by Laury Falter
“Whose house is this?” Jameson asked, exiting from his side of the car.
I stepped out trying to identify them through the windows, but the effort was a futile thanks to thin, white curtains obstructing our view.
Miss Celia gave us a mysterious grin. “Chil’in…yer ‘bout ta meet the most powerful witches in this hea city.”
“Wonderful,” I muttered. “More witches to ward off.”
Hearing my insinuation, Miss Celia staunchly corrected me. “Won’t be no lesson this time. This hea’ is an introduction. Nothin’ mo’.”
“I thought we were here to learn about Jocelyn’s scar,” Jameson inquired, keeping his focus on the windows and the women inside.
Miss Mabelle snickered, pausing as she placed her hand on the door knob, and said, “Oh, you will…”
She opened the door then and, just as we stepped inside, the room silenced, and all eyes landed on us.
The kitchen we entered was just large enough to fit the four women standing around the wood island in the center. Layered with an abundance of herb-filled vases, cakes, tea cups, and candles, it instantly felt welcoming. The rest of the room was traditional containing; an antique stove, displaying porcelain and boasting six burners with a griddle on the side; white cabinets, reminiscent of an English countryside; and a tile backsplash, winding from the stove to the kitchen sink.
Jameson noticed who was standing in the room faster than I did. I learned this when he stated, skeptically, “You said this was an introduction.”
“It is,” Miss Mabelle reassured.
That’s when I realized who was here with us: Ms. Veilleux, Ms. Boudreaux, Ms. Roquette and Mrs. DeVille. And Jameson was correct…none of them were strangers.
“Welcome,” Ms. Veilleux said, approaching us. As her arm came around Jameson and me, she looked disturbed by our disheveled, dusty clothing. She apparently thought better about asking for an explanation, because she didn’t question us.
While our housekeepers stood near the door, Jameson and I squeezed in around the island where space was limited enough that our elbows were forced to press against one another. Our touch brought his eyes to the island where they remained until Ms. Veilleux began to speak.
“We’ve been waiting a while for this,” she admitted.
Jameson glanced around then, confused. “For what…exactly?”
“To meet you. To introduce ourselves to you.”
“But we already know you,” I pointed out.
“You know our public personas,” she corrected. “You don’t know us as a coven.”
Jameson seemed as perplexed as I was. “You formed a coven? How long ago?”
Ms. Veilleux glanced around, looking for an answer.
“I was five,” shrugged Ms. Boudreaux.
“Four,” grumbled Mrs. DeVille, her usually sour personality ever-present.
Ms. Roquette was still struggling from the Vire’s punishment and chose to forego her voice in order to see us. She answered by holding up four fingers.
“Five,” said Ms. Veilleux, returning her attention to us.
She ignored our stunned reactions to nudge a wandering kitten off the island. As if all were explained, the kitchen’s volume began to steadily escalate again. Objects started to drift overhead, as tea cups were assembled; herb twigs were rearranged in their vases without being touched; and never once did the conversation stagger.
Over the noise, I heard Ms. Boudreaux warn, “You’ll want tea. It’s chilly down by the water.”
Jameson looked back at Miss Celia who remained stationed by the door. “Is that where we’re headed? Are we going down to Lake Pontchartrain tonight?”
At that, the room fell silent again.
Miss Celia didn’t answer him directly, instead turning to the coven to ask, “Shall we?”
Ms. Veilleux carefully placed her tea cup down and emphatically agreed. “We shall.”
This exchange denoted an end to this phase of the evening, and the ladies began filtering outside into the backyard. While Jameson and I glanced at each other, skeptically, we still trailed behind them.
Outside, we saw Mrs. DeVille watching Ms. Boudreaux pull out a pointy black hat, unraveling and placing it on her head. As I took a spot in the haphazard circle forming in the yard, standing in a position directly opposite Jameson, I overheard Mrs. DeVille whisper, “Must you always wear that silly thing?”
