The King of Bones and Ashes

by J. D. Horn

  “Alcide,” Charlie said, “he showed up late, blew some shit that sounded like a rooster getting his neck wrung, then went off with his son-in-law and grandson. Left without a word to any of us after all of the fuss he made to get us here.” He nodded around the rest of the band to demonstrate whom he meant by “us.” “Those folk in there, they are one funny bunch . . .” He stopped himself. “Sorry there, girl, didn’t mean any offense, but you got to admit . . .”

  Evangeline shook her head. “None taken.”

  “Good,” he said, then craned his neck to get a better look through a small opening in the cemetery’s gates. “They don’t want us in there.” He pointed toward the gate that was being guarded by a solid, square crone with long gray hair hanging out beneath a floppy black sun hat. Evangeline recognized the woman as a member of Nicholas’s coven, but she didn’t know her by name.

  “See, they done closed the place off. Left their pit bull there at the gate.” Evangeline could sense his apprehension in spite of his swagger. Précieux Sang had a reputation, and so did the people who did their burying there. “They’ve been in there a while, but it’s been pretty darned quiet.” Evangeline suspected the witches had performed some type of concealment spell to keep out prying eyes and deafen eavesdropping ears. Their decision to close the gate and post a guard told Evangeline they weren’t entirely confident their spell would hold. Even the high-and-mighty witches of the Chanticleer Coven were struggling. Evangeline knew it to be true, but to see it with her own eyes still made an impression.

  Charlie looked up at the sun like he was checking a watch. “They’ve been at it for ’bout twenty minutes, so I reckon if you want to pay your respects, you should go see how long a chain they got her on.”

  “Thanks, Charlie,” she said. “See you later?”

  “Sure thing, but not for long. Second we get back to the funeral home, I’m gonna leave you to enjoy the pleasure of your friends’ company”—he cast a wary glance at the guardian of the gate—“on your own.”

  “Understood.” She headed toward the gate. “Stop by the club sometime. Old time’s sake, right?” He nodded and made an exaggerated show of trying to give her a bow, trapped as he was inside his horn. She blew him a kiss over her shoulder.

  The guardian advanced toward her as she drew near the gate. Evangeline recognized the woman, but could only come up with the descriptive part of Hugo’s less-than-charitable nickname for her. These people. This coven. So important to Nicholas, but to Evangeline they were virtual strangers. Nicholas didn’t like mixing work with . . . well, whatever she was to him. The witch’s eyes locked with hers, and Evangeline felt tendrils of magic prod at her private thoughts.

  “I don’t think so,” Evangeline said, and slammed a mental curtain down, pinching the guardian’s psychic fingers as she did so. The older woman’s gray eyes widened in surprise, and she jumped a good foot back. Damn. Evangeline had just drawn the kind of attention to herself she’d been trying to avoid. Some of these witches were getting desperate enough to let loose with some real crazy.

  The guardian began what felt like a magical pat down instead. Evangeline decided it was better not to shrug this off. She’d already showed the Chanticleers more of her hand than she’d intended by refusing to let the witch read her intent.

  The guardian stepped aside to let her pass, and Evangeline only just managed to choke back a thank you. While she didn’t wish to be interpreted as a threat, either by this woman or anyone else in the coven, she also didn’t want anyone thinking she owed them anything.

  The second she stepped through the gate, the concealment spell fell away. She could hear singing, yes singing, coming from the diagonal far end of the cemetery. Not much of a surprise. It was the Chanticleer Coven’s penchant for song over regular chanting that lay behind their name. The use of melodies, passed down over the generations, was unusual, but effective. As a solitary witch, her magic depended on the strength of her will, the rightness of her goal, and, more often than not, dumb luck. The work of coven witches seemed to depend on how well they could blend their wills together. Nicholas had explained that the Chanticleers used song to bind their intentions together, to move together into an altered state of consciousness. In what he described as a “communal hypnagogic state”—leave it to Nicholas to use such words—they could touch the level of the astral, from which everyday reality flows, and use their coordinated lucid dreaming to influence the concrete world.

