by J. D. Horn
Lucy looked at the horn. It looked normal enough to her, but knowing what Mr. Simeon had planned to do with it still creeped her out.
“The truly weird bit is that Dad told me to do as he asked. I mean, I told him I’d take it to school or something, and he pretty much jumped down my throat. He’s on edge with Grandpa and the shop, but . . .”
“I think he’s right. Bad juju and all that.”
He looked down at her, releasing her from the crook of his arm. His beautiful lips turned downward. “Listen to you. Juju. It’s like you really believe in this stuff. This is just a metal tube with a few valves. No matter who blows it, it isn’t going to send anyone’s soul to hell.”
“The way you play it, it might,” she said, hoping to erase his frown.
It worked. He smiled. “You ready?” he said, already leading her back up the stairs to the terminal. She nodded. “Good, ’cause we already missed one ferry.”
She narrowed her eyes and gave him a dirty look, but he just laughed.
He led her down the long, white hall. Anywhere in the civilized world, the terminal would’ve been brushed up a bit, passed off as industrial chic, but leave it to her ancestral home to settle for nothing but exposed rivets and painted commandments that promised—if followed—to ensure everyone’s safety and enjoyment.
A couple pushing bikes slid past them, heading toward the ferry’s lower-level entrance, but Remy led her to the upper level. He sat down her bags and slipped the horn under his left arm as he fished a wad of singles from his pocket. He presented four dollars to the fare taker, then scooped up her shopping. There were a couple of seating areas that, although open to the wind, provided shelter from the sun. “Over there,” she said and nodded, making a beeline to a group of plastic chairs. It was hot, her shoes were killing her, and in spite of being here with Remy, something about this little jaunt to Algiers was not sitting well with her.
Remy sat the bags down between them, then took the chair beside her. She noticed the way his knees poked up in the chair—funny, when she had to sit forward in it so that her feet touched the deck. “Seems a bit of a shame, really,” he said, turning the horn in his hands.
The breeze blew her hair into her face. She reached up to brush it back.
“It isn’t cursed,” he said. “It isn’t tainted.”
She didn’t contradict him, but she regarded the trumpet with suspicion.
“You don’t believe in this magic stuff do you?” he said.
“You don’t?” she asked.
“You’re the only magic I need.” His eyes twinkled.
Her eyes rolled. “Smooth. Real smooth.” She pretended his words didn’t have precisely the effect he’d intended.
“I’m sorry, you know,” he said.
“For what?”
“For Grandpa showing up and acting the fool. Interrupting your grandfather’s funeral like he did.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she said, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “It only got weirder from there.”
“What? Your cousin? Alice?”
Lucy shook her head and laughed. “No, she’s very sweet, actually. A bit fragile. I mean, I half expect her to go all Glass Menagerie at any moment, but . . .”
“But . . .”
“Nothing. She’s fine. It’s the rest of the family that’s nuts.”
“Present company excepted, I hope.”
She turned without finishing the thought to find her uncle Vincent smirking at her. Oh, sh . . . In a flash she calculated her next move—offense best defense, shame the devil, or look innocent and lie. The white ball bounced around the roulette wheel, then fell into place. “Are you following me?” she said, turning on him. “What do you think gives you the right . . .”
“I dunno. Love? Concern? An avuncular sense of duty?” he said, assuming the same tone of false outrage. “Or maybe I’m not following you at all.” He nodded at Remy. “Maybe I’m following him.”
“Me?” Remy said, his eyes widening.
“Maybe his dad phoned me and asked me to make sure the task got done and got done right.” The ferry’s engines kicked in. Vincent shouted to be heard over the noise. “And maybe finding you here was just a perk of the job.”
“My dad? Phoned you?” Remy seemed fixated on the idea. The ferry pulled forward and swung out into the river.
“Yes,” Vincent said. “Your dad. Phoned me.” He held out his hand. “Give me the horn.”
Remy hesitated, flashing Lucy a confused look. “It’s just . . .”
