Cursed

by N. Isabelle Blanco

  “There has to be something powerful in his bloodline, chère,” she continues, speaking right over me. A massive candle lands on the table next to her arm, flame roaring.

  There’s a small ping as a tiny crystal hits the surface.

  It’s the first of many.

  As crystals rain on the table, somehow missing us, Sin’s palms begin to glow orange-red, her fire highlighting the lines. Her eyes reflect the same color, focused on the pentagram. “Doesn’t matter what wolven ancestor is in his bloodline. He’ll be dead when this is all over.”

  She’s still on this shit?

  Even Marie’s expression shows a healthy amount of disbelief. “Just close your eyes and focus on aiding us,” she tells me, as the incense flowing through the room begins to circle over her.

  A small tornado gaining strength around her form.

  “I don’t even understand what the fuck I’m aiding you with!” I shout over the sudden roar that’s rising in the room. What the hell is that sound? It’s like multiple people shouting at once—

  The skulls on the fireplace behind Marie have their jaws opening.

  They’re shrieking, yet it sounds like it’s thousands of beings at once, not just four.

  Sin whistles to get my attention. “Eyes on the pentagram, Silas. Focus. Just continue repeating to yourself that we’re succeeding and putting all your willpower into it.”

  She’s practically a tower of flames at this point, mostly lost in the tempest, and yet nothing around her is affected by them.

  As if the fires don’t exist.

  She can control them to that extent when she so wishes?

  And fucking hell, my ears are going to bleed if those screams get any louder.

  “Werewolf, damn it! I’m serious!”

  “Okay!” I slam my eyes shut and imagine Sabian and Seril, while repeating a litany in my head: They’ve found them. They’ve found them. Wind buffers us from each side. The shouts continue. Goosebumps break out even worse as the preternatural presence of those ghosts rises.

  Below the tempest, and those roars, I hear my two, temporary allies start their chants in that language I don’t understand and have never heard before.

  The coffee table beneath our hands starts to thump against the floor.

  Beneath our knees, the ground is shaking side to side.

  My body sways with the movement and my concentration breaks—don’t know when my eyes opened, but I find myself looking directly at the skulls on the mantel.

  They’re missing their own eyes, yet I sense with every fiber of my being that they’re focused on me.

  Their jaws begin moving, words flowing.

  “No death.

  More fire.

  Loyalty wins the cause.

  Unity ensures triumph.

  Lives must remain in balance.”

  “What?” I shout, as the wind continues to slam into me from every side. My glance cuts to the witches, both of which remain focused, lids lowered, mouths moving in their own opposing chants.

  They aren’t hearing the skulls speaking to me.

  They didn’t hear my shout just now.

  Jaws moving, the “ancestors” repeat those phrases once more.

  “No death.

  More fire.

  Loyalty wins the cause.

  Unity ensures triumph.

  Lives must remain in balance.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Their reply is a third repetition of their statement.

  Around us, the ghosts are popping in and out of random areas, their forms crackling, expressions agitated.

  The witch at my side remains encompassed in flames.

  Marie? She’s becoming lost in a swirl of spirits as they throw themselves in her direction.

  It’s the last thing I see.

  Of the “real” world, anyway.

  I’m torn from my living room straight into a vision that further defies my understanding.

  It’s the Bayou.

  But not quite. Cypress trees with white bark blend in with low-lying buildings. Spanish moss crawls over the side of those structures. Egrets throw their heads back as they transverse the ground, their beaks red, their feathers gray.

  White alligators also roam the land, twice the size of any alligator I’ve ever seen.

  The ghosts cover what appears to be miles, their faces marked by tragedy as they haunt the world around them.

  Their search finally comes to an end as figures appear within the fog.

  Six of them.

  Each one clad in all-black.

  It’s them.

  The Bestowers.

  Does this mean they’re alive? Where is this? Does a place like this even exist?

  I look around for a sign. Any sign. Anything familiar that can help me determine just where the fuck we are.

  There. A bridge. One I know well. We’re in the—

  The vision disappears in a burst.

  So do we.

  We’re torn from the living, torn away from each other, and flung through reality in what can only be called one thing—dematerializing.

  A brutal, shattering force that tears away every molecule of the body and sends what’s left of your consciousness careening through space.

  There’s an instantaneous moment of mind-altering pain, then comes the speed.

  The sheer speed that borders on traumatizing. A lack of control that freezes the soul with terror.

  In the blink of an eye, the reforming comes next, and it’s like slamming into a titanium wall. I’m suddenly whole again, every atom coming together in an agonizing rush.

  I’m outside on the street, among a crush of humans, at the entrance to Pirates Alley.

  No more than two blocks from my house.

  A man walks by me, almost brushing along my back.

  “Silas, damn you!”

  I’m grabbed by my shirt and yanked forward. Stumbling, I catch myself against the beige stone next to the lingerie boutique’s glass windows.

  Inches from my witch.

  The burst of giddiness I feel at the sight of her is wholly inappropriate.

  “Thank God your gris-gris is still working, you fool!”

  It’s a damn shame to admit that I’m wholly fixated on her mouth moving, and not the actual words she’s saying.

