Modern Magic
Page 242
She paused. “Miss Monette has her own skills. We both keep the old ways, but different old ways, if you know what I mean.”
“I’m not sure that I do,” I said carefully.
Mrs. Teller chuckled. “I do root work. Miss Monette works Voodoo.”
I’d gotten the woman’s full name from Niella. Monette Lark was the granddaughter of Elise DuPre, the women I’d seen in my vision. And I had some acquaintance with Voodoo from a few of Sorren’s friends. Everyone thinks that Voodoo, or as many practitioners today prefer, Voudon, is just in New Orleans, but it traveled anywhere Black slaves went, just like root work did. Some of Charleston’s planter aristocrats married off their children to New Orleans high society, and if those couples settled in Charleston, it was likely they brought some of their New Orleans servants with them. Those servants brought their own ways, and practiced as they pleased in secret, even here in Charleston.
Teag pulled up to a modest house in a tidy neighborhood. Homes up and down the street looked well cared-for, with neat lawns and carefully tended flower gardens. Teag came around and opened the door for Mrs. Teller, offering her his arm with such gallantry that she laughed out loud.
“Aren’t you the gentleman!” she exclaimed, taking his arm like a starlet on the red carpet. Niella looked at me and rolled her eyes, but she was smiling, and I couldn’t help chuckling. Once we reached the front steps, Mrs. Teller let go of Teag’s arm and paused a moment.
“I gave Miss Monette a call so she would know what we were about,” Mrs. Teller said. “And she agreed to see us. I told her that I trust you two, and that she can speak her mind.” She peered at us like a schoolteacher over her glasses. “She doesn’t like to talk about what happened, but this is different. It’s about time things got put right.”
With that, Mrs. Teller rang the doorbell. We waited for a moment before the door opened an inch on its security chain, long enough for the person inside to make certain who was outside. When the door opened again, Monette Lark stood in the doorway. She was tall and sinewy, with hands that looked as if she had done hard work. Her gray hair was shaved close to her head, and while she looked all of her eighty years, her eyes were clear and sharp.
“Come in,” she said, then turned, expecting us to follow without a backward glance. Her living room was comfortable, a mixture of a few older pieces that looked handmade and a sofa that probably came from Sears. Everything was as neat and orderly as the yard had been, but when I went to sit down, I caught a whiff of the same sweet perfume that I had smelled before.
“Ernestine tells me you’re asking after my Grandma Elise,” Monette said, with a direct gaze. “She said you have a Gift, both of you.” She closed her eyes for a moment, and hummed a tune I could not catch. Then she opened her eyes and nodded. “That’s true enough.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why do you care about Grandma Elise?”
I had tried to come up with an explanation in the car that didn’t give too much away, but I hadn’t been successful. “I can read objects when I touch them,” I said, deciding that simpler was better. “I run an antique shop, and I use my gift to make sure that objects that might cause problems don’t get resold.”
I took a deep breath. “We bought some of the pieces that were auctioned off from the Legacy Hotel. One of them was a poker set, and when I touched it, I had a vision of Elise, and a man who caused her pain.”
Old anger flashed in Monette’s eyes. “Say on.”
“I saw what happened to her,” I said, seeing no way to back out now. “And I know that Artemis Williams died under suspicious circumstances in the alley behind the Legacy Hotel, and so have fourteen other men.” I paused. “I won’t say that they didn’t get what they deserved,” I said. “But I have the feeling that your grandmother called on some kind of power in her distress that turned out to be more than she bargained for.”
I could tell from Monette’s eyes that I had hit close to the mark. For a moment, I thought she might throw us out. Then Mrs. Teller laid a hand on her arm.
“Miss Monette,” Mrs. Teller said quietly. “It’s time.”
Monette drew a deep breath and then nodded. “What that man did to my grandmother, it wasn’t right,” she said quietly. “But she had no recourse, ‘least not in the usual way. Police wouldn’t do anything against someone like him. If she could have found a lawyer to take her case, it would never have gone to court. That’s how it was in those days.” It seemed to me that Monette’s heavy drawl grew deeper as her voice became soft, remembering old stories.