“It’s just your dad has always hated me. I know. But maybe your dad has decided it’s time for us all to put the past in the past. Move on.” Vincent turned to face Lucy, a smirk on his lips, as he yanked the trumpet out of Remy’s hand. “Looks like none too soon for your sake. Now. An honest answer. How long has this . . . ,” he said, waving the horn at them in a wide circle, “been going on?”
Lucy looked at Remy, and he at her.
“A while,” she finally said.
Vincent’s lips pursed. He shrugged. “Fair enough.” He turned to Remy. “There’s history here, you know. History that means your parents might not be comfortable with your relationship.”
“I thought we were putting the past in the past,” Lucy said.
“This is an awful lot of past to shift all at once,” Vincent said, never taking his eyes off Remy. He held out his palm toward her, seeming to anticipate her protest. “I’m not saying you should put an end to it, but I do think you may want to keep this to yourselves for a while. Let things settle down a bit.” He swung his palm around and patted Remy’s shoulder. “Then figure out how to break it to them. Very gently.” Vincent turned back to face her. “If that’s an acceptable solution to Miss Capulet here.”
The wind came across the ferry at what must’ve been gale force. Her hair was whipping all around her, stinging her face. She must’ve looked like a frigging Medusa to Remy. She reached up to catch her hair and pull it back. “You won’t say anything to Mom?” she said, hating how her voice squeaked up into little-girl range at the end of the sentence, hoping that the roar of the engines would cover it.
“Not a word. Not till you’re ready. Or she finds out because of your own carelessness. I’m good at keeping secrets. You, not so much.”
“I’m not keeping any secrets.” Lucy felt her face flush. “Any other secrets.”
Vincent smiled. “All right.” He wagged the horn under her nose. “This looks like as good a place as any. Shall we?”
She glanced back at the shore, surprised that even though it didn’t feel like the ferry was moving all that quickly, they had, in fact, cut across a good portion of the river.
Vincent glanced around the deck. Most of the other passengers were looking back at the city’s shrinking skyline. “Over there,” he said, nodding toward the Algiers side. The ride was smooth, but she still teetered a bit on her shoes as she pushed up from the chair. Remy reached out and caught her shoulder, steadying her. He grabbed both bags in one hand, then wrapped his arm around her shoulders.
He looked down at her, his expression a bit uncertain. As they drew near the railing, Vincent gave one final glance around, then flung the trumpet out into the Mississippi. Lucy took a step forward, her eye on the silver horn as it spun through the air, the sun glinting off it one last time between now and doomsday.
Remy shifted. It felt like Lucy’s heel caught on something. Or maybe one of the bags had hit her behind the knee. She felt Remy’s arm slide off her back, even as his hand connected with her shoulder. She tumbled forward, seeming to soar toward the railing, as if she, too, had been flung, but Vincent turned back and caught her hand just as her other hand caught hold of the railing. For a split second, it still felt like there was a pressure willing her forward. Maybe she was just being paranoid—the thought came to her after she managed to right herself, after her heart stopped pounding in her ears—but watching a mutilated crone tumble out of a wall grave could set anyone on ed
ge.
TWENTY-FOUR
Evangeline sat on the edge of her bed, staring out the French doors that opened onto her courtyard. A scent Evangeline had come to notice more often all around New Orleans, sharp and green and savage, wafted through the open door.
Outside, piece by piece, link by link, the golden necklace that she had not seen since the night of her father’s death was raining down on the brick patio. Each link sang out as it bounced and fell again. Each link found its mate. They were reuniting, the necklace rebuilding itself before her eyes.
The pieces, they were coming together all right, and it was breaking her heart. Evangeline had seen it all in a moment. The cold black hatred Nicholas felt for the girl he’d called daughter. The calm reason Evangeline had witnessed in Alice’s eyes.
Alice wasn’t sick.
She wasn’t crazy.
She had been punished for more than half her life for the crime of speaking the truth.
A raven swooped in, dropping the quarter-sized medallion into her upturned, waiting palm. The sight filled her with memories of the few days she’d spent with this necklace as a yoke around her neck, burning, draining her magic, stealing her power—put there by her own father in his fear.
