Birthright (Residue Series #2)

by Laury Falter

  I stood a little straighter. “Where do I find him?” I sounded shockingly renewed, even if the feeling wasn’t quite there yet.

  “I can bring you,” she offered, but I put up my hand.

  Sneaking a glimpse at Theleo and his Vires, I shook my head. There was no way I was going to drag her into this. “You’ve done everything we needed and we are really – really – thankful. If you’ll just tell me where he is…”

  Only when she launched into directions did I breathe a sigh of relief. One less person to worry about, possibly two if her boyfriend had insisted on going.

  The directions she gave sound like something written on the back of a napkin in a broken down hovel of a roadside bar, but I committed them to memory, anyways.

  “You’re going to need to hurry,” she said, as I shoved the payment into the palm of her hand. She didn’t seem to care about it. Her message was much more important at the moment, and it left an uncomfortable premonition with me.

  “Why?” I asked hesitant.

  “Because your father said your boyfriend will be dead by morning.”

  If I hadn’t left Jameson so pale, shivering, and mumbling my name to himself, her caveat alone would have been motivation enough to do what I carried out next.

  Avoiding the Vires, I raced to find a vacant alley, having to turn down several streets in a zigzag to outrun them. As I reached the first alley I came to, I was already several feet in the air, levitating myself from the ground, before Oscar and Vinnia could catch up. They followed suit, with Vinnia and me both lifting Oscar through the air. His arms flailed, until he finally submitted and embraced the ride, but by that time, we were already over New Orleans and heading for the bayou.

  I followed Maggie’s directions specifically and found a corroded shanty, seemingly dropped on the bank of the swamp. Leaning to one side, and overgrown with moss, it didn’t immediately strike me as a storefront. In fact, the peeling paint and corroded windows made it seem like an abandoned shack. But by the time our feet were on the first step leading to the porch, a woman wearing a red bandana wrapped around her full head of dreadlocks, and carrying a pipe in her mouth, waddled to the screen door. Bracelets jingled down both forearms announcing her arrival, and the lantern she carried cast an ominous glow across her distinctly large features.

  “He don’t want no help,” she said with a thick Cajun accent, as if she already concluded why we’d come.

  “We didn’t bring any,” Vinnia called out.

  “Why you hea’ then?”

  I felt, both, Vinnia’s and Oscar’s eyes on me. We hadn’t been given a reason. Going with my instinct I called out, “We came for his help.”

  That seemed to appease her. A plump hand swung the screen door open, ushering us in. “Well’s ya betta hurry. Not much time ta go.”

  We moved quickly up the stairs and through the door where we were greeted with a fragrant aroma of fish. Within the boundaries of the lantern’s light, I saw that Maggie had described the place perfectly, “a place you would go to find fish that you would never willingly eat.” There was a refrigerator or freezer every three feet and not a single one was devoid of rust or seeping some type of fluid.

  The woman led us to a back room small enough that she had to stand outside, holding the lantern up, for us to find Battersbee. He was lying in bed, pillows propping his torso so that he sat up, but his head fell forward. An unlit pipe hung limply from his mouth.

  “Hearts about to give out,” explained the woman, but his head rose just enough to find he had visitors.

  “What we got hea’, ‘Livia?” asked the man, his voice gruff, his pipe bobbing but never slipping from between his pinched, wrinkled lips.

  “Best ask them,” said Olivia, now leaning against the doorframe like she was leisurely watching a soap opera unfold.

  I slid a rickety chair from the wall then and set it beside the bed. When I reached eye-level with him, he tilted his chin to the side, giving me a candid evaluation.

  “Northeastern girl, eh?” he asked. “Long way from home…”

  I didn’t realize this was so obvious, and then I remembered that he was a channeler. They had ways of knowing things I could never expect to understand. Nonetheless, I corrected him. “This is my home now.”

  “Becomin’ so…” he slowly agreed.

  “Mr. Battersbee-” I started but halted as soon as he began waving a weak hand at me. Surmising what he was trying to communicate, I started over and he looked pleased. “Battersbee, do you want to be healed?”

