Page 2 of The Royal Street Witch
Amerie appears from the terrace that overlooks Bourbon Street, a tiny vampire with smooth dark skin and lips the frat boys find irresistible. “I couldn’t help myself,” she sneers in her French accent. “Look at his face. Such a beautiful face has the sweetest blood.”
My stomach turns, and from the sight of this guy, I decide not to wait on the cash. I place the brown paper sack down, pull out a cream, and hand it to Nicola. “It takes seven days to cure the cream. You need to start placing your orders earlier. I can’t keep up.”
“Bastian is back, we’ll be needing more than usual,” Nicola says, and did she say Bastian? I clear my throat and search the room for him, off guard at the mention of his name. It’s been years since I’ve seen Nicola’s second “son” Bastian. Vampires have this strange habit of adopting new vampires and then calling them family while hardly knowing each other. Bastian was around when I was a child, and I always wondered where the only vampire that ever smiled went.
But he’s nowhere in sight, and my eyes turn back to Nicola, who is spooning a fingertip into the jar, pulling a wad of clear cream from it. Healing creams are known to burn the skin of witches. Making it requires extra care, from collecting the ingredients, to carefully filling each container. Something I create that harms me, and the irony is not lost on me.
Kneeling next to the young man, Nicola hastily spreads it across his puncture wounds, caressing his head like he’s some kind of pet. Then she runs her flattened tongue along his forearm, lapping up the residual blood.
I turn as if witnessing something I shouldn’t be seeing, a discomfort that comes with my job, and take a deep breath as something shifts in the room with heavy footsteps pounding upon the floor.
There’s a man exiting Nicola’s office, a bag in one hand while the other runs a thumb along his bottom lip. He watches Nicola, eyebrows drawn together, and I take a breath to steady myself, unsure if I’m lightheaded from watching Nicola lick blood like a sexual wolf, or if it’s seeing Bastian for the first time in fifteen years. He’s still as striking as he was back then—even more so, it seems. But now mine are the eyes of a woman looking upon him, not a little girl. And when his eyes shift to me, I stand up straight.
“Aster,” he says, eyebrow arching. The dark brown locks of hair sit in waves on his head, and his green eyes soften. It’s true that some vampires pale when they turn, but it’s not true for Bastian, who has managed to keep his deep tan. With long legs and a lean body, he’s very dapper in a three-piece suit—which would be overkill for any man that wasn’t a vampire, but vampires can just get away with anything, can’t they? He’s fine, and his walk tells me he knows it.
“Bastian,” I say, avoiding his gaze and stepping away from him.
With searching eyes, he’s placing me as Aster the woman, not Aster the child. It’s no longer the black-haired witch making deliveries with her daughter. My mother has long since moved away, but he smiles as recognition blossoms.
“All grown up.” And something flickers in his eyes as a hand slips into his pocket.
“That is what humans do,” I say, and he laughs.
“I wouldn’t consider a witch a human.” He’s wrong, but I don’t bother to correct him. Witches are supernatural beings, yes. But our hearts must pump with blood, our bodies require sustenance, we can be killed, and we can reproduce.
“A mere mortal, then?” I bow with a hint of an English accent.
“Better.” His lips curve into an amused grin. “So you’re the HBIC now?”
“You mean The HeadWitchIn Charge,” I correct, and he nods and holy Maiden, Mother, and Crone, he is hot. And does my face mirror my thoughts? Because he suddenly straightens as if remembering why we are even talking in the first place.
“Your pay.” There’s a hint of hesitation when he hands over the paper bag full of cash. I open it, eyeing the normal stack of hundreds.
“Said you’d pay extra, for the rush.” Smoke from a burning stick of incense billows in front of me and I bat it away.
Nicola looks up from the young man, stewing. “You were already on your way.”
“I’ll pay extra. Your words.”
This is not a typical business relationship, and every supernatural in this room knows it. Without me, they couldn’t get away with the amount of tourist blood they drink, and that’s because over a hundred years ago my great-great grandmother and her sisters struck a deal with the Vampire King of New Orleans. Once upon a time, death was the only option for vampire victims, so my ancestors believed they were doing the right thing. We make untraceable potions that incapacitate humans, and the vampires take enough blood that does no harm. The enchanted creams we create heal the bite wounds on the spot, and humans are none the wiser—especially tourists who think they were momentarily lost in a daydream while at that one speakeasy in the French Quarter.
In return, they pay me. They pay me well. If it weren’t for me, they would have to revert back to dumping bodies in the Mississippi, and with today’s forensics, that wouldn’t last long.
Nicola distributes my products throughout Louisiana, but some vampires have other arrangements for how they get their blood, and I don’t ask questions. I do my job—what the women in my family have been doing for years—with my mouth mostly closed.
My eyes roam to the comatose boy’s arm. The punctures are gone, the magic already having healed them.
“I had to run. Running is extra,” I lie. “Do you see these boots?” Raising my skirt, I showcase my laced-up boots. “Most dangerous with all the potholes.”
“Always taking advantage,” Nicola says through gritted teeth, rising from the couch.
“Mother,” Bastian croons, running a tense hand through his wavy brown hair. “Oksana is still turning customers away downstairs. Let’s get the boy up and open for business.”
He grabs my hand, pushes a few hundreds into my palm, then turns it over to his icy lips. “For the rush.” His breath is cool against my hand, his black lashes blinking and his eyes boring into mine while a soft kiss is placed upon my skin. “See you around.” And he says it like a promise.
My hand slips from his, and I shove the hundreds and bag of cash into my tote. Nicola is fuming, which isn’t out of character for the hot-headed blonde. But this is different, there’s a panic in the room.
Bastian turns from me and sits the boy up just as his eyes flit open. “Amerie,” he says with a flick of his head, and the beautiful French vampire bounces next to the boy, gently running her hand up and down his thigh as he comes to. Bastian pulls out his phone and dials a number. “Let them in,” he says sternly into the phone—surely Oksana the gatekeeper—as he unbuttons his suit jacket.