“Grandma Elise came from Haiti,” she said. “She had given up the Old Practice when she came to Charleston, ‘to be a good Christian’, she said.” Her eyes flashed. “They call this the Holy City for its churches, but that man didn’t pay heed to anything he learned there. My grandma wasn’t the first girl he used that way, I’m sure of it. No one was going to stop him.”
“Your grandma did,” I said softly. “What did she do?”
“She wrote her problem on a piece of paper and folded it three times, then she stabbed it with a knife and said the words. She called the Loas,” Monette replied. “The Voodoo gods. Papa Legba to open the gates, and Erzulie Dantor to bring her vengeance on the man who used her.” She stood up. “Come with me.”
We followed Monette down the narrow hallway toward the bedrooms. Family photos hung in frames on the wall, along with department store landscapes. She stopped in front of a room and pushed the door open. I smelled sweet perfume, and tobacco smoke.
Inside, along one wall, was a shrine. The portrait of a dark-skinned woman holding a baby hung above an altar set in colors of navy, red, and gold. The woman’s face was marked with three long scars. A goblet of red wine was set out as an offering, along with filterless cigarettes, several dolls, and a couple of silver coins. Next to the first portrait was another image I recognized from the novena card we had found at the shop. Our Lady of Lourdes. I knew that many Voodoo worshippers used the images of Catholic saints to symbolize their gods and keep their Christian masters unawares.
“I keep smelling the same perfume whenever Elise comes up,” I said.
Monette nodded knowingly. “Reve d’or. Erzulie Dantor’s favorite.” She gestured toward the altar. “Erzulie Dantor protects women and children. She’s a fierce Loa, and she avenges her daughters who have been abused.”
“Elise opened the gate for the Loa and never closed it, didn’t she?” I asked quietly.
Monette nodded. “My mother and I begged her to close it. She said that Erzulie Dantor never punished the innocent, and that the men who died wouldn’t come to justice any other way.” She sighed. “Maybe we didn’t push her as hard as we should have because we knew she was right.”
“Except that I don’t think Elise rests peacefully,” I said. It was an unmistakable impression I had gotten from the visions. “I think that because the gate wasn’t closed right, your grandma’s spirit is still bound up in the tragedy, instead of moving on.”
Monette nodded. “I think you’re right. That’s why I agreed to meet with you. Ernestine has been trying to get me to go to that place and do what needs to be done, but I have been stubborn—or afraid.” She met my gaze. “I’ll go if the two of you will go with me.”
“We’ll all go,” Niella said in a voice that did not accept argument. “And there’s no time like the present.”
“I’ll need a few things,” Monette said. She murmured to herself as she moved around the room, picking up some pieces from the altar and placing them in a bag. Then she said quiet words in front of the painting on the wall and turned to us. She stopped in the kitchen to take several items along with us. “I’m ready,” she said.
I wasn’t, but we were going anyway.
The sun was setting as we headed toward the Legacy Hotel. I fingered the agate necklace at my throat. Agate is supposed to be a protective gem, and I hoped the stones were ready for a busy night. No one said anything as we navigated Charleston’s streets. It was late enough that all
but the tourist areas of downtown had emptied out. The Legacy Hotel sat a few blocks off King Street. I don’t know what neighboring buildings had been next to it in its heyday, but now it sat, boarded up and forlorn, next to an out-of-business convenience store and a defunct barber shop. We drove around to the back, to the alley that started it all.
Given the number of deaths, I almost expected to see a police cruiser parked behind the Legacy Hotel, but perhaps the cops felt like Elise did, that whatever was killing lowlifes was making their job easier. As we got out of the car, I felt a shiver of dread. Something with power was waiting down that alley. I couldn’t imagine why anyone in his right mind would go there.
We went in. Monette went first. The scent of Reve d’or was heavy, underlain with the smell of old tobacco. Monette withdrew a maraca from her bag and began to shake it as she chanted softly. I saw that Mrs. Teller had retrieved a few items from Niella’s large purse, including several small bags that smelled of herbs and flowers.
