased with how light her voice came out.
“Not without getting your shoulder wet,” he noted.
“What an exemplary standard you set for gentlemen everywhere.”
His whole face lightened up with a brilliant smile. Deepening his southern accent until he sounded like a cartoon character, he puffed out his chest.
“Why, cher, you’re in the south now. This is the least a southern gentleman could do for a young lady. What ever have those Yankee boys been teaching you?”
“To hold my own umbrella.”
Shaking his head solemnly he heaved a sigh. “Why, Miss La Roux, you do make me lament so.”
A slight laugh escaped her and it would have been impossible for Louis to look more pleased with himself.
“Where do you think the doll went?”
“Don’t dwell on it, cher. It wasn’t hers.”
It was a slight comfort to feel her own arms wrap tight around her stomach. “It could have been.”
He opened his mouth but thought better of whatever he had planned to say. Instead, he offered a small smile and nodded.
“It’s possible. We’ll look again tomorrow.”
“Thank you.”
She wasn’t sure if he could hear her over the pouring rain, but his smile let her think that he did. The chatter had taken away a bit of the weight that seemed strapped to her back, although the carefree feeling she had revelled in earlier today seemed like a dream. She felt its absence now, an empty place within her where any sense of joy had once been.
She turned abruptly to Louis and asked before thought. “Can we go to a church?”
The sudden request didn’t entice a reaction. “Of course. Would you like to go now?”
Tightening her arms, she shrugged. “You have to be uncomfortable.”
“What domination do you need?”
She studied his face but couldn’t find a single trace of judgement or apprehension.
“I don’t really know. Catholic, I guess.”
“I know just the place.”
Completely ignoring the growing storm and the chill that had crept into the air, he led her around the abandoned streets. The fog churned higher; it hid the lampposts and turned their light into hovering orbs. Through the rain, she could barely make out more than colors and shapes, but Louis’ strides didn’t falter. He took each street without hesitation and she soon lost track of where they were.
Eventually, they arrived at a church she hadn’t seen before. The pristine white shone like a beacon in the night and the tip of its steeple was lost to the gathering mist. She might not have been raised within the church, but its presence did make her feel a little safer, and she found a renewed enthusiasm to get inside.
Moving with ease, Louis managed to get in front of her while still keeping her protected by the umbrella. She felt a little odd having someone open doors for her, but it appeared to be a habit Louis wasn’t about to break. Trying and failing to control the blu
sh blooming across her cheeks, she didn’t know what to do as she passed him.
The air burst from her lungs as an invisible force hammered into her and hurled her back onto the street. Her bare back scraped against the road as she thumped over it. Struggling to breathe, she forced herself up just in time to see Louis thrown off of his feet. He careened back through the open church door and slid down the aisle. Before he could get up the wide, heavy door slammed shut with a deafening crack.
“Louis!”
She ran to the door and smacked at the unrelenting wood. “Louis, are you okay?”
The door rattled and she staggered back, eyes locked on the handle.
“I can’t open the door,” Louis called.
She gripped it with both hands and yanked with all of her weight behind it, but it wouldn’t budge. Desperation turned each of her movements into short, erratic spurts that achieved nothing beyond making her more panicked. Her lungs seized when she heard him scream.
“Louis!”
Rain pummelled her like chips of ice. She could barely see as it streamed into her eyes and covered every inch of her body. It was all she could hear as she slammed herself against the door.
“Louis, what’s happening?”
His voice came as a strained whisper, “It’s in here with me.”
There was a sudden crash and a heavy thud. She clawed at the door, tears welling as Louis groaned on the other side. Her mind whirled with the possibilities of what it was doing to him. Because of her. It was hurting Louis because of her. Another thud, a pained gasp, and she couldn’t take it anymore.
“I’m going to lure it away.”
“Maggie,” his voice didn’t sound right, “don’t.”
“It wants me. It will follow me.”
“Maggie,” the door rattled and her name turned into a scream.
