Marcel leaned over, nodding toward the frenzied lovemaking below. “Aren’t you tired? Tired of wasting your magic on such small games?”
Ree stared into his honeyed eyes for a moment, saw her own reflection in their warm depths. So cruelly apathetic she looked. She stood and shrugged on her traveling cloak. Marcel was right. The truth was, shehadgrown tired of this game. Particularly the game of secrets that her mother was playing. “Come then. Let’s go play another.”
This time, Ree would make the rules.
She led her circle down the spiral staircase, through the pleasure house’s front salon, then outside into the wild music of Bourbon Street and to a waiting carriage. Ory bid farewell, claiming fatigue, and Ree waved him off. Quickly, the rest of them left the FrenchQuarter and, after some time, ventured deep into the bayou, far enough away from the industrial stink that swathed the city at night and the Church’s careful eye, both of which weren’t exactly useful conduits for magic.
Finally, they emerged into a small clearing surrounded on all sides by wisps of Spanish moss, the center speckled with various altars and rows of candles. The biggest altar belonged to Damballah, the supreme snake loa of creation. This was the place where her mother had trained her in Voodoo as a child, the place where even Marie had been taught by the Quarter Queen before her. If her mother refused her questions, Ree was still determined to find her answers, even if it meant turning to her own means, her own magic.
Ree lit her candles in a perfect circle around them, their flickering light winking in and out as the wind crept in through the trees. She shivered in the chill of the bayou, always cooler at night, colder still after rain.
“Aram,” she called, holding an arm out into the air. A crow darted through the night sky, swooping through mangled branches and fog, then landing on Ree’s outstretched arm. Aram ducked his head, eager for her attention. She stroked his coarse feathers, and he nibbled her hand. “What did you see, Aram?”
Aram turned bright gold eyes on her, and a message flashed in her mind’s eye. Her mother, standing in Congo Square, speaking with…her.Ree saw her own eyes flash the cruel yellow of a demon’s. The force of Aram’s magic was sudden and heavy, filling her mind like a squall of bitter wind as a channeled message passed between them, a single word ringing out:Harbinger.
Ree froze. If she had truly performed some kind of dark magic, even by the merits of Voodoo, the likes of a Harbinger were beyond her little games. A Harbinger was the gravest of magical omens. It foretold the worst kinds of misfortunes and disasters, the comings of monsters.
Aram flew off into the darkness. Anabelle placed a hand on her shoulder. “Ree? What’s going on?”
The others stood back, angling to hear. Ree shook her head. This was not a public matter. It soon would be, of course, if the Church had this information, further fuel to turn public opinion against LesMagiques, the predominantly black and colored magical population of New Orleans. The Church wanted eradication of magic. A total clean sweep of the city, a wiping of a plague. She would have to work quickly to find out more before they twisted the Harbingerto their advantage.
“We must begin the ritual,” said Ree.
Whatever dark magic she’d performed, the spirits would tell her for a price. Barter was the true currency of a city like New Orleans. Debts and favors flooded the city more than hurricane season ever could, and spirits liked nothing more than to make deals. Ree reached into her satchel and produced a bottle that sloshed with violet liquid, thick and filmy, more like cold morning porridge than a proper potion. “Drink this,” Ree commanded her circle.
Anabelle, Marcel, and Fabrice quickly drank. They were Les Magiques, magical-blooded but far less powerful than Ree, making for useful conduits. Although she was High-Blooded like her mother, Ree couldn’t summon the spirits without them. In a city such as theirs, blood wasn’t just in you—itmadeyou. High-Blooded folks held connections to older, stronger bloodlines, powerful magic. The Low-Blooded had seen their magic too mixed up, too muddled to keep its strength.
Ree uncorked a bottle of animal blood and began to pour it into the shape of a veve that meantinvitationin the Old Tongue. There were many veves in Voodoo, each one inscribed with its own meaning, no different really than the alphabet.
“Now we begin,” Ree commanded.
The four of them began the spell, moving easily between Creole and French. The cold that crept into their circle was not the kind common to the bayou. It was the cold of those long dead, of the spirit realm, that dove into the marrow and back up the spine like a bolt of icy lightning. The circle of candles went out in one snap of wind.
Ree squinted through the sudden darkness, her eyes slow to adjust. In a matter of seconds, something had changed. These were not her friends. Ree had summoned only one spirit, but three had come. Much more than she’d bargained for.
Marie Laveau,the first spirit spoke through Fabrice.
“The Second,” Ree corrected the spirit. “Marie Laveau the Second, I’ll allow. But Ree I prefer.”
Insolent, this one. With tongue as sharp as sword. You are your mother’s daughter, after all,the second spirit said. The words poured from Marcel’s mouth crookedly, like broken bone mended in all the wrong places.
Anabelle smiled at Ree, but that was not Anabelle. The spirit twirled one of Anabelle’s braids, marveling at the beauty of its vessel.You’ve her face,the spirit inside of Anabelle remarked offhandedly.The first Marie Laveau’s copy in every way. But there’s darkness to you, little girl. Something far, far darker lives within your soul.
Ree fought to keep her voice level. “I did not entreat you all for pleasantries.”
Then make your request known.
“A Harbinger was spoken of in the city. Why?”
We cannot presume to know the reasons of demons. That is outside of our realm, child. Go seek a priest,said the spirit within Marcel.
Ree sneered. Unlike her mother, she had little patience for the Church and the Great Golden Sham they peddled every Sunday morning. “Allow me to be more specific then. What did the Harbinger warn of?”
The spirits glanced among one another.You like games and riddles, don’t you, child?
Ree’s lips quirked. “Who doesn’t?”
Fabrice pointed a finger at Ree, and for one split second, the finger looked longer than it should have, gnarled and crooked.Well, listen close, child of Marie Laveau, for here is a riddle you will not soon forget. The only answer we will tell.
