by Laury Falter
I had absolutely no idea what he was referring to but didn’t ask any further questions. A few minutes later, I wished I had. We were in the car, being taken to another house a few blocks away on the edge of the French Quarter. Like Annemarie’s, it was an inconspicuous wooden house with stairs to the first level and plants placed strategically around the porch.
A man opened the door this time. He was tall and muscular, and he looked of West Indies descent. He was just as aloof as Annemarie had been. Given that it was two o’clock in the morning, it was justified that they’d be reserved about welcoming guests. Yet, I had the distinct feeling it was more than just the time. These people, these Voodoo practitioners, take their practice seriously, and it’s reflected in their mood.
There was one other element that stood out to me. The houses where our housekeepers were escorting us were not elaborate, luxurious dwellings. They were simple, comfortable, and unremarkable. Miss Mabelle’s and Miss Celia’s childhood homes had been at one point, also. These people had the ability to alter a person’s future, wealth, and well being and yet they didn’t taut it. They held their ability to a higher level of responsibility, treating it with sanctity and reverence. I respect that.
“Castille,” said Miss Celia, humbly.
The man nodded in response and then ushered us inside to the first room beyond the parlor, one that was completely enclosed to the outside world other than the door we used to enter it. At the very end of the room was a wooden altar covered in candles with what appeared to be offerings, although these weren’t of wine and cheese. The aroma of coffee hung in the air while pieces of chocolate and seared meat lay on platters of various steps to the altar.
As Annemarie had done, the man placed Jameson and me next to each other. He stood to the side and began chanting in what sounded like the same language Annemarie had used.
The next thing I know, I was staring at Jameson, who was now standing before me. Somehow, he had discreetly moved from my side to be in front of me.
“What…?” I asked, taken aback. “What just happened?”
Jameson looked to be just as shocked as I was. “You talked,” he said, hesitantly. “While you were in the trance.”
“I did?”
He recovered slightly and replied, “Yes, you did.”
That explained it, somewhat. I was getting a peculiar feeling that he wasn’t as stunned about the trance as much as about what I said while in it.
“What…” I swallowed, having become nervous. “What did I say?”
“You said you didn’t want to be The Relicuum. You didn’t want this…this birthright.”
“Tell her why,” Miss Celia insisted from behind me.
He hesitated, unsure on whether to abide the command. He must have thought I should know, because he drew in a breath and spoke the secret I’ve been carrying all this time. And I felt my body cringe.
“You said…you didn’t want to take my life.”
I recoiled away from those words the second they left his lips, and my reaction, being so swift I couldn’t have prevented it, was all the confirmation he needed.
I waited then; certain he would realize our devastating fate and understand why we couldn’t be together.
I waited for his withdrawal.
He blinked in astonishment, and his jaw fell open, releasing a deep sigh, as if he’d been holding it in for weeks.
“That’s part of your birthright?” he asked, his tone demanding and on the verge of anger.
I didn’t want to answer. Every part of me resisted it.
“Is that part of your birthright?” he persisted.
“Yes,” I said, so meekly I barely heard myself and quickly cleared my throat. “Yes, it is.”
“That’s what you’ve been worried about? And that’s why you pushed me away?” He said this in a way that it was just as much a statement as it was a question.
All I had to do was nod, and suddenly, the emotions I struggled to keep beneath the surface, hidden from Jameson, and even from myself, rushed forward. My lip began to tremble and my breath grew staggered. Finally, the tears that I restrained for so long poured from me.
This was it. His withdrawal would begin here, at this very moment. He would recognize that self-preservation required him to distance himself from me. He would step back and his eyes would avoid me, and he would stay clear of me as we left this house. He’d keep his self-imposed distance from me during midnight lessons. At school during the day and evening classes on Wednesday, he would keep his eyes downcast, so they didn’t mistakenly catch mine. This was because he’d once had feelings for me and now we had become the enemies The Sevens had always wanted. I was certain this was our path, the future we needed to endure.
