Page 11 of The Royal Street Witch
“From head to toe, girl,” she laughs, sticking her tongue out. “It was like I was fucking a work of art.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” I say, remembering the many body parts I’ve seen in her album. Every color, shape, and size—the girl is not picky.
Grabbing her backpack and patting me on the head before walking to the door, she proclaims, “Life is more than working all the time.”
“Yeah, well, Violetta is bleeding me dry. I don’t understand why she’s taking more and more money every visit.”
“She’s the greediest witch in the coven. And because most of her sisters are dead, she gets the majority of it. Lies by saying she’s spreading the wealth, but she’s really lining her pockets. That’s what Jade told me.”
“And she’s Aunt Violetta’s favorite right now. Wow,” I sigh, and Chantal tilts her head sympathetically.
“Heavy is the head that wears the crown. I’m sorry you’re a True Witch. One day it will be worth it. I love you,” she says and walks out the door.
I slowly exhale, knowing what must be done so she doesn’t catch on. I hate lying to her, but I’m also obligated to protect her.
And then there’s Jade. Violetta’s current favorite of our coven because she’s had not one but two daughters and she’s two years younger than me. But that’s not what I’m worried about. What I’m worried about is her ability to read minds, which can prove to be very dangerous for me and my present situation.
So I place my cloak over my shoulders and pull the hood over my head, locking up the shop. My feet skip down Canal Street, taking me where they need to go, jumping on the St. Charles Streetcar, just as it takes off for the Garden District. It’s not long before the bustle of downtown is behind me and the quieter, more refined New Orleans sprawls ahead.
I chose Lafayette Cemetery No 1 because there’s less riffraff in the Garden District. Before it closed for renovations, it was flooded with tourists and tour guides, whom you can always spot by the grand umbrellas that shade them from the Louisiana sun.
The night is muggy and laden with stars as I snap my fingers, causing the wrought iron gate to disappear for a mere second, long enough for me to slip through.
The concrete path is crooked and uneven, and it’s dark—so very dark—yet my boots seem to know just where to step. So I follow my feet, knowing one must be quick at night in the old graveyards of New Orleans. Spirits are restless, and the dead wait for no one. I respect the spirits that rest here, but I don’t have time to meddle with them.
I blink, and something shifts in the corner of my eye. Whipping around to the Society for Destitute and Orphan Boys’ tomb, I see Cassius leaning against the old grave with his head hung low. He must know I’m here; vampire senses are more heightened than mine, yet he does nothing to conceal himself. I consider walking straight past him, the entire reason I’m in this predicament, and keep on my path, but his head slowly rises and our eyes lock.
If sadness were a bullet, I’d be lying on the ground, soaked in blood from the sorrow in his eyes. My mouth parts and my feet halt, frozen by him and the attention his presence demands. And he does something he’s never done before outside of Nightwalkers. He nods his head at me ever so slightly, gently acknowledging me, and I’m in shock, because usually Cassius Delacroix only looks through me. I nod back, my lungs catching because there’s something about his solemnness that makes him so utterly breathtaking. He turns his back to me, his white shirt glowing in the night, and I have to look away, my eyes meeting the tops of my boots. By the time I look back up, he’s gone.
It takes me a moment to gather myself—the slow unfurling that Cassius can cause mortals is not lost on me. He’s sullen, and humans—women especially—want to nurse his internal wounds, yet they have no idea that he is unfixable. He will always have the heart of an abandoned boy, a shunned boy, unless Bastian is right that my potion can actually help him. I search for his trail, but he’s nowhere in sight, and I must hurry.
Once at the center of the cemetery’s four quadrants, I stomp three times, close my eyes, and raise my arms toward the sky.
“I, Aster Wildes, descendent of Sarah Wildes, call upon a spirit to guide me on a mission.”
Gusts of wind caress my face, my eyes opening to that familiar spark that forms into an orb in front of me. Glowing green as the Emerald City, and I smile at how easy witching has become for me. I lean toward the spirit whose bones lie somewhere in this cemetery. And with a grateful heart, I whisper its mission, so lingering ears hear nothing. The orb takes off, and I follow it, knowing only a witch’s eye can see it, and the sooner we get out of the cemetery, the less likely that is to happen. We walk through the Garden District up to First Street, turning right. The pavement is riddled with cracks and potholes, but my feet know how to maneuver around them without having to look down, and it’s because of the orb’s glow.
A mission like this could take hours, but the Garden District is large enough with mansions filled with families, so the odds are in my favor. I follow the orb, wondering whose soul it is, whose grave I called it from. I feel its good intentions, its desire to please me, and in return, I will pay for it with gratitude, and that’s all it covets. My gratitude and an opportunity to do my bidding again.
Under a canopy of oak trees, atop slabs of broken concrete, my little orb stops in front of a purple mansion, floating in the air for a few moments to let me know, this is the one. I pull my hood over my eyes and look to the ground, my feet walking up the porch steps until I reach the front door, the orb still in charge until it brings me to my desired location. I peep through the window because the lights are on, with sheer curtains drawn, and I’m unsure what I’m walking into.
We don’t move quickly, my little companion and me. We move like honey, every footstep confident and intentional, so when the emerald orb, circling and glowing, floats right through the front door, I take a deep breath and grab the doorknob, twisting and gently pushing. Once over the threshold, I’m reunited with my orb, and I immediately hear the shouting.
A man and a woman engaged in a battle of words.
“You want a mother, that’s what you want,” the woman cries. “I’m just supposed to feed you and clean for you and birth your children!”
“Never satisfied,” is all I hear from the man as the woman lists off all the ways her life is not her own. The orb ascends the stairs and I follow, my head low, but my eyes like a hawk’s.
“Light as a feather,” I whisper to my feet, so no sounds are made walking up the old stairway. I don’t pause, I don’t look around, I stay on course with the orb, and once I reach the top of the stairs, I hear it.
Why I’m in these strangers’ home.
The orb turns down the hall, the cries getting louder and louder as I get closer and closer. I slip through the cracked door of a room, and in it sits a white crib with a baby boy, no more than one year old, his cries amplifying when I enter. The orb glows over his head, and his eyes shoot up with a look of fear washed over his baby face.
My hand rests on his crib while the orb dances above, momentarily distracting him from his cries for mommy or daddy, who are too busy fighting downstairs to hear him. The baby pulls himself to sit, meets my eyes, and decides to wail once more.
His face is slick from tears, patches of red on his cheeks, blonde hair matted to his head. Pulling the handkerchief from my pocket, I slowly reach into the crib and run the handkerchief over his wet cheeks and eyes, absorbing every tear on his soaked face. He resists, twisting his face away from me. Once I have collected as many tears as possible, I roll up the handkerchief and place it in my pocket.