  Maybe one reason singing worked for them was it provided an audible measure of how well they were performing together. Evangeline had a nice voice. She and Nicholas had even tried once to work magic together this way, but it didn’t come naturally to her. Truth was, she didn’t like giving up control of her power, and any collaboration was a loss of control. No, this magical glee club wasn’t for her. She’d never played well with others.

  Evangeline crept across the gravel path, positioning herself beside the row of wall tombs that ran the length of the cemetery’s eastern wall. Tradition held that an entombed body shouldn’t be disturbed for a year and a day, so a second death in a family required use of a temporary vault. Wall tombs, like these, were used for that purpose, and also for those, like herself, who had no family to be buried with. She’d tried once to use a spell to find her mother’s resting place, but she came up with multiple sites, a few of them moving, shifting across the map. She suspected the sister witches had somehow obscured the location, though she couldn’t imagine why.

  Her position offered her a semi-obscured view of the coven, gathered in a circle around the Marin family tomb. They seemed caught up, mesmerized even, by the task they were fulfilling. She craned her neck, then went up on her tiptoes to get a better view. There was Nicholas, his back to her. Then her eyes landed on the profile of a young woman with chestnut-brown hair in a pixie cut. In her face, Evangeline could see the lines of the young Alice she had known, though in truth, she recognized her from photos Vincent had shared with her. Strange, really, that Alice’s uncle seemed to take more pride in the young woman than her own father did.

  A delicate man with snowy skin and a brush of matte-black hair was hovering near the rear of the assembly. He took notice of her arrival, his eyes zeroing in on her, and broke away from the group. Hands clasped together in front of him, he approached her with a mournful pace appropriate to the occasion. Evangeline found herself focusing on his ridiculous mustache, a paean to masculinity written across such delicate features.

  “Quite a sight to behold, is it not?” he said. “So many of the Chanticleers working in union with such a sense of purpose.” Evangeline estimated that her arrival had brought the number of mourners to around a dozen, but who was she going to believe, this fellow or her lying eyes? “A shame, of course,” he continued, “that it should be on such a sad occasion. Oh, forgive me.” He gave a slight bow, then rose. “My name is Frank, Frank Demagnan.” Evangeline of course recognized the family name. The Demagnans, though not witches themselves, had handled the interments of generations of New Orleans’s witches. He offered her his hand. She took it, surprised by how cool and dry it felt against her own damp palm.

  “Evangeline . . .”

  “Oh, Ms. Caissy, you require no introduction.” He released her hand. “It was the wish of the coven to limit attendance, but I must admit I was surprised that you, one of this parish’s preeminent independent witches, weren’t present earlier at the memorial service. Especially given your intimate connections to the family.”

  For a split second, Evangeline felt flattered. No. Validated. This guy was good. Considering his family’s business, he was probably the product of generations of intentional breeding, aimed at creating someone sensitive to the others’ feelings. She sensed that he wasn’t an empath, that he couldn’t feel the emotions of others like she did—but that same awareness told her that he could read emotions, even slight variations. That made him dangerous. “Well, I wasn’t Celestin’s favorite person,” she said, performing a ca
reful ballet of quietly throwing up a shield while appearing to share a vulnerable side. “And, in truth, he wasn’t mine.”

  “Still, you’ve chosen to set aside any old rancor and join us in laying him to rest.” He glanced at the coven, then leaned in, whispering in her ear as if they were conspiring together. “I enjoyed more than a passing acquaintance with the deceased. I’m sure the responsibility for any ill will between the two of you lays entirely at his clay feet. But, of course, you will attend the ball? We’ve seen nothing like it here in, goodness, over thirty years. I am, of course, thrilled to have been invited at all, but you will without a doubt be the queen, if you choose to grace us with your presence.”

  Frank fell silent as the coven’s voices rose and fell. There were no words, only sound, harmonic dissonance surrendering to consonance.