But this wasn’t what happened.
Through my tears, I saw Jameson’s foggy shape move toward me, and his arms, thick and secure, embraced me, comforting me. His hands found their way to my cheeks, tenderly taking them and his lips settled over mine. They pressed against me insistently, desperately, moving in perfect unity. When he pulled away, his thumbs gently brushing tears from my cheeks, as he stared at me, evaluated me.
“You’re still scared,” he stated.
There was no denying it. Even though the truth was out and he hadn’t fled from me, our future didn’t changed. I was still destined to take his life.
“Why?” he demanded.
When I couldn’t speak, and only a sob escaped, his eyes softened as he recognized the reason without me having to tell him.
Tender yet resolute, he made me a promise that took my breath away.
“I’m going to wear you down. I’m going to prove to you that you’re wrong. I’m going to show you there is nothing to fear.” He leaned his head closer to me, gazing at me. “Do you understand? I will not give up on you.”
He was so confident and so self-assured, I briefly allowed myself to believe him. Sobbing and torn, I fell into his arms, as they encircled me, and for the first time in months, I felt like everything would truly be fine. We’d work through whatever stood in our way, like every successful couple throughout time. But, from the far corners of my mind, the voice of reason emerged, and I knew I was fooling myself. Neither of us was safe together.
Even while knowing this, I gave in to the need to be with him. I stood there for an immeasurable amount of time, untroubled by the fact we weren’t alone, because his arms protected me, and his comforting, powerful chest made me forget everything but him. This was my time of reprieve before I was forced to face the truth again.
“I am so in love with you,” he whispered into my hair, sending a shiver down my spine. “I never stopped, Jocelyn,” he said, referring to our time apart. “I never stopped.”
“I didn’t stop, either, Jameson,” I pulled away from him just enough to meet his eyes. “I tried but I…I couldn’t.”
“I know,” he said, tenderly. “You didn’t have to tell me. I can see it in you.”
There was a glimmer, a playful spirit in his eyes again, one I haven’t seen since I pulled away from him.
“It’s nice to know you’re back,” I whispered, and the smile tugging at his pale scar above his lip.
When we finally realized we were alone, we saw the door to the other room had been left open. Jameson slipped his hand into mine, and as challenging as it was to coax our feet, we moved in its direction. After finding our housekeepers and Castille in the parlor, we said a brief goodbye to Castille. We left the house and started back across town, yawning, exhausted, and having no idea that our night was just getting started.
18 SLAUGHTERHOUSE
I immediately noticed what was out of the ordinary, even before Jameson voiced it.
“Where are the Vires who should be guarding your house?” he asked, apprehensively, as we pulled to a stop in the driveway.
Miss Mabelle gave Miss Celia a questioning look and stepped from the car. I didn’t have an answer, either, and simply shrugged.
Jameson’s voice
came again from the back of the car. “I have a bad…I don’t want you going in alone.”
“I won’t be. Miss Mabelle is here.”
He’d already made the decision before speaking it, starting to sit up. “I’m going with you,”
“No,” I urged, briskly. “If the Vires come back and find you here…” I allowed that threat to linger because the imagination of what they could do was far worse than anything I could dream up.
“It’s all right,” I encouraged. “It really is.” Although neither of us believed it. I unbuckled my seat belt and gave him a brief smile as I exited the car.
It turned out our intuition was correct.
As Miss Mabelle opened the door, I saw the destruction beyond her brawny shoulder. Every piece of Aunt Lizzy’s elaborate furnishings was destroyed; furniture toppled, its stuffing spilling from deep, serrated cuts; glass scattered across the floor, glittering in the light from the streetlamp behind us; framed pictures of our family broken, the photographs trampled and torn.
“Lizzy!” screamed Miss Mabelle, several octaves higher, and with more fear than I’ve ever heard emerge from her.
