Page 1 of The Royal Street Witch
“NEVER BE TOO MAD TOtake their money,” Mother would say, stacking bills of hundreds and fifties along the kitchen table, a hand-rolled cigarette hanging from the corner of her scarlet lips. “They will enrage you, they will belittle you. Think themselves superior even when they need you. Take their money and go.”
Another text vibrates in my pocket as I make my way down Bourbon Street, Mother on my mind. Groaning, I check my phone, unsurprised it’s another frantic text from Nicola.
Amerie couldn’t wait. Hurry. I’ll pay extra.
“Wow.” It’s all I can muster as I stomp down the street because I can read between the lines. Amerie opened some human’s vein and didn’t have my cream to heal it.Vampires. The most impulsive creatures on the planet. It’s astounding how they’ve survived this long.
Take their money and go.
Many a girl will be told on their first trip to the French Quarter, never to go down Bourbon Street on her own, especially past midnight. But this is my home, and shady folks tend to stay away from girls with dark lipstick in velvet hooded cloaks. And because of this, I’ve rarely had to use magic to protect myself for most of my twenty-five years.
It’s not really the locals I’ve had problems with, it’s the tourists that expect young women to show their tits in exchange for plastic beads. Drunken buffoons that think I want to hear about how many ways they can please me.
The last time I showed an overly aggressive bald man exactly what pleases me, by pushing him down with a flick of my finger.
“Two hours,” I had whispered as I walked across his back. The spell had been cast with him sprawled out upon the alcohol-covered street for 120 minutes before he had the strength to get up, the yells in his Brooklyn accent somehow barely above a whisper.
Sneering at the memory, my feet taking me farther down Bourbon Street to Comey’s, a no-frills jazz pub where true music enthusiasts sit to drink and not just listen to music, but tofeelmusic. Stepping inside, my eyes immediately catch Oksana’s. Running Comey’s is her job, but her true passion is being the vampire’s gatekeeper. They lurk inside various clubs and bars throughout the French Quarter, whispering the password to the upstairs speakeasy into the ears of captivated tourists. It’s Oksana who allows passage upstairs once the password has been repeated, ushering them where she’s about to take me.
With the usual grimace on her face, she comes from behind the bar, and we fall in line with each other. A jazz band goes to town on the tiny stage as patrons sway in their seats or yell over the music in an attempt at conversation.
“Finally,” she mutters in her English accent. That wispy woman with a diseased disposition never hides her revulsion for me.
My index finger points to her foot, an invisible bolt of power zapping her sandal. She stumbles forward but pushes her arm to the wall, catching herself.
“You good?” I ask, sprawling out my hands in a fake attempt to catch her. Those thin lips sneer, but she’s not stupid enough to accuse me of anything.
Once we reach the back of the bar, she reaches into her pocket, producing a set of keys. I don’t need the password to enter. I never will. Unlocking the door that saysEmployees Only, she side-eyes me and then waves her hand for me to ascend, her eyes saying,What are you waiting for? I clench the inside of my cheek to keep from casting something I may regret and turn away from her.
The narrow stairs widen as they spiral upward, and I stroke the heads of the cats that lounge upon them as I climb. Passing aVampires On The Loosesign on the staircase wall, I make my way to the second floor and slowly open the door withNightwalkersetched into the glass.
A vampire speakeasy with real vampires. You must stay clever if you’re a vampire or witch these days, and New Orleans, with its haunted reputation, is the perfect place to hide in plain sight.
Just as I push the door open, I hear Nicola’s voice, desperate, crying, no wait—pleading.
“Why isn’t it enough?” she wails as I walk in, her knees at Cassius’s feet, hands clasped in prayer position, eyes rimmed red. This is a first, and is that a stake on the ground next to her? What is happening?
The clack of my boots causes her head to snap in my direction, and she looks caught, embarrassed even.
“We had to turn customers away!” she hisses, jumping up and stomping toward me, then has the audacity to reach for my bag of products, but I slide it out of her reach.
“You’re so welcome that I rushed an order for you, Nicola. I’ll remember your gratitude next time.” I flash the fakest smile and step closer to her. “I’ll take my money first.”
Nicola’s dark eyes glint in the dimly lit room that was once a Greek Revival condominium but now is a speakeasy covered in black and white striped wallpaper like we’re standing inside Beetlejuice’s suit pocket. Small tables line the walls where tarot readings are as popular as the emerald flow of absinthe.
Licking her canines, sharp and dangerous, Nicola is consumed with anger as she runs a jittery hand over her platinum blonde hair. Whenever her nostrils flare like they are now, I’ve learned the struggle to gather herself is real.
Candles cast shadows along the walls mixing the scent of lavender with alcohol while a gothic song plays—a vampire waltz, no doubt. We supernaturals are all about ambiance, and my eyes return to the oldest, most ambient creature in the room.
In a large Victorian chair, Cassius sits in the corner, staring at a wall until his eyes meet mine. He’s usually playing some melancholic tune on the baby grand piano in the corner of the parlor, but tonight it seems I’ve walked in on more than one crisis. And the stake I thought I saw is nowhere in sight.
I can’t help but pity Nicola’s first son. A sullen vampire, with his long brown hair and perfectly sculpted face. If I were a usual girl, my heartbeat would quicken every time his attention was placed upon me, but I’m not usual—not at all. The sulky vampire bit is old, as far as I’m concerned. Cassius doesn’t look at me, doesn’t acknowledge my existence, which is nothing new. My purpose here has nothing to do with him and his river of sorrows.
I look away from Cassius, and my attention is drawn to the reason I’m here—to the young man lying on the royal blue couch in the center of the room. With closed eyes, he’s breathing ever so softly, as if the life is barely left in him. His long forearm lies across a coffee table where two fresh puncture wounds pool with blood on the inside of his elbow. Next to his arm is the glass of absinthe that put him to sleep, the drink laced with one of my potions.
This is how I make the bulk of my living—selling potions and creams to vampires. It’s a lucrative business, but I can’t say that I love my job.
I sense the tension, sense the vampires are getting restless, worrying the guy will awaken at any moment. And if he does with two holes in his arm, they would have to kill him. Thankfully I made it in time.
