by J. D. Horn
Evangeline’s heart sank as she saw Alice pushing against the crowd, approaching the gory stage, mounting the steps. Even over the shrieks and screams of those attempting to flee, Evangeline could hear the old witch with the cane approaching Alice, addressing her as Astrid. The girl pushed the crone aside and out of the way, putting herself in the path of the madman’s blade. She shouted orders to the sentry who’d confronted Evangeline at the cemetery. The big woman grasped the other woman by the shoulders and dragged her from the stage.
Alice seemed perfectly calm. Perfectly in control. She walked up to Gabriel. Placed her hand on his cheek. He looked down at her, almost lovingly. Alice screamed—a cry of anger, a war cry, not a scream of fear—and dug her fingernails into him. Evangeline felt her knees almost buckle as she watched Alice rip the flesh from Gabriel’s face and fling it to the floor.
Gabriel froze for a moment, then turned to the two older witches who were still struggling to make it across the slippery floor. He flung the knife at the sentry, and the blade punctured the back of her skull. She fell forward, toppling the other witch as she did so.
Alice began tearing at Gabriel, shrieking, punching, clawing, but even as she did so, he seemed to grow, stretching to an impossible height, the suit he wore stretching, ripping at the seams, bare bone poking through.
Evangeline’s eyes locked on pale skin and a row of gnashing razor-blade teeth. Babau Jean.
Everywhere there was pandemonium, everywhere the sound of panicked witches with failing powers attempting and failing escape. Someone, Hugo, took her arm and began to drag her away, even as the glass of the rose window shattered, sending a shower of lead and glass over the hall. She covered her eyes to protect them from the falling glass, but not before she caught sight of three large ravens swooping in, catching hold of the closest witches, pecking them to death with their terrible beaks.
One of the beasts looked up from its carnage. It took one hop toward her, then another. “Join us, half-witch”—she recognized Marceline’s voice—“join us.” Evangeline felt a rush of pain, a sudden agony as if her own bones were being ripped apart. Marceline cast a hungry glance at Hugo. Evangeline wanted to help him, to protect him, but she felt like she was burning alive from the inside out. She watched as her hands began bending, cracking, black feathers ripping through her skin. The sound of her own screams was terrible.
And then it was over. The pain was done. The world she’d known had fallen away. Everything looked strange. Her thoughts came to her in jumbles. Marceline lunged at Hugo, but her surety slipped into a madness of cawing and screaming when he reached out and slipped Evangeline’s chain around her neck and snapped it closed. Marceline, trapped in bird form, began pecking wildly at him. As Hugo leaped back, Evangeline caught hold of his arm and lifted him, rising, clearing the remains of the rose window and taking to the night sky.
THIRTY
Nathalie had been chatting nonstop—a nervous reaction, Lisette supposed, to escorting a smug ghost and her cantankerous daughter to some as yet unspecified destination. But she fell silent right after the road they traveled swung south and crossed over Chef Menteur Highway.
Chef Menteur. The words played in Lisette’s mind—the chief liar. Maybe it wasn’t a lie, but Lisette sensed something was missing from her mother’s story. If only she could silence the screaming in her brain, she’d have a chance to figure out just which piece was missing.
Nathalie held the wheel like she was piloting a ship through heavy storm. Her knuckles had gone white, and Lisette noticed a slight tremble pass through her. Tiny beads of sweat had formed on the driver’s forehead.
Without needing instruction, Nathalie signaled, taking an exit from the freeway and heading riverside.
“You know where she’s taking us?” Lisette said.
Nathalie nodded. “I can see it in my mind now. It’s the old white church. But it ain’t a church no more.”
Lisette had never spent too much time in this particular part of the city. She recognized the name Almonaster on the street sign, though she connected it mostly to the Pontalba Buildings that flanked Jackson Park. Another left turn led them toward a dead end and train tracks, a sharp right onto a tight single lane lined on one side with double shotgun houses, the other side dotted with what appeared to be light-industrial factories.