Our pause at the entrance indicated to Jameson and Miss Celia something was wrong, and they were at our side by the time the scream had ended.
We raced through the house. Miss Mabelle left her cane discarded at the door and flung damaged furniture aside, clearing a path as I kept at her heels. We checked every room and even the backyard but found no one. No cousin. No aunt. No Vire.
“That’s why the Vires aren’t at our gate. That’s why they’re all gone,” I said, frantic, my mind racing for answers. “The Vires have taken my family. And if they’ve taken them, then…”
Jameson was already reaching for my hand, having come to the same conclusion as me. If the Weatherfords were taken, there was a strong probability the Caldwells have been, too.
We reached the Caldwell residence in less than thirty seconds with Miss Celia at the wheel. She was the last to leave the car because the rest of us didn’t bother to wait until it had stopped moving before opening our doors and stepping out.
We found the same devastation and absence of living souls, and I could see the anger in Jameson’s expression as we collected our thoughts in the family room.
“Could they have linked the Vires’ deaths – Frederick and Anastas – with our families?” I asked, not wanting to think of the consequences if I were correct.
“Possibly,” said Jameson, his head down in deliberation. “But it was the Caldwell tools found in the swamp so that wouldn’t explain why Sartorius would take your family…”
“You think Sartorius is involved?”
His head lifted. “Absolutely. If he’s still in the city, he’s the one leading the Vires.”
“Jameson, could he be retaliating against us?” I asked, my heart stopping momentarily. “For what we did to him yesterday?” Without waiting for a reply, guilt stabbed at me so sharp it took my breath away.
“Maybe,” Jameson replied as he pursed his lips in anger. “We need to find our families.”
“Where would Sartorius take them?”
“The ministry?” I suggested.
“Nah, that’d be too far away,” answered Miss Celia.
Jameson’s eyes met mine, and all of us came to the same conclusion simultaneously. “The encampment.”
We stared blankly at each other, because the very next thought was where to find it. We’d been there only once and without directions. In fact, we’d been carried there by…
“Ms. Veilleux,” I said, just as Jameson took my hand, leading me toward the car again.
On the ride to Ms. Veilleux’s house, no one spoke. When we arrived, the silence grew even more intense because the back door leading to the kitchen was open, and Ms. Veilleux wasn’t home. While there was no damage, there was enough suspicion to cause us to evaluate what exactly was happening.
“Why would they sequester Ms. Veilleux?” Jameson asked himself, aloud.
“Sequester?” I repeated, confused.
His attention came back to me long enough to explain. “That’s the term we use when someone’s called in for questioning by the Vires.”
Miss Mabelle brought us back to the conversation at hand by saying, “And if they’s sequestered her ain’t no tellin’ who else they’s sequestered.”
“You don’t think…” I said but didn’t bother to finish, because I knew the answer.
She believed everyone in our private world had been rounded up. “Sho’ wouldn’t put it past ‘em.”
“We need to find the encampments,” Jameson and I said in unison, my voice slightly more shrill than his, as we redirected everyone’s focus.
I quickly considered who else was in Ms. Veilleux’s coven, because they were the only other people who might be able to help us.
“Mrs. DeVille?” I proposed.
“She’ll do,” Jameson said, taking my hand. “We don’t have time to waste. Can you…?”
I knew what he was asking before he finished, and by that time our feet had left the ground. We were levitating above the city lights. Jameson, being an excellent navigator, straightened my course, until we were directly over Mrs. DeVille’s shop. From there, I settled everyone to the ground in the private courtyard leading to the rear of the store, where their living quarters could be found.
The first thing I noticed was that the door was open. The second thing was that, after calling for her and her husband, there was no response, only silence.
It was eerie standing in the middle of the barren hallway leading between their home and the front of the store. There were no voices, no shuffling of boxes, and no crackling of lit candles. It felt as if we were the last ones alive.