  She pokes my chest. “Are you even paying—”

  A loud sound tears through the air. Everyone in our vicinity comes to a pause while looking around.

  My heightened hearing makes it twice as unbearable for me, but it also helps me do one thing the humans can’t—track exactly where the sound came from.

  Namely: two blocks away, from the direction where my house is.

  My head jerks to the side. That sound rises one more time, followed by a cloud of black smoke . . .

  Not smoke. It’s the millions of insects. The same that brought down the Ritz Carlton.

  They’re attacking my fucking house.

  For the second time since this nightmare began, I’m forced to watch that black cloud of bugs devour an entire structure and bring it down to the ground as nothing but ashes.

  As people scream.

  As people panic.

  As they begin to run for their lives, dark smoke and debris following in their path.

  I repeat: my fucking house.

  The one I technically sold my soul to have, yes. The one I built with the ill-gotten gains of my career.

  Also the same one I had gutted and renovated, picking out every detail each step of the way.

  “Silas, come on!” I’m yanked by the shirt again, down Pirates Alley, which has become a crush of mortals trying to squeeze their way through. The paintings against the black gate of St. Anthony’s Garden are kicked over and destroyed in their haste.

  We don’t stop until we reach the other end, running past the white facade of St. Louis’ Cathedral and straight into Jackson Square.

  The witch pulls me to a stop, even as hu
mans continue to shout and scatter around us.

  When I look over my shoulder, I see people pouring out of the alley, terror on their faces.

  Sympathy sparks, but my attention remains on the source of their fear and what it means.

  They destroyed my house.

  Those fucking assholes unleashed that plague of bugs and destroyed my house! “I thought you said they couldn’t get us in there? That my house was the only safe place.”

  Sin analyzes the scene around us with her light eyes, unfazed by my aggression. “Hence why they ripped us out of there.”

  My house was only safe with us inside it?

  “And the question is: how? Damn it, where are they getting all this power from?” Sin—a name that’s starting to rub me wrong—continues her perusal of the panicking world around us. “And where is Marie?”

  I wrap a hand around her arm. My claws are elongated from my rage, and I have to be careful not to pierce through her black sweater. “We need to get moving.” My teeth are enlarged to the point where talking is a little difficult.

  She shrugs off my grip. “Why?”

  “You didn’t see it in the vision?”

  “What vision?”

  “The Bestowers. I saw a vision of them while you and Marie did that thing.”

  She whirls to face me. “You? You saw them?”

  “You didn’t? You’re the witch.”

  “Where did you see them?”

  “Courterie.” As in Courterie Forest.

  “Shit. Of course.” She runs her ringed fingers through her hair and blows a wayward strand out of her face. “Even if we had Marie, we’d still need help getting there.”

  “The forest is open to everyone,” I say, ears twitching as I pick up the sound of sirens rushing our way.

  Heading toward my house.

  Which is now gone.

  Only a pile of obliterated dust left behind.

  “Not the part they’d be in.”

  The part with the grey egrets and the white alligators, I take it. “So lead the way.”

  “I’m guessing this means you’re finally all-in with bringing them down?”

  I place my hand against her lower back and lead her along, toward the end of Jackson Square. “They destroyed my fucking house. Find them for me, quick, so I can tear their throats out.”

  CHAPTER 12

  I just ran a twenty-minute walk in two minutes.

  With the added weight of the witch on my back.

  “This is getting ridiculous,” she mumbles as we come to a stop in front of our destination. “You’re like some kind of super-wolf. It’s not even funny.”

  I agree.

  Tilting my head, I stare at the home we’ve stopped in front of. My witch climbs off my back—I’ve pretty much given up calling her by her nickname at this point—as I study the brick facade and white-paneled windows.

  It’s a two-story mansion, with a sprawling lawn that wraps around the side and is gated off by a wrought iron fence. I assume there’s a pool back there, but the crush of people partying blocks my view.

  “Those are humans,” I tell the witch, confused. Why would she lead us to a place teeming with mortals?

  “Yeah. He feeds off their energy and is addicted to having them around. This way.” She walks around me and heads toward the other side of the house.

  I’m left with no other option but to follow.

  We wind our way around to a side entrance that isn’t blocked by a gate. She ascends the two steps to the dark wood door and raises her hand to knock.

  It swings open immediately, before her hand even touches the surface.

  The being on the other side comes as a shock. Not because of the way he looks. I’ve lived in this city my entire life and I’ve seen crazy getups to last a lifetime. Especially during the two weeks leading up to Mardi Gras.

  It’s the fact I know he can’t be human, which makes me wonder: is his face painted to resemble a skull, or is that what it actually looks like?

  He tips back the black top hat on his head. “Well, if it isn’t the most annoying fire starter this side of the country.”

  “The most powerful one, too. Don’t forget it,” the witch claps back.

  There are others like her?

  What am I saying. Of course there are. It’s starting to click that the immortal world is as vast and varied as the human one.

  “Come to join the party?” The whatever-he-is turns his light gray irises in my direction; the contrast between his eyes and the black and white skull lines of his face is striking. “And you’ve brought along a bodyguard this time. One with impressive strength, I sense.”

