Spells

by Kristen Proby

  “When you decide you need me, you know where to find me.”

  “In a lab.” Lucien is a warlock, a witch, but he also studies blood and consults with hospitals and police departments on many cases involving rare diseases and DNA. He’s a damn genius.

  “My home, my lab, and everywhere in between. You have my number, and I want you to use it, Millie.”

  “You only call me Millie when you’re trying to get on my good side.”

  “Millicent is a beautiful name,” he murmurs and then turns away as if he didn’t just say the sweetest thing ever. “Call me when you need me.”

  He leaves, and I glance down at Sanguine, who’s decided to take a bath on my counter.

  “You can’t do that there.”

  “Meow.”

  It’s been a day. Sanguine is sweet and little and stubborn as hell. Like me. So, because she found her favorite perch on my counter, she didn’t want to move. None of the customers said anything, but I didn’t love it. When my employee, Esme, came in to cover the afternoon shift, I took Sanguine to the pet store to get all of her supplies and then hurried home.

  “For such a little thing, you’re heavy,” I say as I set the cat—in her shiny new carrier—at my feet on the front porch as I search in my bag for my keys.

  I literally just had them in the car. They can’t have gone far.

  But my bag is cavernous, and I can’t find them, so I glance around to make sure no one is watching and unlock my door with a flick of my wrist.

  Just a little parlor trick I picked up that comes in handy now and then.

  I reach for Sanguine, and when I glance up, I frown.

  “Blood on my door,” I murmur. “Just a few drops.”

  I carry the cat inside, then return to my car for the litter and the other supplies. When I cross the threshold, I glance at the blood again.

  I cleanse my home weekly. And I’m not talking about scrubbing the toilets and mopping the floor—although I do that, too. I recharge the crystals I put in all four cardinal corners, use sage, and reinforce the spell of protection that keeps out anything intent on doing me harm.

  I’ve been much more routine about it since the Horace fiasco last year.

  Over the past week, I’ve noticed there’s been fresh blood on my door.

  I don’t know for sure where it’s coming from or why it’s there. It could be that a bird keeps hitting the door.

  Suicidal bird. Poor thing.

  It could be a protection spell from one of my friends.

  Or, it could be Horace, trying to get inside.

  I’ve decided not to freak out about it because I know that nothing is inside the house, and that’s the most important thing.

  “Okay, make yourself at home,” I say as I open the cat carrier. I set up her litter box, food, and water dishes, and grin when I see her curled up in a happy, sunny spot on my couch. “Get some sleep for both of us, okay?”

  “Why are the Brussels sprouts always so dang good here?” Brielle asks as she pops another one into her mouth.

  Brielle, Daphne, and I decided we needed a sister night out, and we love no restaurant in the Quarter more than Café Amalie. We’ve been coming here for years, specifically for the Brussels sprouts, with balsamic glaze and bacon.

  They should be illegal, honestly.

  “I don’t know, and I don’t want it to stop,” Daphne says. “Okay, what’s going on with you two?”

  “Just work,” I reply. “And it’s going well. The book space in the back is a huge hit. I’m even reading tarot and runes and tea leaves back there. It’s a lot of fun.”

  “That’s awesome, Mill,” Brielle says. “I’ve also been working a lot. It seems there will never be a time that people don’t want to know about the dead haunting the New Orleans.”

  Brielle is a tour guide on a ghost tour here in the Quarter. It helps that she can actually see the shadows of the spirits that still reside here.

  “And how is Cash?” I ask.

  “My husband is just fine, thank you for asking.”

  “Do you notice that she always refers to him as her husband, and not by his actual given name?” Daphne asks.

  “It’s still new,” Brielle says. “And I like calling him my husband.”

  “How does he like working for the NOLA PD? It has to be a huge change from the FBI,” I say.

  “So far, so good,” she answers. “He’s relieved that he doesn’t have to travel as often. It wasn’t a big deal when he was single, but now—”

  “Now, he wants to be with you,” Daphne finishes for her. “I think it’s sweet. A little disgusting, but sweet.”

  “And how are you?” I ask Daphne.

  “I’m fine. Business is busy for me, too, so I don’t have a lot of time for anything else.”

  “Well, we need to do this more often,” I say. “I’ve missed you guys. And just because I have to ask, after everything we went through last year, neither of you has started to feel anything…off, have you?”

  They both frown at me. “I’m not seeing any apparitions,” Brielle says. “And thank the goddess because that was the worst thing ever.”

  “I haven’t felt anything,” Daphne adds, and before I can stop her, she reaches out and touches my arm. Her eyes widen. “Oh, honey.”

  “What?” Brielle demands. “What is it?”

  “Nothing—”

  “Dreams,” Daphne replies, earning a glare from me. “You need to call us when the dreams get bad like this, Mill.”

  “They’ve come and gone my whole damn life,” I remind them. “They’re not new.”

  “Lucien dropping into your shop isn’t usual,” Daphne replies, and I glare harder.

  “You know, looking into my head is a violation, Daph.”

  She just smiles and takes a sip of her drink.

  “Lucien came by?” Brielle asks as she swirls a sprout in the sauce on the plate, then pops it into her mouth. “Spill it. Now.”