  A smile crossed Frank’s bloodless lips, as the melody the Chanticleers had been singing swung on a single note and morphed into a different melody altogether. “The last movement,” he said, brushing imaginary lint from his suitcoat. “It’s a shame you came late. The first part of the ritual, ‘the calling of the blood,’ was quite moving. Haven’t seen it performed with such clarity since I was a child.” He paused, seeming to consider. “The family has forgone the taking of relics,” he said, as if this were unusual. Perhaps, in these days, it was. He grasped his hands behind his back and faced the mourners, standing at what Evangeline thought of as “funeral attention.” “Such a great family. Though so many tragedies. The last family interment . . .” He seemed to search for the name.

  “Luc,” Evangeline said, then felt herself flush. He’d tricked her into saying her dead lover’s name to get a reading on her feelings for him.

  “Yes,” he said, twisting to catch a better look at her. “It goes against nature for the young to pass before their elders. And what goes against nature, weakens magic.”

  “Really?” she said, stifling a burst of anger, though she wasn’t sure at whom it was aimed—this obsequious ghoul, or Nicholas, or maybe even Luc himself. She realized this was the reason Nicholas had excluded her from the services. He understood better than anyone just how fresh and immediate her pain still was. “I’ve come to wonder if magic has anything at all to do with what is natural.”

  “Well, of course, you would know better than I,” he said, looking at her as if she had just fallen from the sky, “but that is what I’ve always heard.” His gaze turned back to the coven. Their voices reached a sudden crescendo, then fell to a low drone. “You may want to brace yourself.”

  Before she could even ask what he meant, the last of Celestin Marin’s magic broke over her like a cold wave, taking her breath and forcing her to brace herself against one of the tombs, hot to the touch in the afternoon sun. What was left of his power had been returned to its source. Evangeline righted herself.

  “You’ll forgive me,” Frank said, “but duty calls.” He gave her a curt bow, then followed the fading melody to where the Marins and the remnants of the Chanticleers stood. He knelt by the tomb to retrieve a tree branch—looked like sweet olive to her—and began circling the tomb counterclockwise, making sweeping movements with a branch. That, Evangeline decided, had to be a symbolic gesture, closing out the ritual rather than serving any actual purpose.

  The witches began to unwind from each other, almost as if they were just then reawakening to the awareness of themselves as individuals. Lucy, who Evangeline recognized by her proximity and facial resemblance to Fleur, broke away first. Evangeline intuited she had only been playing along, not contributing to the magic. Evangeline didn’t like to guess who had magic and who didn’t, but these days it was growing hard not to notice.

  Lucy tapped Alice on the shoulder and pointed at Evangeline.

  Alice looked over, her expression at first cool, removed. For a moment, Evangeline’s heart jumped to her throat. Her mental vision of Alice was of the little girl she and Luc used to take to the French Market. They’d never really been close, but she’d hoped Alice would have fond memories of her. The gravel crunched beneath Alice’s feet as she approached. Evangeline tried to tap into her, wanting to know what to expect, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t find her way into Alice’s feelings. Then, before she could process that fact—she could usually read anyone she wanted—Alice came to a stop directly before her. Evangeline found herself struggling between the urges to fight or flee.

  Without a word, Alice wrapped her arms tightly around her and planted a kiss on her cheek. Evangeline squeezed her back. They stood there, rocking back and forth in each other’s arms.

  “That was so weird,” Alice whispered into her ear, “working magic with the coven. They’re powerless. Or as good as. I think Nicholas was carrying most of them.” She leaned back and looked Evangeline in the eye. “It’s so good to see you.”

  The sound of crunching gravel caused Evangeline to look up. Alice stepped back, but didn’t release her hand. “I saw that dress yesterday,” Lucy said as she approached, Fleur following on her heels. “From the sales rack of that store on Magazine, right? I find the sales rack is usually the best place to find out what not to purchase.”

  Alice tightened her grip on Evangeline’s hand. “You look beautiful.”

  “Yes,” Fleur said, the words addressing Evangeline, but the pointed tone an obvious message to Lucy. “You do look lovely. And I’m afraid my daughter hasn’t learned that it takes a special woman to pull off some looks. If that dress was found on a sales rack, it’s only because most women could never do it justice. But you certainly do. May I?” Fleur reached out to touch the skirt’s fabric. “Lovely.” Lucy gave her mother a sour look and wandered farther along the wall tombs lining the edge of the cemetery.