Unwilling to bow to another’s fashion demands, Ms. Boudreaux replied, passionately, “Yes, I do.”
I almost chuckled, but the memory of Jameson, defending me on the first day we met, and Mrs. DeVille, criticizing my hat, made me refrain. Before I could stop them, my eyes moved to Jameson, the longing in them so evident, I knew he caught sight of it before my gaze dropped to the ground. He had to, because I saw the same in his eyes.
By then, we were all assembled and waiting. However, what we were waiting for, I had no idea. Then it came. Fast.
One second, I was watching the ladies gather together, and the next, they began shooting upward, as if someone from above reached down and plucked them from the surface of the earth.
“Jameson?” I spoke, having just enough time to say this, before I too was yanked upward. I think a grunt mindlessly escaped, but I couldn’t be sure.
We were above the city then, the group of us gliding far higher than the lights, until, without any warning, I was dropped, unceremoniously, onto hard-packed soil.
The incredible speed we used to travel to this new location left me breathless, until I had the vague recollection of Aunt Lizzy reaching me at the airport a few months ago. She didn’t have a ticket with her and was sickened by turbulence…and it all made sense. I began to wonder if I, too, would ever be able to travel with the speed of a jetliner.
“Jocelyn?” Jameson was right beside me, his full attention on me. “Are you all right?”
I snickered. “Yeah, I love it when I have no control over my body’s mobility…”
Ms. Boudreaux laughed at my statement, surprising me. She and the others were adjusting their clothing, as Mrs. DeVille stomped the pain from her feet.
“Bit of a rough landing,” she muttered, irritably.
“Sorry,” said Ms. Veilleux. “A little rusty at placing everyone down at once.” She straightened her back and looked around, a nostalgic smile creeping up as she did. “Jameson…Jocelyn…” she said, wistfully, “welcome to our ritual site.”
As she spoke, Mrs. DeVille began casting a spell to lay down the grass around us, the wisp of its fall being almost inaudible, and Ms. Roquette went about pulling candles from her coat and setting them in a circle around us.
When they finished, we were standing in an outdoor ceremonial site, at the edge of the lake. Because of its proximity to the water, fog was rolling in, concealing everything from ten feet out, over the water, and beyond. Still, I was able to define oak trees bowing around us, forming a natural tent, and tall grass behind us, reaching to the woodland border.
In a hushed voice, slipping into reverie, Ms. Veilleux began to explain why we were here, so I refocused my concentration on her. “In the 1790s my family emigrated to what is now New Orleans. It was known as Port Bayou St. Jean back then. Not until 1718 was the city given its present-day name. It was a place where dreams could be actualized but, more importantly, it was a place to build a community. They were different and they knew it. They beckoned others here and learned from each other to build on our wealth of knowledge. When the slave trade began, and the West Indies brought Voodoo, we started to grasp the magnitude and importance of what we could do.”
As she spoke, I began to understand she was telling us about the origins of our world, and I listened closer with greater interest.
“And it all started right here, right where we stand. This ground is sacred, because it was the home of Adelaide Rousseau, the first to unite us, the first to reach out to others of our kind. On this very sacred ground, the first ritual was performed. Our numbers grew, an
d the results of our casts became legendary.” She paused, surveying us. “Sadly, only a short while later, our decline began. Adelaide was found dead and those with our powers began to go missing. Neighbors…friends…began to turn on our kind, wielding their powers against us, burning our ancestors at the stake, ostracizing them. Those who would become our saviors appeared. Seven of them…”
I held back a gasp, when I realized which seven she meant.
“They offered us security, prosperity, anonymity. And we took it. And the killings stopped. And our world became structured. But as the influence of these seven grew so did the risks of our rewards. And now they are the eagle and we are wrapped in their talons. Luckily, their end is near. Their phase will be over. They will become a part of our history, and they are aware of it. The ritual we perform this night will bring strength and clarity of purpose to those who will stand in their way.”
I was slightly unnerved to find her looking directly at Jameson and me when she finished speaking.