  “He just wanted coffee, and to talk about shit stirring up. But nothing is stirred up, you guys. He’s just paranoid. He needs to stay in his lab and look at DNA samples.”

  “Cash got to work with Lucien on a case a few months ago,” Brielle says. “He was very impressed with Lucien’s work. His analysis helped the department solve the case.”

  “Yeah, he’s brilliant,” I mutter and frown down at my plate. “Let’s talk about something else.”

  “Why is that crowd forming?” Daphne asks, pointing out to the street. We’re sitting outside in the restaurant’s courtyard, and she’s right, a small crowd is gathering around something in the street.

  Suddenly, someone lets out a blood-curdling scream.

  “Don’t look, Millie,” Brielle says, but she’s too late. I’ve already reached out with my mind.

  I look at them both and shake my head. “We need to go see this.”

  We hurry over and push our way through the crowd. In the middle of the street lies a body. A man, probably in his mid to late thirties with brown hair. He’s been cut—all over his body.

  “Some of these wounds are scabbed over,” Daphne points out.

  And some are fresh.

  But there’s no denying that he’s dead. The gaping wound at his throat is a definite giveaway.

  “I’m calling Cash,” Brielle says.

  Someone else is already talking to a 911 operator.

  “Oh my goodness, what’s happened?”

  I turn and see my friend, Dahlia. She owns the flower shop, Black Dahlia, across the street from my café. She’s also a member of my coven.

  “I don’t know,” I reply. “But it’s horrible.”

  “That poor man,” Dahlia agrees.

  We step away from the chaos as the police and ambulance arrive.

  “Did you try to see?” Brielle asks me.

  “Yeah, but I can’t read anything,” I reply. “I have no idea what happened to him.”

  “I didn’t even see a shadow,” Brielle adds, loo
king around the area. “Hey, Dahlia. How are you?”

  “Well, I was fine,” the other woman says and pushes a shaky hand through her blond hair. “I was meeting someone for dinner, but I don’t think I’m hungry anymore.”

  “Yeah, same here,” Daphne agrees. “Let’s go back to the Brew and have some coffee. What do you say?”

  “I think that’s an excellent idea,” I reply. “Dahlia, why don’t you join us?”

  “Oh, thanks for the invite, but I have to at least say hi to my friend. And then I have some things to do. But you three have a good night.”

  “Take care.”

  We walk away, in the opposite direction as Dahlia, and head toward my café.

  “I’ve seen enough of this crap to last a lifetime,” Brielle mumbles.

  Chapter Two

  "My knife’s so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance."

  -Jack the Ripper

  * * *

  Horace watches the three women walk away and finally, after all this time, feels satisfaction fill his chest. It’s taken months of rest, of recovery, of patience to get where he is today. And it’s all because of their selfishness, their entitlement, that he lost so much time.

  How dare they think they could get rid of him so easily?

  How could they be so ungrateful? They saw what he did for them. They know how hard he worked, for years, to make everything perfect. And instead of gratitude, they tried to get rid of him.

  Yes, teaching them a lesson is imperative.

  He smirks and turns to walk in the opposite direction, where more of his toys wait. Leaving the cup of blood in Millie’s fridge last year depleted his energy. Any time he tried to manifest himself to them after that, it drained him for weeks—sometimes months.

  That just wouldn’t do. There was too much work to be done, too much punishment to dole out to those little bitches. He had to find another way.

  Now, he realizes this is what he needed all along. Yes, this is much better.

  He walks into the small house less than two miles from where he saw his girls. This dwelling was deserted after Katrina ripped through the area, leaving it uninhabitable. The front door still has the markings on it from the National Guardsmen who came through on boats, searching for survivors.

  Of course, all four people who lived here were dead.

  Their spirits are still here, but he’s taken care of them, showed them that he’s not to be messed with.

  It didn’t take long for him to reinforce the windows and doors and to gather some supplies. It’s not nearly as good as his playroom in the bayou, but it’ll have to do.

  The smell of mold and feces fills the air, along with the metallic stench of fresh blood and despair.

  That’s what he loves the most. The despair.

  He grins when he walks into the soundproofed back room and sees his two toys still tied up.

  “Today was a success,” he announces gleefully. “Oh, it feels so good to be back. This is important work, you see, and I’m just so relieved that it’s going well already. Millie would be proud, too. She’ll understand, eventually. I’ll show her that all of this is for the best.

  “She would want to be punished for all the ways she’s disobeyed me.”

  He picks up a knife and turns toward the adjoining bathroom, approaching the tub that’s already filled with water—and a toy.

  “Let’s get started, shall we, Lucien?”

  Chapter Three

  Lucien

  She infuriates me. She tempts me. And she worries me.

  I’ve known since I first laid eyes on Millicent that she’s afraid of the dreams we share, and of what she knows is her destiny. She’s stubborn because of that fear, and reaching her won’t be easy.

  It never has been.

  Unlike Millie, who was raised in a household of evil and terror, I grew up with a family who understood the craft, lived by it, and encouraged me to not only explore my gifts but to also prepare for the battle I was born for.