Worried eyes rose once again to the mirror. “Ma’am?” Nathalie said, addressing Soulange. “I sure don’t mean to pry, and I have all kinds of respect for you, but . . .” Her words stopped, and her hand shot up to her nose. She wiped and glanced down at her hand. Even in the dim dashboard light, Lisette saw it was blood.
“What’s wrong? Are you sick?”
She’s a sensitive, Soulange said. You’re gonna be all right, girl. The last words were addressed to Nathalie.
“Do you need to pull over?” Lisette ignored her mother.
“Maybe—” Nathalie began.
You’re connected to all this. Soulange’s words came out sharp, causing their already anxious driver to startle. You think you just happened to be driving a witch yesterday and a mambo tonight?
“Well, ma’am, it is New Orleans.”
Lisette looked back to see her mother staring at Nathalie with a deadpan expression, one she had always sprung on Lisette right before she handed her a tongue-lashing.
“No, ma’am, I reckon you’re right,” Nathalie said, rushing to save herself.
The woman wasn’t only sensitive, Lisette realized, she was smart.
You know where we’re headed, ’cause you’re seeing it through his eyes, Soulange said as if she were just now putting the pieces together. Ah, yeah, I can see it now. He used to feed from your fear. Feed from you. When you were a girl. That bright shining light of yours.
Nathalie cast a sidelong glance at Lisette, seeming to ask for guidance.
“You do what you need to do,” Lisette said.
Nathalie lowered her bloodied hand back to the wheel. “He was gone,” Nathalie said, the car slowing to a near crawl as they crept beneath a low overpass. “Just gone. For so long.”
And lately you been feeling your skin crawling at the thought of him. ’Cause you know he’s back. That’s why you were out there, tonight, looking for Grunch Road. Trying to prove to yourself that Babau Jean isn’t real. Even though you know damned well he is.
“I’m not claiming you’re wrong about any of that, ma’am. It’s only, I’m not sure you know what you’re getting yourself . . . what you’re getting us all into. There’s something bad . . . real bad . . . happening where you want to go.”
Gonna take a lot of blood for that kind of spell. Rich blood. Blood full of magic. Damned fools and their damned ball. Showing up like lambs to the slaughter.
“Wait,” Lisette said, “what in the hell? What spell are you talking about? Why do you want to go to this church?”
“It ain’t a church anymore,” Nathalie corrected her. Then, seeming to pick up on Lisette’s growing irritation, she rushed to apologize. “Sorry.”
“Why did the chicken cross the road?” Soulange said, resurrecting her stock response from Lisette’s childhood, something she’d used whenever she grew impatient of Lisette’s endless questions.
Twin beams of light—emanating, it seemed, from a bit down the road—rose up into the night sky. A shadow passing through them revealed the largest bird Lisette had ever seen, slicing through the air, effortlessly clutching a full-grown man, kicking his legs, in its talons. The sight made her forget she’d even asked a question.
Nathalie slammed on the brakes, and Lisette, in spite of their slow progress, jerked forward. Eyes gaping at the sight, Nathalie rolled down the window and stuck out her head, craning her neck up at the night sky.
As Lisette’s mind balked at the image she’d just seen, the missing piece she’d been reaching for fell into her grasp. “You and Laure Marin. Out there on Grunch Road. Sacrificing your life, her sanity, my heart. To stop Astrid.”
Her mother met
her gaze but remained silent.
“Why didn’t you just take that damned bitch out?”
It infuriated her to see a smile evanesce on her mother’s lips.
Not so simple, my girl, her mother said.
“Why not? Was her life so much more valuable than your own? Than mine?”
Astrid may be to blame, but she isn’t at fault. Any more than Laure and I were when the Book called to us.
Lisette felt the shock run from the top of her head to the base of her spine.
Our history, Laure’s and mine, it goes back a lot longer than you could have ever guessed. Back before you “introduced” us. Back even before I met your daddy. When the Book began calling us, we were just girls. We, together, resisted. It wasn’t easy. That amount of power. Even muted by the spell meant to contain it, it’s intoxicating. But we did.