Teag and I came last, unsure of our role. The further in to the alley we went, the darker it became, like the street lights couldn’t quite penetrate the darkness. Maybe it was because the narrow street lay between two taller buildings, but I didn’t think that was the only reason. Nor could I explain the fact that the alley was colder than where we had parked. I desperately did not want to touch anything, because even without my gift, every primal instinct warned me of danger and death.
“Don’t be afraid.” Sorren’s voice nearly scared me witless. He had come up behind us so quietly none of us heard him. Mrs. Teller and Niella nodded their greeting. Monette eyed him for a moment, before returning to chant.
“We stop here,” Monette said, stopping midway down the alley, just at the edge of the light from the street behind us. From her bag she withdrew a piece of blue cloth, a red candle, a silver ring, and several cigarettes. She laid them out next to one of the buildings where the ground was flat, creating her altar. She added a drawing of the veve for Erzulie Dantor, a complex drawing of a heart pierced with a sword. Then she laid a small silver dagger next to the veve. Next, she pulled out a saucer and several small pieces of pork. She withdrew a flask of what smelled like crème de cacao and poured some of it on the pork. Three times, she let a few drops of the liquor fall to the ground.
Mrs. Teller and Niella quietly passed small mojo bags of dried plants and roots to Teag and me. Sorren had disappeared. It appeared to me that Mrs. Teller was whispering quietly, and I wondered what she was conjuring, and whether it was to strengthen Monette or to protect us or both. I noticed that she and Niella both pulled necklaces from inside their shirts that looked to be silver dimes on a leather strand.
Monette began to dance and sing in a language I did not understand. I caught a few words, enough to know that she was calling to Papa Legba to open the gates to the spirit realm. In the distance, I heard a dog bark, and the scent of pipe smoke wafted out of nowhere. Monette smiled, and resumed her dancing, faster than before.
I heard Monette call Erzulie Dantor’s name, and saw her throw her head back in ecstasy, dancing harder than I would have believed possible for a woman her age. A sheen of sweat glistened on her skin despite how cold the alley had become, and as I watched, three deep scratches appeared on Monette’s cheek though I saw nothing to cause them. She gave a cry of triumph and turned to face us. Blood oozed from the fresh scratches on her face, and a trickle of blood came from a corner of her mouth.
Her eyes were bright red.
Monette opened her mouth, but all that came out was a harsh, stuttering noise. The intent was clear. Whatever spirit had taken over was demanding to know why we had come.
“Tell her, child,” Mrs. Teller urged. “We’ll open the road for you.”
“Elise called to you,” I said, mustering up my courage to speak to the spirit who was now in possession of Monette’s body. “You took vengeance for her. But that was long ago. Elise is dead, but her spirit can’t rest as long as you remain here. Please, we need to close the gate.”
“Ke-ke-ke-ke,” Monette stuttered. The syllables meant nothing to me, but the voice was threatening.
“It’s time to let Elise rest,” I begged. “She’s had her revenge twice seven-fold. For her to rest, you must go through the gate.”
Monette took a step toward me, and instinctively I moved backwards. I could hear Teag murmuring something and holding his mojo bag tightly in his hands. I touched the agate necklace around my throat, and it cleared my head enough to realize that Sorren had rejoined us.
“Get the knife from the altar,” Sorren commanded. He held the poker set firmly grasped in both hands and set it on the ground. I realized that he had used his supernatural speed to retrieve it from the shop and return to us. I moved toward the altar and bent to take the knife, never letting Monette out of my sight. She watched me take the blade from the sacred space, and this time, there was no mistaking the anger in her voice.
Sorren pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and folded it, then placed it on top of the poker set. “Stab it three times,” he ordered. “Don’t let anything stop you.”
I raised the knife for the first blow, and Monette ran toward me, her stutter now an accusation. “Ke-ke-ke-ke!”
Before she could reach me, Sorren stepped in front, then Mrs. Teller, Niella, and Teag, holding his mojo bag in front of him like a shield. “Do it, Cassidy!” Sorren shouted.