  Millie didn’t have that luxury, and because of that, she’s working at a disadvantage. She’s had to learn quicker than most, and I fear that she won’t be ready in time for what we’ll have to face, despite being a powerful witch.

  But there’s nothing I can do about that today. Until the stubborn woman is ready to listen to me and work with me, I have to bide my time.

  Patience has become something of a work of art for me when it comes to Millicent.

  It’s a good thing I’ve had a thousand years to hone that particular skill.

  Knowing that Millie’s already at Witches Brew for the day, I stop by her small house to set my protection spell. I’ve been coming by every day for more than a week, ever since I felt the danger creeping back into our lives.

  I know Millie is diligent about setting her own wards. I can feel them as I approach the door. But adding a layer of my own will intensify hers.

  Our souls are linked, and because of that, anything we conjure together is much stronger than things we do alone.

  After I drank her potion yesterday, I felt energized and protected in ways that I haven’t since our last lifetime together.

  I smile when I see Sanguine sitting in the window, watching me with her wise gaze.

  No need to worry, darlin’, I say to her through my mind. I’m just here to protect you both.

  She blinks and watches as I prick my finger and wipe the few red drops that bead across the door at eye-level.

  This shield is my Power to protect against evil.

  This shield keeps out harm.

  This shield does not allow evil or negative energies to pass.

  No dark entities shall cross this barrier.

  As I will it, so mote it be.

  When I’m satisfied that the protection around Millie’s home is strong enough for my liking, I wink at the cat and turn to walk away. Suddenly, I stop cold when the sun darkens, and I’m standing in absolute blackness. A red glow begins to burn on a foreign horizon.

  It’s all a mirage meant to scare me and make me distrust myself and my abilities.

  But he’s chosen the wrong man to fuck with.

  “You’re not welcome here, you evil son of a bitch.”

  I begin to chant, using the same words we used when we cast the circle last year. Immediately, the red glow dies, and the darkness turns back to daylight.

  He’s not strong enough to fight me. Not yet.

  I’ve been immersed in the lab all morning, completely swept up in a mystery under my microscope when my phone rings.

  I want it to be Millicent, but it’s not. It’s Cash Winslow, a member of the local police department, and husband of Millie’s sister, Brielle.

  “Good morning,” I say when I answer the phone.

  “You won’t think so when I tell you why I’ve called,” he replies

  “What’s up?”

  “I need your help with something. We have a new vic. He was dumped in the street in front of Café Amelie last night. I’d like to run some things by you.”

  I narrow my eyes. “I take it something’s wrong with his blood?”

  “Yeah. As in, there isn’t any.”

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  I hang up my lab coat and close down my lab, stowing my tools and specimens away before locking up and hurrying over to the police department.

  Cash has brought me in on a few cases lately, all of them dealing with some kind of blood concern.

  Blood is my job, after all. I’ve known since I was a small boy that working with blood would be important.

  I’m lucky that I also enjoy it, find it fascinating, and it provides a good living.

  When I arrive at the station, Cash is waiting for me.

  “We’re headed down to the morgue,” he informs me. “Unless you have a problem with that.”

  I shake my head and walk with him to the elevator. Once in the basement, we follow a hallway to the morgue where the medical examiner
is waiting.

  A corpse lies on a slab in the middle of the room, the body completely covered in slashes and cuts.

  “That’s a shitty way to die,” I say as I approach. Some of the cuts have already formed scabs. “He was tortured.”

  “Mercilessly,” the ME agrees. “Bled slowly for a while, and then was drained completely.”

  My eyes find Cash’s. “Why am I here?”

  “Because we also found this.” Cash passes me a plastic bag containing a stone.

  “It’s a bloodstone,” I reply, looking carefully at the smooth rock, big enough to almost fill the palm of my hand. “A big one. And it’s covered, coincidentally, in blood.”

  “Not the victim’s blood,” the ME says, and my eyes shoot up to his. “The blood type on the stone, which we found in the victim’s throat, doesn’t match what we were able to collect from the body. And trust me, there wasn’t much left.”

  I stare down at the rock in my hand and let myself open up to it, trying to read what happened to it before it came to be in its final resting place.

  But a powerful spell has been cast on it, preventing me from seeing anything.

  In fact, even trying nauseates me.

  “We need an analysis on that blood,” Cash insists. “I need DNA to see if it matches anyone else who might be missing. Or if I’m lucky, the killer’s.”

  “It won’t be the killer’s blood,” I reply without thinking.

  Cash tilts his head to the side and watches me. “Why do you say that?”

  “Just a hunch,” I lie easily. “Can I take this with me?”

  “Of course,” Cash says. “I’ll write you a chain of custody receipt for it.”

  I nod and turn away but look back at him. “Who’s the vic?”

  “We don’t know,” Cash answers with a sigh. “He doesn’t match any missing persons’ reports.”

  “Daphne might be able to help with that,” I remind him. Daphne has the gift of psychometry, touching objects and people and knowing everything about it or them. I don’t envy that gift.

  “I’d rather not bring her in if I don’t have to.” Cash’s face is lined with concern, and his eyes look tired.