  His head shook aggressively, leaving no room for confusion.

  “I understand,” I soothed him, and his head gradually relaxed. “Battersbee, I love someone. His name is Jameson, and he’s very sick. We were told you could tell us how to overcome…”

  Apparently, he’d decided he had heard enough because his hand – the same one that motioned at me a moment ago – slid across the covers and found mine. His fingers felt cold but firm, as he closed his eyes.

  Breathing down the back of his throat, he seemed to be concentrating. This quickly became the only sound other than the quiet slapping of water against the edge of the house. And then he spoke.

  “Your father…”

  “Yes,” I said, expectantly. “He’s the one who sent me.”

  “…died at a young age.”

  “Right after I was born.”

  Next, Battersbee said something I was completely unprepared to hear. “He knew what you are.”

  My limbs went rigid, making it impossible for me to move.

  Then he said something that threw me entirely. “Knew what Jameson is…”

  I exhaled sharply. “Do you know Jameson?”

  “The Relic-” He stopped and drew in a shuttered breath. “And The Nobilis.”

  My jaw fell open, and my hand unconsciously squeezed Battersbee’s. “Wait. Are you saying that Jameson is The Nobilis?”

  “Knew you weren’t safe…tried to, but couldn’t…couldn’t keep you together…”

  “He tried to keep Jameson and me together?”

  “It’s what killed him, Jocelyn.”

  I jolted back, stunned, a single thought racing through my mind. I hadn’t told him my name yet, and if he knew my name, everything else he was saying had a high probability of being correct.

  Finally, he delivered the blow that confirmed he was telling me the truth. “It’s why they want to kill you.”

  I sat back, but Battersbee gripped my hand, tighter, exerting every bit of strength he had left to keep me from letting go.

  “He’s sorry,” whispered Battersbee. “He’s sorry.”

  I knew what was happening then. My father was now speaking through Battersbee.

  “Ask him how to cure Jameson,” I urged.

  But Battersbee’s breathing shortened, and he started gasping for air.

  “Battersbee!” It was now me gripping him. “Please ask him!”

  “Hold…” he gasped. “On…”

  “No,” I insisted. “No, please tell me!” He was at the end, ebbing away. “Please don’t go! Please tell me! Please Battersbee! Please!”

  “So…peaceful…” I heard him say, though his lips never moved.

  And then he was gone, his final breath seeping from his lips in a quiet whistle, his body slumped forward, crushing the last of the air from his lungs.

  Every muscle in my body went numb as I watched my last possibility, Jameson’s savior, leave his body without giving me the cure. With it, the tears came, flowing in streams down my cheeks, landing on our hands, still clasped together.

  I had just watched Jameson’s last hope die, and now, I would be forced to go home and watch him die.

  Feeling as if I was on autopilot, like a puppet under someone else’s control, I carefully unlatched Battersbee’s fingers from mine and stood. Staring at the others from what felt like the end of a long tunnel, I left the room, placing my hands on Olivia as I passed her.

  “Thank you,” I sa
id. At least I’d been given the chance.

  I was heading out to the seafood lockers when Olivia’s stunned voice behind me broke through my haze. “What the…”

  Slowly, I turned around to find her lip curled up at me. She was deciding whether to be disgusted or amazed.

  “What?” Oscar pressed, confused.

  “Her voice…” said Olivia. “I heard it in my head.” Her body contorted and shook. “Ick.”

  Vinnia stepped closer to her, eager, optimistic. “What did she say?”

  “Thank you,” replied Olivia, still observing me. I got the sense I’d unintentionally violated her, somehow.

  “I didn’t hear her say ‘Thank you’,” said Vinnia, before turning to Oscar who confirmed it too.

  “Me neither.”

  I blinked, realizing I had said those words. But I had spoken them…didn’t I?

  The three of them were staring at me now.

  “Try it again,” Vinnia demanded, marching two paces forward and extending her hand. When I didn’t move, she reached out, took my hand, and slapped it in hers. “Say something.”