I brought the blade down once, digging its tip deep into the burled wood, pinning the paper to the box. I wiggled the blade free, and raised it once again, as Monette’s shouts became more vicious and she launched herself at my line of protectors, fighting with a vigor I would not have believed she was capable of.
The knife fell, going deeper into the wood this time. Monette’s cries were louder, and I expected the police to show up at any moment. She was bleeding from the mouth, and she spat gobbets of blood at anyone who held her back. It looked like even Sorren, with his enhanced strength, was having difficulty holding her which meant that something supernatural was in possession of her body, using her for its own purposes.
One last time I raised the knife and brought it down hard, splitting the wooden cover of the poker box. As the wood split, a dog howled, nearer now, somewhere in the alley with us. Pipe smoke filled the air, and Monette let out a shriek of rage before collapsing into Sorren’s arms, limp.
My hand brushed the top of the poker box, and I saw Elise’s spirit, standing behind where Sorren held Monette. She stood with an old man with a cane and his skin-and-bones dog. None of the figures were solid. I blinked, and they were gone.
Teag ran to me as I made my way shakily to my feet. “Are you okay?” he asked, worried. I nodded, breathing heavily, still not sure what exactly had transpired.
Sorren held Monette in his arms. The scratches on her face were gone, and the only trace of blood were a few flecks on her lips.
“She’ll be fine once she rests,” Sorren said. “The Loa rode her hard. It’s the price of speaking for the gods. I’ll take her home and make sure she’s all right.”
“What about the poker box?” I asked, looking down at the broken box at my feet. Niella and Mrs. Teller were gathering up the items from Monette’s ritual and putting them into Niella’s big purse. She paused when she came to the poker box, and looked up at Sorren.
“Whatever resonance it had is gone,” Sorren said. “It’s just an old broken box.” With that, he slipped off into the night.
Niella picked up the box and handed it to Mrs. Teller. “We need to get you home,” she fussed.
Mrs. Teller gave Niella a withering look. “I’m just fine. You can see that,” Mrs. Teller snapped at Niella’s protests of concern. “This is what I do, child. You think this is the first time I’ve seen a Loa come on one of its dancers?”
It was the first time for me, and I was not in a hurry for a repeat performance.
“It’s warmer,” Teag said, taking my arm to steady me. “Can you feel it? It’s no sc
arier now than any other dark alley in Charleston. The light even seems brighter.”
Teag said it in a way to get a smile, but he was right. The feeling in the alley was different. Not quite cleansed, but no longer malevolent. More importantly, I was certain that Elise was finally at rest.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said. “It’s time to go home.”
Coffin Box
“I don’t know why, but I’ve really got a bad feeling about that house.” I sat in the car parked at the curb near the big house on the Battery.
“Bad feeling like they won’t pay their bill, or bad feeling like there’s a hungry demon inside?” Teag Logan asked.
I shook my head. “Not sure, but if I had to put money on it, I’d go with the demon.”
Most people would be kidding. Teag knew I wasn’t. I’m Cassidy Kincaide, owner of Trifles and Folly, an antique and curio shop in historic, haunted Charleston, SC. Neither Teag nor I are entirely what we seem, and that holds true for the shop as well.
I’m a psychometric, which means I can often read the history of objects by touching them. Teag has Weaver magic, an ability to weave spells into cloth and to weave data streams—like the Internet—making him an awesome hacker. He’s my best friend, sometime bodyguard and assistant store manager. I’m the latest in a very long line of relatives to manage Trifles and Folly in the 350 years the store has existed, but we’ve all had the same silent partner, a nearly six-hundred year old vampire named Sorren, and the same mission: to get dangerous magical items off the market and out of the wrong hands. Most of the time, we succeed. When we fail, people die and really bad things happen.
“How do you want to handle this?” Teag asked.
I drew a deep breath. “We go in, and see what’s what. Then we figure it out from there.” My magic is touch-psychic, not clairvoyance, so I can’t see the future, much as I would sometimes like to.