At once, her voice changed, becoming deeper and more forthright. “Hail, Guardian of the WatchTower of the North-”
Her voice broke off suddenly then, and her eyes widened.
In a soft whisper, she alerted, “We aren’t alone.”
A second later, I found us hovering at the peak of the trees, candles and all. They had been snuffed out so that we hung in the dark. Several minutes passed, and I began to wonder if Ms. Veilleux was wrong, but then, the crunch of feet through the grass reached us, and all heads tilted toward the water’s edge. Along the embankment two men came into view, their heads swiveling back and forth.
“I saw light here. Right here,” said one of them, his thick moustache bobbing as he spoke. He halted right below us while his associate strolled a bit farther.
I braced myself, ready to be shot out of sight from the two men, but it never came. Jameson caught my eye and shook his head, slowly, conveying his thoughts. Any motion now would be too risky. We needed to wait out their interruption.
“Nothing here now,” said the other one.
“We should report it to command,” insisted the first one, clearly not wanting to be undervalued.
The other one lifted his shoulder in a careless shrug and spun around to head back. The first one didn’t follow immediately, however. Instead, he stood his ground, swiveling his head back and forth in search of any evidence. When he found none, his foot came out and kicked a stone across the grass as he hurried to catch up.
We remained silent until they were well out of earshot and then Jameson’s voice broke through the stillness.
“What are Vires doing here this deep in the backwoods?”
When no one answered it was very likely because none of us knew.
“They usually take up hotels and apartments to blend in better,” claimed Mrs. DeVille. “This…it’s not typical.”
Ms. Veilleux’s exaggerated intake of air made us turn. The fog had parted across the water, either by the Vires who were just here or by nature itself, exposing a camp of lights and, what appeared to be, the building of a settlement. Even this late at night, there were dozens of people actively constructing buildings from the local lumber supply.
“That is a Vire encampment,” declared Ms. Boudreaux, anxiously.
“Yes, it is,” replied Ms. Veilleux, her tone equally as tense.
We hovered less than a minute before Miss Mabelle prompted, “It’d be time ta leave now, Ms. Veilleux.”
She nodded, agreeing, and suddenly we were back in Ms. Veilleux’s yard. Still, no one spoke until we were safely in the kitchen and the door was closed.
“An encampment,” Jameson stated, clearly irritated.
“When was the last time Vires built encampments here?” I asked him.
“Definitely before I was born,” he said, stiffly.
“Never,” answered Ms. Veilleux, rigidly. “They’ve never been built here.”
I took in a deep breath and released it slowly, hoping my nervousness would leave with the exhale. It didn’t. “So what does this mean?”
“Encampments mean only one thing,” said Mrs. DeVille, as if I should already know. “War is coming.”
“War? But…what provoked it?” I asked, bewildered.
As the ladies offered suggestions, I was fighting to formulate my own answer. But, I found I already knew. We, the Caldwells and the Weatherfords, had provoked the war.
Jameson met my eyes and I was certain we were recalling the same memory, the one when we were attacked by Frederick and Anastas in the bayou. The Vires were preparing for war against those who took their associates’ lives. And if they were setting up an encampment here, it meant they’d determined the assailants were also here, in the city.
“They are here to vindicate their associates who lost their lives in the bayou,” stated Ms. Veilleux, bringing the group to silence.
Without having to say it, I knew by their expressions that the rest of the coven agreed.
“We need to spread the word,” said Jameson. “Others should be told.”
As they deliberated on his suggestion, Ms. Roquette replied, “Yes, they’ll need to prepare.” Her insinuation was obvious. The Vires would apply any means possible, which included using innocent people in our world, to reach their associates’ assailants.
With Ms. Roquette’s gaze pinned to the ceiling – her sight having been replaced to give her a voice – she wasn’t able to see everyone nod in agreement.
Silence was captivating us.
“Maybe it’d be a good idea to finish the ritual you started tonight,” I mentioned. While that may have sounded like a humorous understatement in any other scenario, no one took it that way tonight. Their faces remained grim.