I turned to Jameson. “They haven’t taken everyone, have they?”
Jameson’s nod brought out an unexpected reaction: Anger, intense and unfaltering.
I had no outlet for it, yet, so I focused on our options. The rest of the group did the same, and we finally deduced, “There’s only one more thing we can do.”
Jameson nodded, “Find it ourselves.” He paused, considering something, which he preceded to voice. “But there’s a stop we’ll need to make first. If we’re right and everyone in our world within the city limits have been collected, we’ll need to go in prepared.”
“What did you have in mind?”
Jameson answered, unwaveringly, despite the risk it entailed. “The rope.”
At that suggestion, my eyebrows rose. There was only one rope he could be referring to. The Rope of The Sevens, seven pieces of skin and hair compiled from each one of them.
“It’ll be a last resort but I have a feeling we’re going to need it.”
Until now, I’d never considered using the rope. It was a souvenir, a prized possession, not to be used for the purpose of a concrete objective. However, now it took on a new, different meaning. I understood why I had been warned multiple times to keep it safely hidden until I was ready to use it. It had influence, because it could save my family and, if we were correct, everyone else from our world who were taken from their residences within New Orleans. That seemed like a good enough reason to me to bring it out.
“Let’s get it,” was my response, to which Jameson nodded.
As the four of us hurried back to the courtyard, I picked us up one by one until we were gliding down the hallway. The second we crossed the threshold, I lifted us into the sky, soaring over the city, and placed us down at Aunt Lizzy’s back door.
Miss Mabelle opened the door for us, for the first time showing Jameson and me some sign of credence by allowing us to pass and enter the house first. We rushed up the stairs, our feet never touching the steps, and into my bedroom. I flicked the lamp on, as Jameson bent down in front of the rope’s secret hiding place, his attention focused on retrieving it. Mine, however, was distracted.
A mirror had been mounted to the back of the closet door so when it was open, I could see my reflecti
on. It was open now. I assumed Miss Mabelle put it there sometime over the course of the last few months. I wasn’t much for looking in the mirror so I hadn’t paid attention, but tonight I did. I caught sight of myself with light-colored, floral, loose-fitting clothes hanging from my body. Standing there, entranced by my reflection, I tried to determine what was not quite right about me. Something was different as I stood glancing between the row of hanging clothes and the mirror. After a few seconds, it dawned on me.
I no longer saw myself as someone who fit with the relaxed, bohemian style of my wardrobe. I felt edgier, rebellious, and in control of my own destiny. I wasn’t the innocent, little girl who had been transplanted here a few months ago. I had witnessed death and had been altered by it. I was about to consciously go into battle with enemies who wanted me dead. But, most importantly, I was a witch with roots in my past that could no longer be ignored.
Immediately, I went in search of the darkest clothes from my closet, pulling out a tight, black, long-sleeved top, fitted, black jeans, and black, knee-high boots. I discarded my standard number of bracelets and wore just the one with my family stone, liking the fact that it was emphasized against my dark outfit.
As I wiggled the skirt from my hips, I felt eyes on me and glanced over my shoulder to find Jameson standing in the center of my room, eyebrows raised.
“Feeling a little warm?”
I frowned at him and went back to undressing. There was no time to be self-conscious and, besides, I had my underwear on. That was the equivalent of a bathing suit.
By the time I fit the new black top over my head, he was leaning against the dresser, arms crossed, and one side of his mouth raised in a smirk.
“What?” I demanded, pulling the jeans from my bed and stepping my leg into them.
“I was just thinking, if I die tonight, I’ll do it happy.”
He sounded so definite and untroubled. His smirk faded and he crossed the room in two strides, taking my waist in his hands and guiding me to him.
“Jameson…” Pestered by the jabbing reminder that our future together wasn’t possible, my intention was to stop him before he got started, but my own desires overcame the concern for a brief moment as his lips found mine.