Marceline landed before her, growing, her feathers already receding, her long blonde hair jetting out. In no time, she was in full human form. Evangeline suspected the speed with which Marceline now shifted form had been boosted by magic harvested from that wretched Brodeur woman. No. She didn’t suspect. She knew. Evangeline couldn’t allow herself the luxury of denial. She was bargaining with a devil. But it would take a devil’s power to do what she must.
Marceline came and sat beside her. Evangeline wondered which was her true form—the graceful, lovely blonde at her side, or the black-winged bird. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Perhaps she had another face, a truer face, that Evangeline hadn’t yet seen.
“I’m pleased you called out to us,” Marceline said, her voice cool, calming.
Evangeline sensed the witch was working her mojo, making it easier for Evangeline to bear her presence. Evangeline chuckled to herself. She’d already done her own medicating. Two screwdrivers counted as breakfast, right? “You’ve come alone,” she said, turning the abhorrent coin over in her hand.
“Yes, I thought it best to come without my abrasive sisters. You’re coming around to the truth,” she said, slowing her speech, letting her hand rest close to, but not touching, Evangeline’s own, “but you are still a scared little rabbit.”
“I know it was you who sent me the message from Nicholas.”
“We wanted you to see. We needed you to know the truth. About Nicholas. The things he’s capable of.”
“Let’s not pretend you give a damn about the truth,” Evangeline said, holding up her hand. The links of the rejoined gold chain streaked into her upturned palm with a soft shink sound. “Or about me.” She hated this piece of jewelry, what it had meant to her mother, what it had meant to her. Once the medallion was fixed on both sides to the chain, it would reactivate. Anyone whose neck it had managed to find itself around would be caught in a noose that blocked the flow of magic through them. “I know you three were responsible for that abomination.” She shook her head in disgust. “What did Delphine Brodeur ever do to deserve such a thing?”
“No,” Marceline said, “let’s don’t pretend.” She reached up and touched Evangeline’s hair. Evangeline didn’t resist. The touch felt comforting, and counterfeit or no, she could use all the comfort she could get. “But I do care for you. As much as my long-atrophied heart can.”
Marceline paused, studying her features. She knew Marceline was trying to determine how far she could go without losing her. Marceline needn’t worry. Evangeline was prepared to follow her around as many bends as it took to arrive at the truth. “I did love your mother, too. After a fashion. We called each other “sister” long before we came to this country as Ursuline nuns.
“And as far as Delphine is concerned, she was the closest thing to a daughter I have ever known,” Marceline fixed Evangeline with her gaze, daring her to open herself up, to use her empathic abilities to weigh the truth of Marceline’s words. But Evangeline was no fool. “You must know we weren’t responsible for the harm done to poor, poor Delphine. We cannot even enter Précieux Sang. The united covens long ago put a ward over the spot. The wall where you saw Margot and me is as far as we can penetrate.”
“Or maybe the ward has failed. Maybe you can flit right in,” Evangeline said, not yet willing to make the leap she intuited the other witch wanted her to make, though suspicion had nettled her even before her visitor had come.
Marceline laughed. “Oh, my dear, I assure you. I never ‘flit.’”
“Why were you there at all, if not to check out your handiwork?”
“To see to your safety.”
“Oh, really?” Evangeline said.
“Yes, really. I care for you. I do.” Marceline focused on the coin in Evangeline’s hand. “If I didn’t care for you, that yoke would still be around your neck.”
“You are such a liar.”
“I haven’t lied to you, chérie. My truths may not be to your taste, but I have never lied to you.”
“Death,” Evangeline said, shaking the chain. “You said only death could open its clasp.”
Marceline leaned back, raising her chin, studying Evangeline. “Perhaps there’s an emergency escape, or”—she reached out with one hand, caressing, Evangeline felt, her very aura—“or perhaps I killed you.”
The words unsnapped something inside her, and the memories came flooding back. Clambering out of the cab of her father’s truck. Seeing the splatter where his skull had cracked open like an egg against the pavement. A screech from above. Looking up as a winged beast swooped down on her. Running. Running. Tumbling forward at the exact moment talons caught hold of her, sweeping her up into the sky.