  “What?” I was so exhausted, I didn’t know whether my lips had moved or not.

  Vinnia’s gasp proved they hadn’t.

  With her exhale, she released a single word that put it all together for me. “Residue…”

  Only this time, her lips didn’t move. I heard the word in my head.

  This experience had happened with just one other person, Jameson, and he wasn’t here.

  My hand flipped around and took hold of hers. “You can hear me?”

  “Yes.” Her unspoken answer was as clear as any word she’d ever said aloud.

  “Do you know what this means?” I asked her, my eyes widening at the prospect.

  “No,” she replied, out loud. “What’s it mean?”

  From then on, I spoke my thoughts, so Oscar could understand them too. “I asked them to give me the cure and they did. Battersbee told me to hold on as he died. Hold on. Those were his exact words. Do you know why? Because my father knew it was the only way for me to pick up Battersbee’s residue, his ability to channel. And I understand now…”

  “What?”

  “They all knew…Theleo, my father, Battersbee…they all knew that Jameson’s curse can only be overcome but not by using just one conduit. Only one person can actually do that…use two conduits at once. A person who can heal and channel…at the same time.”

  “The Relicuum…” Oscar said from down the hall.

  Vinnia’s mouth lifted to one side in admiration. “You…”

  For the first time, since being told I was the person gifted with the ability to pick up other’s residue, I finally accepted it. The facts I needed were now obvious to me. I just needed to use it and save Jameson’s life…if I can just reach him in time.

  8 BIRTHRIGHT

  Just as we set down in the Caldwell’s backyard garden, the morning sun crested the horizon, layering the cityscape with golden hues, as New Orleans began to stir.

  Two figures stood guard at the front door, ready to scrutinize those leaving. One of them with a smooth, swarthy scalp began to tilt his head back for an impromptu search of the sky as we silently passed overhead.

  Good morning, Theleo, I thought wryly while we dropped behind the roof, narrowly slipping by him.

  Seconds later, we were entering the back door where Miss Celia and Miss Mabelle sat together, their faces grim.

  “Are we back in time?” I asked, not bothering to stop and wait for an answer.

  I was already on the stairs when Miss Celia’s voice reached me. “It’s hairy up there. Ya wants ta be careful.”

  Sure enough, as I came through Jameson’s bedroom door, Charlotte was on her feet.

  “Well, look who’s returned…the healer who can’t heal.”

  “Is he…” I started, but quickly made it to Jameson’s bedside where I could see for myself.

  Yes, he was still breathing. But it was raspy and there was a gurgling coming from his lungs, telling me that they were filling with fluid, and his time was close. I realized that I wouldn’t have known the sounds of death a few months ago, an eerie reminder of how much my life had changed before I refocused on Jameson.

  “Jameson,” I said, taking his hand. It was cold, moist, and unresponsive.

  While his body showed no sign of hearing me, his mind answered, channeling his thoughts. “Jocelyn…” he said, slowly.

  Charlotte’s voice cut in, barking from across the room, “You have no right to be here anymore.”

  My gaze darted over to her; my eyes narrowed, making no effort to hide my rage. “I can’t hear him-”

  “Well, of course, you can’t,” she replied, snidely. “You can’t channel.”

  “Over you. I can’t hear him over you,” I finished, staring pointedly at her, willing her to shut up.

  “You-” She paused, snapping her mouth closed, confusion dancing across her face as she sank into the chair behind her.

  I turned back to Jameson, vaguely noticing Miss Celia and Miss Mabelle at the door. “It’s Jocelyn. I’m here.”

  “Jocelyn…” his voice drifted through my consciousness.

  “I’m going to try to heal you.”

  “Yes, she’s a healer…”

  I opened my mouth to speak again, but came to a stop when Jameson continued, quietly and patiently, as if he was talking in his sleep. “Jocelyn Weatherford. Against all odds, I fell in love.” He transitioned, as if he knew I was with him. “Your nerve…your heart…your strength. You are all I ever needed. More than I deserved…”

  When he fell silent. I channeled through to him, desperately searching for a response. “Jameson!”

