Page 3 of The Royal Street Witch
I pull the hood of my cloak over my head, pretending I’m not at all intrigued by the obvious tension in the room. Nicola’s head is in her hands as Bastian paces, all while Cassius forlornly walks to the terrace and yes, it was a stake on the ground earlier because it’s now in Cassius’s hand.
This is strange because vampires don’t usually have a weapon that can kill them just lying around or in their own hands, but it’s not my business. My business here is done. I look at the college boy and can’t help but feel guilt, though he won’t remember a thing, and he’s already smiling like a complete goof at Amerie.
“Well, it’s been a pleasure, as usual.” I dip my head and walk toward the door with the sounds of Bastian’s and Nicola’s whispers behind me. I turn and meet Bastian’s gaze, who gives a sharp, appreciative nod in my direction.
Back on Bourbon, there’s that sound—the sound of a crowd yelling, laughing, living. Whistles blow from the lips of locals, enticing you to enter their club. Young bachelorettes dancing, their white veils bopping down the street right next to men on business trips in suits and ties, fingers clamped around Hurricane-filled Styrofoam cups. The Bucket Boys are perched on stools in the middle of the street, with large white buckets between their legs, slamming their drumsticks on top of the plastic, their beats echoing throughout the Quarter. Their mothers watch from the sidelines, laughing with each other, holding their babies. Neon signs and jazz musicians line the streets while every genre of music blasts from the various clubs. Life sways through my bones. Bourbon Street. The most alive street in New Orleans. Locals may try to hate it. But not me.
The French Quarter is always bubbling over with people, and I take a refreshing breath of clean air once I turn on Royal. The smell of a hot Friday night on Bourbon is not for the weak-stomached. First-timers often gag at the smell of fermenting liquor and recklessness.
My shop sits on Royal Street, just around the corner from the chaos, yet almost a whole other world. I enter through the side door, up the stairs to my home that sits above my store.
Pulling my cloak from my red hairline and unlacing my boots—while my cat Mercury greets me in the entryway—I ruminate over the scene at Nightwalkers.
“You will never guess who’s back, Mercury.” I plop on the floor, caressing his tail. Something coils in my stomach, a warning that the natural revulsion I’m supposed to have simply is not there. Because of all the vampires I have come across and hate, I could never make myself hate Bastian Delacroix.
“ROSE QUARTZ IS LOVELY ANDall, but what I really need is divine intervention!” my customer proclaims, clasping her hands together and looking to the ceiling of my shop. “Jesus, send me a man. And not just any man, a good man.” A smile sits upon her bright pink lips, and then she winks at me, for god’s sake. “Know what I mean?”
I do my best to nod as if I’m agreeing with her, but honey, love is not the answer. It doesn’t matter what the answer is, because it’s what most of my customers are in search of, so I wrap her rose quartz necklace in lavender-scented tissue paper and place it into a small velvet pouch.
Wildes Jewelry & Crystal belonged to my grandmother, and though she is long gone, I work religiously, hoping that wherever she is, she can see me trying to salvage what she started.
After sprinkling dried rose petals in the pouch, I tighten it and place it in her hand. “Wear it every day, and at night, place the pouch under your pillow. Soon enough, love will find you.” I close my eyes, envisioning two hearts cut in two, the halves trading places and then being stitched back together. My customers may not know the magic at hand, but I put as much as I can into each stone, so their desires are worn around their necks or hanging from their ears, unaware that life may very well unfold just how they wish it to.
She looks at me as if I’ve solved all the world’s problems, as if I am Jesus Christ himself. But I’m not Jesus, I’m not a miracle worker. I’m a witch that can do a whole lot, yet there’s much I simply cannot do. Making two people fall in love is one of them, but I can certainly help with opening hearts and minds to it.
“What a magical city. I just love it here.”
Same. Yet, the magic of New Orleans wasn’t created by witches. It’s just a natural phenomenon that occurred in a place once considered an uninhabitable environment.
The woman walks out of my shop, her tight mini dress the only thing on her body not moving, and once she gets outside, she opens the pouch and puts the necklace right on.
No, love isn’t the answer. But you know what is? Financial freedom. I scroll through my emails and all that’s there is bill after bill, and I look around my shop and wish that witches could create money. Then every problem of mine would be solved. The pickup from Nightwalkers last night will pay my mortgage, and once I distribute the coven elders their cut, I will hopefully have enough to pay my utilities. I am the only witch in New Orleans paying out the coven, and let’s just say that witches really suck at money management.
I blow out my cheeks, putting my phone away. Back to work.
And just as I place a phantom quartz in a glass bowl, the bell tied to my shop door rings.
Pouring water over the quartz, I feel him before he even enters—Bastian, walking through the door—and my eyes fix on my garnet ring. Vampires aren’t supposed to come calling on witches, and the silver dagger I keep in my boot at all times warms against my skin.
“I come in peace,” he says immediately, raising his hands in surrender, a sly grin across his lips. Tonight his attire is less formal, dark pants and a crisp white button-up. His brown hair still sits in waves, his natural sun-kissed skin luminous in the twilight.
Masking my alarm, I continue pouring water into the bowl until it’s brimming. “Peace,” my voice drips with sarcasm, because vampires don’t know the meaning of the word, and I fix my attention on my work as he walks toward me. His hands slide on the counter, and they are such typical vampire hands. Long. Smooth. Ageless and perfectly manicured. Decorated with two rings—one a gold signet on his right ring finger with B.D. carved into it, and the other a pinkie ring made of gold etched obsidian. It's a stone for protection, and I wonder if he has any idea or if it just looked pretty. Vampires are extremely sentimental, always keeping tokens from their long lives, so I surmise there’s meaning there.
His fingers tap until I’m forced to look up at him.
“Just out doing some shopping. I haven’t been on Royal Street for quite some time. Nice place,” he says, eyes roving over the deep purple walls I just re-painted last year. He saunters past the display cases filled with handmade amethyst and turquoise rings, agate bracelets, and amber necklaces.
I circulate my finger over the water and quartz filled bowl until it stirs on its own. I’m free to be myself in front of Bastian, something I find liberating, but also, I want him to witness the simplest magic and to remember I’m powerful.
“I love magic shows,” he says and crosses his long arms, feigning excitement.
I grab the bowl and place it in the window, realizing my back is to him. “Never turn your back on a vampire,” my mother had always warned, and I always heeded that advice. But Bastian is playing some sort of game with me, and I don’t want him sensing any fear. When I turn around, his arms are still crossed and he’s leaning on the counter.
“Why do you put them in the window?” His eyes twinkle with genuine curiosity.
I lean next to him, our faces dangerously close.
He. Is. Beautiful.