“We will,” confirmed Ms. Veilleux. “Tomorrow night, ladies?”
“Second site?” asked Ms. Boudreaux, evidently referring to their next optimal ritual location because the first one was clearly no longer available.
They each nodded.
I sighed, without ever realizing I’d been holding my breath. “Thank you. It’s nice to know you’re on our side.”
Jameson’s voice was filled with respect when he added, “A coven of the most powerful witches in the province…” He paused to glance between the women. “And just why were we told you are a coven?”
Ms. Veilleux examined the faces of the rest of her coven, seeking approval before answering, “The time was right.”
“I-I’m not following,” I admitted. “Why is now the right time?”
“Because you asked about the scar….” Ms. Veilleux stared back at us, perplexed and causing Jameson and me to exchange a wary glance.
“Why would my scar have anything to do with you?” I asked, still trying to piece it all together.
The gaze of everyone in the coven landed on Miss Celia and Miss Mabelle then.
“Clearly, they haven’t told you,” said Ms. Veilleux, sounding slightly offended, as if she hadn’t been given credit for an honorable act. “Jocelyn, it wasn’t the Caldwells who gave you that scar.” She lowered her chin toward me. “We are the ones who gave it to you.” Her disclosure concluded with her hand casually sweeping across the rest of her coven.
14 CITY OF THE DEAD
“You?” I was confused. “Why you?”
It made no sense. These people were supposed to be our allies. They were our teachers, our neighbors, and, presumably, our friends.
“You hurt her?” demanded Jameson, stepping forward in a move looking a little too much like an advance. “Why?” He experienced it himself, I remembered, when witnessing it through my memories, so his anger was in my defense.
Ms. Boudreaux looked dismayed, as she said, “We are sorry the transition here, to New Orleans, was poor.”
“No, we’re not,” Miss Mabelle declared, tersely.
“Transition?” Jameson questioned his voice commanding and loud. It looked like he was just as offended as I felt.
“Poor?” I asked, appalled.<
br />
“And did you say you’re not sorry?” Jameson swung toward Miss Mabelle, defensively.
“It was time Jocelyn came to us,” Miss Mabelle replied, uninfluenced by our reactions. “Considering the number of people involved, Jocelyn’s safety, and the overall objective of reaching New Orleans, where she would be most secure…” her voice was becoming more resolute, “there were no other alternatives.”
Her response, both the words and her vehemence, kept anyone else from speaking up.
“Let’s not lay blame for a plan that was executed as perfectly as it could be done. The goal was met. Jocelyn is with us, and she is safe.”
With that, Miss Mabelle scoffed, not bothering to hide the fact she was perturbed.
Good. So was I.
But, trying to be fair, I wasn’t going to allow myself to ignore her perspective of the situation. If they had truly done their best, I couldn’t ask for anything more. It certainly didn’t seem easy to bring me out of hiding. Even I could appreciate that challenge. With Vires virtually everywhere – and one in particular, by the name of Phillip Turcott actively looking for me – it was no wonder they had to make my relocation quick and discreet. Pondering this, I concluded it might have been best if they’d just left me in upstate New York.
“Why did you bring me here in the first place?” I asked, observing them all as the coven became very still. Not a single muscle moved while they stared back at me.
No one seemed interested in answering.
Jameson snickered in disbelief. “There must be a reason to risk her life like you have. You understand you’ve put her in that situation?”
Miss Celia’s spoke quietly, hesitantly from near the door as if she didn’t want to disclose some truth to us. “That, Jameson and Jocelyn, will be covered in your next lesson.”
She turned and opened the door, preparing to leave.
“When is our next lesson?” I asked. It took them several days to answer about my scar so that was a legitimate question.
“Right now,” Miss Celia replied, already stepping out the door with her back to us. “Blessed be, Ladies.”
“Blessed be,” they responded together, some of them still showing tentative expressions.
