Chapter Eight
______________________________________
Cash
Things change…
At least that’s what I’ve always heard. But one of the nice things about New Orleans is that it doesn’t.
Jackson Square is exactly as I remember it, bookended by the lush greenery of Washington Artillery Park and the imposing triple steeples of St. Louis Cathedral. It’s an open-air gallery where artists hock their wares to tourists and locals alike, shouting their prices above the din of a brass band playing for spare change.
At night, the stray cats of the Big Easy rendezvous here. They climb the trunks of the trees, crouch in the gutters, and perch atop the wrought-iron fence that surrounds the Place d’Armes, their eyes glinting inside the moon shadows, their tails held straight and proud. Some folks say they commune with the ghosts of the criminals and runaway slaves who died in public executions on this very spot. Others say they’re the familiars of the witches who still walk the streets of this city.
In this manic, modern world, most places have lost their magic. New Orleans isn’t one of them. Once the sun sets, it’s as if you can feel the wispy presence of things just beyond our world. And the tales of Voodoo priestesses and vampire kings—things that sound farfetched anywhere else—seem as if, here, they might be true.
Luckily, the spine-chilling effects of Jackson Square vanish during the day. Now the place is crawling with shoppers and people out for a stroll. The smells of spicy roux from the surrounding restaurants mixes with the grassy-sweet aroma of the carriage mules lined up by the fence. In the middle of all the hubbub, bleary-eyed fortune-tellers of every kind wait for fools to lay down their roll.
“So what do you think?” Maggie rubs her hands together. “Tarot card reader? Palm reader? Or aura reader?”
“Let’s give the poor tarot card readers a break,” Luc says. “They’re probably still recovering from Cash’s last visit.”
“Palm reader?” Maggie suggests hopefully. Even though she’s a woman now, there’s a young girl’s excitement in her eyes. She’s always been partial to the fanciful side of things. Always leaned toward a belief in hocus-pocus.
I blame it on her early immersion in the Wizarding World.
“You first.” Luc motions her toward the fortune-teller, not trying to hide his dopey grin. One glimpse of the joy on his face is enough to chase away any doubts I had about being back here. This is what he needs.
Hell, it’s what webothneed.
Maggie takes a seat, and I tilt my head back, letting sunbeams fall on my face. My brain doesn’t hurt today. Or…it hurts only alittle.
“Coming back here is gonna be good for you,” Luc says.
Most people tell me I’m hard to read, but to Luc, I’ve always been as transparent as glass. That’s never scared me before because I’ve never had anything to hide.
It scares me now.
“You’re already getting better,” he continues. “I can tell.”
I drop my chin when a shadow falls over me. Not sure if it’s his words or the cloud that’s drifting across the sun.
“Fingers crossed,” I say, watching the palm reader take the twenty-dollar bill I gave to Maggie.
If central casting ever calls me for a recommendation for someone to play the role of a quintessential Roma fortune-teller, I’ll be able to say I know just the woman. “Madame LaRouche” is wearing a colorful scarf over her long, black hair. Bangles and bracelets line her forearms. And smudged beneath her eyes is enough black eyeliner to make Captain Jack Sparrow proud.
She gestures for Maggie’s hands. “What do you seek this day, my child?” Her low, scratchy voice is either fake and done for effect, or real and the result of a two-pack-a-day habit.
“I want to know if my bar will survive Carnival intact,” Maggie says. “I want to know if I’m making the best financial decisions.” She glances over her shoulder at me, then her eyes swing to Luc, and she shifts uncomfortably.
“Need some privacy?” Luc asks.
“No.” She shakes her head. Even so, her voice is quieter during this next part. “I want to know if there’s romance in my future.”
I swallow. Good thing my head isn’t aching, because my heart hurts like hell. Not sure I’d be able to survive both.
“Let’s see what we see.” Madame LaRouche turns Maggie’s hand over and studies the lines on her palm.
Luc is standing beside me with his arms crossed, smiling down at Maggie like a big, benevolent bodyguard. When he glances my way, I roll my eyes. He elbows me, telling me without words that I need to keep my trap shut and let Maggie enjoy this ridiculous charade.