  “The coven has fallen to Seril and Sabian, Baron. We need access to Papa’s domain.”

  Papa’s domain.

  Papa.

  The floor feels like it falls out from under me. Everyone in this damned city knows of the legend of Papa. A myth as pervasive in our culture as that of Marie’s.

  Except, they aren’t myths, are they?

  “You can’t be serious,” I mumble, my mind frantically trying to remember every tidbit I’ve ever heard about Papa Legba.

  One stands out above all others—Papa Legba is a god. An actual supernatural deity.

  Most know him as a Loa—a spirit that aids communication between humanity and the realm of the spirits—but his legend goes much deeper than that.

  His powers are even more vast. He’s the god of destiny and . . .

  Wait. The witch just called him Baron.

  Another infamous name.

  Baron Samedi, the voodoo god of the dead.

  What’s left of my rationale threatens to shatter to dust in the wind.

  It can’t be real, the last of my humanity pleads. I must be mistaken. He just happens to be named Baron, doesn’t have to mean he’s a literal god come to life before me.

  “How would those two ever achieve such a thing?” he snaps, eyes flashing silver, an unmistakable energy rising in his aura.

  “I don’t know, but it happened,” the witch replies.

  “Blasphemy!” Baron growls. “Those two barely deserve their abilities, let alone the distinction of killing kado yo bay.”

  My witch turns to translate. “The—”

  “Gift givers,” I finish for her. “I know a little Creole.” In other words: The Bestowers.

  She raises her eyebrows in what could pass as an impressed expression. “We aren’t sure they’re dead. Marie and I tried a—”

  “Marie?” Baron all but flings himself back in the witch’s direction, his entire body at attention. “Marie has returned?”

  “We lost her. Now, are you going to get us access to Papa’s domain? He had a vision of The Bestowers there.”

  He turns to me next, flummoxed. “Him? But he’s a werewolf, not a warlock.”

  “Don’t look at me. I’m even more confused about all this shit than you are.” As a matter of fact, if it wasn’t for this witch, and the fact that I’m fucking livid about what they did to my house, I’d be fixin’ to run as far away from this craziness as possible.

  “I’ll get you into his domain, but I demand to know where Marie is.”

  Geez. Obsessive much?

  Flames trickle along the tips of the witch’s fingers. She exhales slowly, as if praying for patience. “We lost her and we don’t have time to find her right now.”

  “Hey! Baron!” A woman calls from further in the home—the kitchen, I realize on a second glance. “Come back in. We miss you,” she whines, bouncing up and down like a displeased child.

  They call him by his name, yet I’ll bet my soul they don’t know who he actually is.

  Or that he isn’t human.

  He waves the human away, annoyed by her presence. “I want Marie. Now.”

  “And you shall never have me again, but I’ll be kind enough to grace you with my presence, paysan.”

  Marie is behind us, on the small walkway leading to the door.

  Peasant.
>
  She has the guts to call a god a peasant.

  Something tells me she was being nicer to him than she usually would be.

  Head held high, she waltzes up the steps between the witch and I, and pushes Baron out of the way as she continues within. “You wanted to see me, you ungrateful ass. Here I am.” Her dreadlocks swing across her back as she throws him a vicious glare over her shoulder. “Now get us where we need to be before I unleash your family on you.”

  Whatever the history between these two, it’s clear that for all of Baron’s fervor, Marie has nothing but coldness to offer in return.

  And perhaps murderous intent.

  Reminds me of another pair I know.

  “Both of you, wait inside. Party. Enjoy yourselves. Take whatever you want. I’ll repay you once I’m done dealing with the hell-spawned creature.” He disappears, Marie along with him.

  Not a single human loitering around seems to notice.

  “Great,” the witch exhales.

  Simply thinking that term—“the witch”—ramps my aggression higher. “Give me your name.”

  “Dear gods, that’s the only thing you’re thinking about right now?” Staring at me like I’ve gone crazy, she storms into the home, ignoring the startled cries of the humans she barrels through.

  “I’m thinking about a lot of things, each of them fucking insane, so you might as well throw me a bone. Do you have any idea what it’s like to team up with someone and you don’t even know what their name is?” And should we be speaking this loud in front of these people?

  Although, to be fair, none of them seem to pay us too much attention. We cut through a crowd on the other end of the kitchen and into a large hallway. Every person is in the middle of some kind of messed up behavior, as if celebrating Mardi Gras in here instead of outside.

  The drinking.

  The drugs.

  Lack of clothes. Wild bouts of sex in not-so-hidden corners.

  Fuck. Last thing I need to see. Not while trailing after this witch, with the memory of her eyes on my dick while I stroked it in front of her.

  Not with my emotions torqued into the tightest knot possible.

  A rush of hot lust hits my bloodstream, dangerous at a time like this, then this fucking woman goes and does the worst thing possible:

  She changes her clothes.

  We’ve just entered the living room, a towering space filled with even more people, and not one of them has my attention. I don’t even give a damn if any of them noticed her little magic trick.