Then something changed. Laure and I couldn’t figure out what it was. But suddenly, the Book’s call grew stronger. Insistent. Though it no longer wanted either of us. Astrid was the witch it wanted. We had resisted it. We told ourselves that it was because we had each other. That we were stronger, individually and certainly together, than Astrid. But now I’m not so sure. I’ve come to think that maybe the only thing that saved us was that it wasn’t yet the Book’s time.
So we couldn’t just deal with Astrid. We had to protect her. From the Book. From herself. I did what I did because I was afraid. I feared that Astrid might succeed. Worse, I feared that if Astrid failed, you might be next.
“You thought I wouldn’t be strong enough to resist.”
I didn’t want its darkness to touch your heart. You have no idea the things the Book asks of you, the thoughts it puts in your head. My death seemed a small price to pay to protect you. Besides, even if it wasn’t you, the Book would’ve moved on to someone else. We did what we had to do to put an end to it. Or at least we hoped we would.
Lisette was so focused on her mother she didn’t notice the vehicle had begun to move again until Nathalie started in laughing, a high-pitched nervous chuckle.
“To get to the other side,” Nathalie said, her eyes focused on the rearview mirror rather than pointed at the road like they should be. Lisette began to worry that this night had been too much for the woman. Hell, maybe even for both of them.
To get to the other side, her mother echoed Nathalie’s words, and only then did Lisette realize their import.
“You’re going . . . ,” Lisette said, looking back at her mother. She would’ve slapped her face if she hadn’t known her hand would pass clean through it. She would have thrown her arms around her and refused to release her, if only her embrace could hold her.
My staying on here the way I have. It isn’t natural. I didn’t cross over when I should’ve. When I was supposed to. First I told myself it was to keep an eye on Astrid. Then to keep an eye on you, till you got settled. Then the grandbabies came, and I just had to see them grow. And then came Katrina. And you needed your mama all over again. I’m not blaming you, girl. These were all excuses—good ones, maybe—but still excuses. Truth is, I just didn’t want to let go.
Now I’ve stayed on so long past when I should’ve left I’m not even sure I can make it on my own. But there’re a lot of witches crossing over tonight. I’m gonna ride home on their coattails. She fixed Lisette with a sad, somewhat frightened gaze. I’m never going to get another chance like this. If I don’t take it, I might not get a chance again until . . . well, until kingdom come. She held a phantom hand out to Lisette, then pulled back, seeming to remember that Lisette couldn’t actually touch that hand. You’re gonna be all right now on your own, aren’t you, girl?
Lisette gave her mother what she needed, even if she wasn’t sure it was true. “Yes, Mama.” She forced herself to look her mother straight in the eye so she’d believe it.
Her mother snorted. You, she said, only think you’re lying. But you will be. It’s time, girl. You know it’s true. Your mama has to move on.
’Course, first I got to stop Astrid, and I can’t do it alone. It might be a battle of spirit, of power. Lisette knew she’d be useless in a magic fight. It may be a battle of flesh. Her mother reached out and let her hand slip through the back of Lisette’s seat. Our only chance is together.
“I think we’re there,” Nathalie said, turning back to the wheel. She pulled the car halfway up onto the sidewalk, perhaps to make room for other cars to squeeze by, but Lisette suspected no other vehicles were going to pass. Just ahead, two, maybe three blocks down, Lisette spotted the towers of the old church, lit up like they were the landing strip for the second coming.
A tall man in formal dress dashed past them, slapping a bloody handprint on the windshield as he went. A wave of shouts and screams echoed, and Lisette looked down the road at the mass of people choking the stairs, tuxedos and evening gowns tumbling over each other as their wearers fought their way out of the old church.
“You want me to act as your chwal?”
Do you trust me?
It wasn’t a matter of trust.
Opening yourself up for such a thing meant the spirit riding you had complete control, total access to your every thought, every memory. She hesitated. A moment too long.
“You can take me, ma’am,” Nathalie said. “I can help you. If it comes down to knuckles, that is. I’m trained in self-defense.”
“We can’t ask that of you,” Lisette said, her cheeks flushing in shame. “I’m not a coward. I will—”
“I’m alone in the world,” Nathalie said. “I can sense you aren’t. Besides, I’m guessing it would be a lot less awkward for the both of you.”