Dropping. Dropping. The thin finger of black, muddy water coming closer. Screaming. Struggling against baptism. Trying to fight back. Trying to move her hands. Trying to strike out. The flapping of wings as she dipped beneath the surface. Burning lungs. How could cold water burn? Blackness.
An injunction to forget.
Evangeline jumped up, turning to face the creature she had invited into her home.
Marceline clasped her hands together in an entreaty. “Half-witch, we killed him, but not for what he did to your mother. She went into his bed, under his hand, of her own free will. He met his fate because he took away what should have been ours. You.”
“Me?”
“Your mother bargained with us for her release from the blood oath she made to us.” Marceline nodded. “You were to join us the day your magic came to you. You were to take her place. But he put your mother’s trinket around your neck.”
Evangeline shook her head. She supposed she should be terrified, but she was too damn angry. “You killed my father to get your claws on me. You drowned me—”
“We brought you back—”
“You drowned me to remove my mother’s amulet.” She flung the coin and chain at Marceline’s bare feet. A spark rose as it struck. “And then you deserted me. Left me to raise myself.”
“You’ve done okay. Maybe even better than you would have done growing up pumicing the callouses from Mathilde’s feet.” Marceline smiled and gave a slight shrug, seemingly incapable of feeling guilt or even regret. But then her mirth fell away, her expression turning serious. “You were too much him, half-witch.”
“I’m nothing like my father.”
Marceline said nothing. She responded by raising her eyebrow, tilting her head. Then her eyes dropped to the coin and chain at her feet. “You should know. Water won’t work again,” Marceline said. “The medallion has an intelligence. It knows when it’s been cheated. It won’t allow itself to be tricked a second time.” She knelt, keeping her eyes on Evangeline, and picked up both medallion and chain. Rising, she threaded the chain through one of the talism
an’s clasps. “How do you plan on using this?”
“To protect Alice. Just like you asked me to,” Evangeline said as her mind turned to Nicholas. The lies he’d told about Alice, just to keep her locked up where he’d never have to see her. Where she could never betray his secret.
The crumbs he had tossed Hugo. Never good enough.
The years she’d wasted.
Marceline’s eyes narrowed in pleasure, like she’d just tasted something delicious. “Protection, you say?” She sniffed the air and smiled. “It smells more like revenge.”
Evangeline wished she could deny it, but now she knew. Revenge was in order.
“A few members of the Chanticleer Coven,” Evangeline said, “Rose Gramont, Gabriel Prosper and his sister, another couple who’ve since passed . . . they were there when Luc Marin was killed . . . when Luc was murdered. Alice was there, too. She saw it happen.” She reached out her hand to accept the talisman and chain. “The adults, they said Luc killed himself. But Alice . . .” Evangeline looked down at that coin, the last of her mother’s magic, examining the old script engraved on it—older, it seemed, than even the damnable Gothic Daniel had shown her. “Alice said she saw a force behind Luc.” Alice had claimed to see some force driving Luc to put that gun to his head and pull the trigger, but Evangeline could no longer allow herself the luxury of believing it had been Luc’s own wounded pride. “She claimed Babau Jean killed him.”
“Well, Babau Jean has always delighted in revealing himself to children.”
“But Babau Jean isn’t real. Nicholas said . . .” Evangeline caught herself. She was speaking with a buck-naked witch who’d flown into her room in the form of a raven. She’d put on two pounds overnight eating cookies baked by a servitor spirit. And still, she had accepted at face value Nicholas’s claim that Babau Jean was a figment of the collective imagination.
“Oh, I assure you,” Marceline said. “He’s real enough. At least when he wishes to be.” She paused, studying Evangeline’s expression. “Or when one with enough power wishes him to be.”
Alice had claimed Babau Jean was following her everywhere. Day and night. Terrified, she’d begun using her magic to strike out. And so Nicholas had sent her off to molder on that faraway island. Evangeline bit her lip, nodding to herself. Feeling the weight of the conclusion she had reached. “I believe Alice saw something. And I believe it was something so terrible she couldn’t allow herself to see it. Not without a filter.”
