She had heard that this was the mark of those exceptionally powerful. High-Blooded. It was true. There were few among Les Magiques whose blood was not yet diluted. That was still pure in heritage, in magic from the old land.You can tell by the eyes,Grand-mère liked to say after she lit the altars at night.Tell how much magic a man got in his blood.
He stared at her, as if his breath had been caught on his tongue. She stared back, frozen, terrified at the thought of what he’d endured. It was all too much. Marie started to cry. She didn’t know why, but she couldn’t stop it. Those chains rattled. And suddenly his hand was on her cheek, thumbing away a hot tear.
“Do not cry for me.” His calloused hand cradled her cheek. She felt a spark pass between their flesh, a heart-pulsing feeling of her magic recognizing his. “Cry for them.”
“Why?”
“Because the gods listen, Marie Laveau.” She didn’t recall ever telling this strangely beautiful man her name. “And let me tell you a secret. They do not only listen,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes. “Theypunish.”
It was all he could do to lift a bruised hand, chains rattling as he gestured toward the sky. Three crows were cawing above her, moving in a vicious black ring over the sun.
Their song was angry,Marie thought to herself.This song of three.
Marie arrived late at Chateau Corbin, the church bells tolling just past sundown. The sky flushed a deep purple as dusk deepenedoverhead and the shadows grew long. By the time Marie entered the courtyard, the gala was well under way, which meant almost everyone was too drunk to realize she’d come at all. The recent onslaught of plagues had seen the streets of New Orleans emptied and barren of life. But not tonight. The wicked fun of Mardi Gras was not a spell so easily broken, not even by the likes of Jon.
A sparkling fog filled the courtyard, swirling at their feet. It was the simple work of a tide-turner, who’d no doubt been instructed to enchant the air with mist to fight the heat. Flickering torchlight illuminated scores of colorfully masked faces. Some bore the shape of fairy-folk, with glittering stones and silken flowers wreathed around the eyes, others of grotesque horned gods.
Marie searched the crowd, finding no sight of her intended target. She knew the Brotherhood to be skulking about, no doubt on guard against any Voodoo mischief. Every planter and master was on edge, worried that their own stock of slaves might be spreading the sickness. Sanite Dede had been the only colored Les Magiques invited, and she’d of course sent Marie in her place.
A moist heat clung to the air, mingling with the sticky sweetness of magnolia trees that towered over the cobbled courtyard. Girls tossed petals and beads for luck from a terrace above; a flurry of gold and violet cascaded down into a laughing crowd below.
Marie could feel eyes on her. She adjusted her owl mask, taking some comfort behind the white-feathered disguise. At every turn there was another jeering face, another glittering mask. She made her way through the city’s bourgeoisie, pink-cheeked and tipsy as they engorged themselves on fat slices of king cake—big morsels of sweet blood-red loafs that dribbled from their laughing mouths. Gilded goblets of wine and honeyed mead sloshed in their hands.
A rumbling laugh caught Marie’s attention. She turned to find Mayor Felix Corbin the glowing picture of health, almost as if he hadn’t been one breath away from dying of Jon’s plague only days ago. Marie plucked a glass of wine from a passing tray, wordlessly slipping through the muzzy haze of cigar smoke and merrymaking.
“Bonjour, Felix,” said Marie. “You seem to be on the mend.”
“Marie Laveau,” Felix said with a slow smile. He had on a dashing mask of copper and gold. “I suppose I have you to thank for thissmall miracle.”
“What else arefriendsfor?” Marie held his gaze until he looked away. As she had hoped, he had not so easily forgotten the debt he owed her for saving his life.
Mayor Corbin blanched a little at the memory. He leaned in, plucking a dark curl from Marie’s shoulder. “Such pretty hair! What a pity you wear it veiled.”
That colored women had once been forced to keep their hair covered while strolling the streets of New Orleans during daylight hours was common knowledge. Although the days of Spain’s control of New Orleans were long gone, Marie still wore her hair this way in the ritual of tradition. “Such were once the rules, Mayor. Surely you need no reminding?”
He lifted his copper-and-gold mask, flashing the side of his face that Jon’s plague had eaten away at. “Could you—”
“I couldn’t. Such magic is beyond my reach.”
She very well could. Marie knew what he wanted—what they all did. To have that ugly reminder of Jon’s power wiped from the skin, from the city’s memory, as if the whole ordeal had never happened. How curious it was that a man who publicly flogged the backs of his slaves, created ghastly scars in dark flesh without a second thought, wanted a single scar gone.
Corbin frowned, his eyes lingering bitterly over her. “I doubt very much anything is beyond your reach, even your queen’s rules. Some might say you saved my life to bend them in your favor.”
“I was only doing as I was bid, Monsieur.” Under Sanite’s careful rule, her Voodoo had limits. There were certain expectations for her power to keep the peace. And healing him of his scar was simply not one of them.
“You do not fool me, witch. You may wear a mask, but I have glimpsed the face that lies beneath it. Do you want to know what I think?” He leaned in, his voice a warm breath at her ear. For all the honey in his voice, Marie heard the venom too. “I think you are far worse than that wretched Voodoo Queen of yours.”
“And why is that?”
Corbin pulled away. “Because at least Sanite serves her people. Butyou?” His eyes flicked over Marie, silently appraising. “You, MarieLaveau, serve only yourself. And that’s a trait I quite admire, actually.” Those eyes brightened with interest. “Send Sanite my regards, Madame Laveau.”
“Of course,” said Marie. She bowed her head, dipping low into the expected curtsey.
Felix pulled his mask back down and excused himself to entertain Governor Jean-Francis, who’d just arrived from Baton Rouge, two golden-cheeked courtesans hanging on his arm, a cloud of simpering fools in his wake.
The air rippled, like the wingbeat of a bird had flown over her. She was overcome with the familiar smell of snakeroot and something older and unnamable. It was the smell of ancient magic, viscerally divine, as if the gods themselves had stepped foot into the mortal plane. By the time Marie raised her eyes again, someone else entirely was standing before her.
He was a tall man, powerfully built, with dark skin that gleamed in the lantern light, smooth as a blackbird’s wing. A gentleman’s top hat sat upon his head, and a black feathered crow mask obscured most of his face, except for his eyes, which were bright gold, the piercing eyes of a hawk. Marie knew exactly who he was.