She’s right, her mother said, and in the next minute she was gone, hidden inside Nathalie’s flesh, speaking through her lips, using her voice. “I understand. There were things I wouldn’t have wanted your grand-maman to see in me. Just know I love you, no matter what.”
“I love you, too, Mama.”
“Of course you do,” she said. “How could you not?” Her mother’s smile rose to Nathalie’s lips.
“Are you ready?” Nathalie asked, and answered in the affirmative before Lisette could even think to respond. Lisette realized that her mother had posed the question, and Nathalie had responded, both in Nathalie’s voice.
Nathalie undid her buckle and swung open her door. She slipped out of the car, her movements perfectly natural, as if her body had been built for Soulange Simeon to ride. Lisette’s shaking hands struggled with her own belt. Nathalie leaned back in, Lisette’s mother looking at her through Nathalie’s eyes. “You stay here.”
“The hell,” Lisette bit off the words, “I will.” She got her own door open and jumped out.
“My hands are gonna be full.” Nathalie slammed her door closed. “I may not be able to protect you.”
“Don’t try to scare me away, old woman.” Fear caused Lisette’s words to come out harsher than she’d intended, but she had to admit, their sharpness helped make her point. “I know you too well. If you’re thinking about crossing over, you’re going to be calling on Legba. He’ll protect me.”
“Oh, you have faith in Papa now, do you, girl?”
“Yes, Mama, I reckon I do.”
“And you’re going to honor him again, and the other loa, like I taught you?”
Lisette nodded. Though she didn’t speak a word, for her, this was a solemn vow.
A small black dog, a muttsy-looking wire-haired terrier mix by the look of it, appeared, unattended, out of nowhere, and barked at them before running off in the direction of the church.
“Looks like Papa Legba has faith in you, too.”
THIRTY-ONE
Of the witches who’d come, dressed in their finery, pausing to be noticed as they stepped out of their chauffeured cars, a quick estimation of the calf-deep sea of blood and gore pooling around the stage told Alice that no more than a handful could have made it out.
When she looked down at the faces of those left standing, Alice realized they were
more than just mirrored images of each other, copied and recopied and spat back out into the world. These mass-produced specters, wading forward to kneel before their king, shared the features of the people whose drug-addled dreams had built Babau Jean’s Mahogany Hall replica on the Dreaming Road. Somehow, the old church and his lair—two places that shared no natural connection—had been joined together, just like Nicholas’s and Celestin’s houses had been fused in the dream that first led her to the Dreaming Road.
Alice stood there, above it all, Babau Jean holding her tight, his hands pinching into her upper arms, forcing her to look on. She sensed that he wanted her to act as his witness, to validate his handiwork, to appreciate his masterpiece. She had a flash of Gabriel, the real Gabriel, seeing him through Babau Jean’s eyes. The bogey had fanned Gabriel’s long-repressed avarice and pride to trick him and his sister into expanding the space of the church into the Dreaming Road, into welcoming Babau Jean’s phantom servants as guests. She had another flash of Gabriel, his eyes wide in terror as Babau Jean skinned him alive just moments before making his entrance as Gabriel. The real man, Alice now knew, was still alive, crammed into a restroom stall in this very building, preserved in agony by Babau Jean’s magic.
She hoped, no, she prayed to any force that might be willing to hear her, that Hugo had been spared. He was, after all, her brother. And Lucy. She’d been kind, in her own way. Fleur as well. Her aunt still seemed removed from her, though Alice decided the fault lay at her own feet. Fleur, she’d tried to build a bridge.
She thought of Vincent, grateful she hadn’t noticed him among those in attendance.
She thought of Nicholas. She couldn’t bear to think of Nicholas. She wouldn’t let her last thoughts be of him.
Her attention was drawn to the sight of three enormous ravens, or maybe they were crows. She couldn’t determine if these creatures were allies or enemies of each other. One thrashed around in the foul muck, trying to free itself from some kind of chain caught around its neck. The second, still caught up in the frenzy of the massacre but denied further human prey, had turned on the first, cawing and pecking at the weakest member of the trio. The third was making war with the second, but was it trying to protect the collared creature or claim it as its own?