  “Jocelyn…” His chest drew a shuddering breath, gradually rising and sinking deeper with each exhale. “I’ll wait for you…always…”

  “Jameson!” I darted forward, his meaning immediately clear to me. “Don’t you leave!”

  The room began to shake then. Framed pictures of the family, set up days ago by Burke, jostled and collapsed. Furniture vibrated, drumming against the hardwood floors. Wind violently blew in, stirring the curtains, extinguishing the candles, and leaving the room dark…sparking screams from those around me.

  “What’s happening?” I heard Charlotte shout against the sound of the dresser thumping against the wall.

  “You can do it, Jocelyn,” Vinnia encouraged, having deduced it was me.

  “What’s she…?” Alison began but never finished. I figured she stopped to grab something, maybe the door jamb, for support.

  Estelle answered her fragmented question. “She’s saving your brother!”

  If anyone spoke again, I didn’t hear them. I was too busy concentrating on channeling the energy coming my way. It was flooding in now, like a fire hose blasting directly into me, forcing my eyes to a squint and taking my breath away. I struggled to absorb it, channeling it through an invisible funnel, and directly into Jameson.

  Gradually, as loose possessions flew overhead and noise rumbled in our ears, Jameson’s body reacted. His skin darkened against the sheets. His chest expanded farther with each deeper inhale. His fingers slid up to curl under themselves. Finally, his eyes opened, snapping like they were being yanked toward the back of his skull.

  Blinking, he attempted to focus. Trying to gain control of his motor functions, he tested the rotation of his head.

  He then spoke the last word he’d been attempting to voice before falling unconscious.

  “Jocelyn…” he breathed, a content smile rising up.

  Choking sobs came from behind me while I held back my own reaction. I didn’t want to alarm him after such a precarious experience. He was still recovering.

  Jameson quickly glanced around, causing his eyebrows to furrow. “Why is everyone in my room?”

  The innocence of that question brought laughter and more sobs.

  He placed his arms alongside his body, preparing to push himself up, bu
t I put a hand on his chest, the curves of his muscles coincidentally challenging me. “You need to rest.”

  “I feel fine,” he declared, pushing beyond my resistance and sliding his legs over the edge of the bed. “And who stripped me down?” he asked, staring at his boxers.

  Again, chuckles carried over the weeping.

  I glanced around briefly, finding Charlotte’s face glossy with tears, and her blubbering momentarily stunned me. I didn’t think she had it in her.

  Mr. and Mrs. Caldwell stood over us, having rushed into the room when the house began to shake. Aunt Lizzy was beside them. It was clear from their expressions they couldn’t explain what had just taken place, but that didn’t matter. Jameson was alive.

  Miss Celia and Miss Mabelle stood in the doorway, leaning against the door jamb for support. They were glistening with perspiration and half bent from exhaustion. Something in me, deep inside my subconscious, clued me in that they were the ones who’d sent the energy I desperately needed to save Jameson’s life.

  The rest were either standing or leaning against the furniture that had finally come to a standstill.

  “So?” Jameson asked briskly. “Anyone going to tell me what’s going on?”

  Spencer and Dillon, who had become friends over the last few days, stepped forward.

  “Dillon, do you want to cover it?” offered Spencer.

  Dillon accepted and went on to explain what had taken place since Jameson had collapsed in Mr. Thibodeaux’s storage closet. In the end, Jameson’s response showed just how resilient he could be.

  “Others are at risk now. The Vires aren’t going to limit their attacks to just the Caldwells and the Weatherfords to get the job done.”

  His hand came out, and he waved his fingers at Burke, who understood the gesture. A few seconds later, Jameson caught the jeans Burke had dug out of the closet and thrown to him.

  While dressing, Jameson stood only an arm’s length from me, his tight stomach muscles filling my entire line of sight. Even though he had been on death’s doorstep just minutes earlier, he looked overwhelmingly powerful once again.