Page 74 of She's Like the Wind
“Tchèl mwen!” she cried, arms wide, her voice a rhythmic blend of Haitian cadence and Quarter mischief. “You got eyes like a man sleepin’ with ghosts and dreamin’ ’bout a woman he let slip through his fingers.”
I glared at Delphi. He’d obviously told her about mysituation.
She pointed to the velvet-covered chair across from her. “Sit down, bébé. You’re leaking heartache all over my floor.”
Delphi clapped a hand on my shoulder and muttered, “Good luck,” before slipping out like a man who’d narrowly escaped a curse.
I sat, unsure what the hell I’d walked into.
Herbs were drying in bunches from the rafters.
A candle flickered inside a teacup.
Shelves were crowded with bottles, bones, and old photographs, which included a portrait of Baron Samedi next to a signed photo of Michelle Obama.
“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” I admitted, voice low.
She raised a perfectly arched brow. “You know why you here,bébé. You just ain’t thinkin’ your mouth would betray your heart today.”
Then, without breaking eye contact, she reached under the table, pulled out a chipped crystal glass. She poured a dark amber liquid from a bottle that looked older than the gas lamps lining Bourbon Street.
“Drink,” she ordered. “Then we start where all healing starts: with the truth.”
I looked at the glass. Well, she was Delphi’s aunt, so sheprobablywouldn’t poison me.
I took a tentative sip…it burned like a motherfucker.
I coughed while she regarded me thoughtfully andthen downed the glass she poured for herself like a shot.
“Now, come on,bébé, tell me about the girl you lost?”
“Which girl?” I set the glass down, feeling heat rise through me.
“Let’s start with the first one,” she suggested softly.
Maybe there was something about witches and potions because I found myself tellinghereverything. Not all at once. Not easily. But the words came.
About Lia and the crash.
About Naomi, and the stupid, terrified way I’d let her down.
About holding my breath for a decade and only exhaling now—too late, when Naomi was probably already halfway in love with Jonah fucking Lamarre.
She didn’t interrupt. Didn’t murmur comforting platitudes or offer convenient spells as I’d expected.
She just listened, her eyes like dark pools, as she ran her fingers absently through a string of black onyx beads.
When I was done, I felt raw. Shaky. Like I’d peeled myself open in a room that smelled like sage and rosewater and cloves.
What the fuck am I doing?
“You want Naomi back?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“You want peace?”
“Desperately.”