  Fleur let her gaze linger on her daughter for a good moment before her eyes drifted back to Evangeline. “Well, my dear, I am so glad you chose to join us. At least now we can all stop pretending that you aren’t part of the family.” Fleur reached out and ran her soft hand down Evangeline’s upper arm. “We’re having a small get-together at Father’s house now. You will join us, won’t you?”

  Evangeline cast a quick glance over Fleur’s shoulder at Nicholas, who was approaching. His face was a stony mask, but his eyes betrayed him—despite the text he’d sent her, he was surprised at her presence. Vincent walked at his side, keeping pace with him. His face wore a wide smile.

  “You,” Fleur’s words reclaimed her attention, “belong in the picture, regardless of how the puzzle piece fits.”

  It was all too confusing. Nicholas’s coldness, Fleur’s warmth. Evangeline began to wonder if she’d allowed Nicholas to turn his sister into a kind of Babau Jean to keep her at a comfortable distance. Well, damn, she thought to herself as the possibility suddenly struck her as a likelihood. “Yes,” she said, “I’d very much like that. I know your father didn’t think much of me . . .”

  Fleur’s shoulders lifted, then dropped as she let loose a full-throated laugh. “I don’t think Father thought much of any of us. Yet here we are, and there he is.” She gestured toward the grave.

  “Mom?” Lucy’s voice called. She sounded anxious. Her eyes were fixed on the wall tombs, but she was backing away from them. “Mom?” she said again, now seemingly close to panic. “There’s something in there.” She held out a shaking hand. “There’s something alive in there.”

  “Step away,” Nicholas called, rushing past them and heading toward his niece.

  Vincent followed his brother. “Probably just an animal. A squirrel or something. These old tombs, not all of them are well maintained—”

  A sound as loud as a crack of thunder drowned him out. Lucy screamed as the front of one of the tombs shattered, pieces of it tumbling to the ground in chunks. A moaning. An unfocused, guttural grunt sounded from the crevice, and something inside began to move. Fleur rushed away, wrapping her arms around Lucy and pulling her back.

  Alice stepped forward, toward the tomb, pulling Evangeline along as she did. Evangeline dug her heels
in as she began to pick up on the tendrils of darkness reaching out of the opening. Appendages appeared first—withered arms, Evangeline realized—their tips stitched together with rough twine to form rounded stumps where the hands had been amputated. The top of a head emerged, its leathery mottled skin crowned with only a few wisps of gray hair, and then the rest of it followed, its beak of a nose rising as if to sniff the wind. Open sockets showed that the eyes had been taken. The pitiful creature, for Evangeline had begun to pick up chords of its agony, dragged itself along, inching its way toward freedom, unaware it was about to topple from the tomb. An elbow went over the edge, and the creature’s mouth opened, keening a wild and tongueless cry as it began to slide from the opening. It landed on the broken stones below, and Evangeline heard the sound of bones fracturing, saw sharp ends of bone poking out through patches of paper-thin skin. Still, it writhed on the ground, trying to force its way up.

  Evangeline could now see it was a woman, or what was left of a woman. She tried to force herself to think of what lay struggling at her feet as a “her” rather than an it, but when she looked at it, she couldn’t shake the image of a June bug struggling to break free of its casing. She opened herself, just a little, just enough to try to understand that she was indeed witnessing the suffering of a fellow human, but regretted doing so before she could draw another breath. The feelings and images that washed over her . . .

  They weren’t of the woman’s own suffering, but of her insatiable desire to torture those who’d done this to her in even worse ways than they’d tormented her. It was only hatred, bottomless and undying, that kept this creature alive. Evangeline tugged at Alice, trying to pull her back, but the girl released her grasp and approached the woman. Evangeline felt a cry of fear, of disgust, form in her own throat, shocked as Alice reached out and laid her hand on the woman’s forehead.