Page 6 of The Royal Street Witch
My heartbeat quickens and my wrists throb from the demands of my grimoire, so I step back, because shit just got real.
And then, Bastian smiles because he’s caught me contemplating. “Gotcha.” He winks, standing so close he’s intoxicating.
“It’s time for you to go.” The thought of owning this building free and clear is too tempting, but secret deals with vampires would be nothing but trouble for both of us. I walk behind the counter, brushing against my grimoire, silently begging it to stop pulling on my wrists. It relents, and I sigh with relief.
Bastian turns, placing both hands on the counter again, arms spread wide apart. “You don’t want to pass this up. How about I come by tomorrow with a prepayment? Then you can get started. Sound good?” His cocky grin is punchable, a far cry from the vulnerability he disclosed over his brother only moments ago.
“Nope,” I purr, resting my face on my hand, and he raps his knuckles twice on the glass countertop.
“See you tomorrow?”
“I’m busy.” It comes out as dry as fifty-year-old paint.
“Same time, same place?”
“I won’t be here.”
“Good talk.” He nods, seeming lighter, and I pull the smile from my lips. His hands slide into his pockets as he walks toward the door. Halting, he points to the deadbolt. “Unlock,” he commands, but the deadbolt stays in position. He thinks he has me, thinks I’ll cave, and I’m bewildered by his sudden arrogance and want him out of my shop.
“Unlock,” I whisper, and he grabs the doorknob and faces me.
“See, you have a gift!À demain!” French forsee you tomorrow, and my jaw clenches.
“No, you won’t!” I yell, but the door closes and I’m not so sure. I lock the door behind him and then grab my grimoire, its red velvet feeling warmer than usual against my fingers. I march out of the shop and straight upstairs to my apartment.
The candles in my parlor alight upon my arrival, the Victrola playingDon’t Stop Me Nowby Queen. I blow out my cheeks as I set my grimoire on the coffee table—her cover flying open as Mercury jumps on the table and meows.
“Winnie,” I say—the name of my grimoire, the Wildes women’s book of spells handed down to me from my mother. “I would appreciate it if you would stop pulling on me from every mention of magic.” I rub my exhausted eyes, knowing my words will do no good. “I can’t create that kind of magic,” I say to Winnie and Mercury but mostly to myself. “Can you even imagine what kind of consequences it could have? What if other vampires got a hold of it? We can’t have a bunch of day-walking vampires roaming the streets.” I’m trying to convince a spell book and it’s not working, because I can hardly convince myself. My curiosity is peaked, and Bastian believes I can do it though I hardly believe I can.
Winnie’s pages fly open and stop on a transformation spell. It isn’t right at all for what Bastian is asking of me, but it would be a start. My stomach drops while my hand runs down Mercury’s back, and my mind can’t stop thinking of the aventurine eyes that offered me financial freedom on a silver platter.
SOME BAYOU WITCHES RESIDE INshacks, doling out palm readings in the dead of night, nothing but a lantern-lit porch and the sound of alligators slithering through the grass. And there’re other bayou witches, living in mansions built in the 1800s, taking their morning tea in the parlor to the sound of Debussy, dressed to the nines with nowhere in particular to go. Aunt Violetta is just that kind, and one of the reasons my mother left once my grandmother died. Aunt Violetta became the elder of our coven and still believes that witchcraft could remain refined with her teacups and saucers, the hand-painted portraits of herself, the home that makes you feel as if you’ve stepped back in time.
The rain pelts me as I trudge up her porch steps, the hour drive to Houma a wet and nauseating one. I don’t have to knock or ring the doorbell, the door always opens on its own upon my arrival. The grand staircase is the only thing that consistently greets me in this old house, that and the smell of two-hundred-year-old wood.
“In here, dear,” her raspy voice calls from the parlor. Violetta’s Federal style mansion sits amid the lush bayou greens, far from neighbors or wandering eyes. Just as she likes it.
I turn to the right, my eyes taking her and all her very extra glory in. She sits with a teacup in her gloved hand, her curly gray hair half up with a satin bow piercing the bun.
She stares at me as if she has no idea why I’m standing in front of her then takes a sip of her tea, the black lace glove cut off at the fingers. “I hope the drive wasn’t too intolerable,” she says as her cup clacks against the saucer. The drive is always intolerable and even worse today because I’m nervous, but I lie, sitting across from her, placing the cash on the small breakfast table. Behind her in the grand dining room, the large table is set for a party of at least twelve, and I wonder if she’s entertaining tonight.
Sliding the bag of cash off the table and opening it, she moves her brown eyes from the bag to me at least three times. She takes out four of the stacks of cash, leaving me with the fifth, sliding it across the table to me.
“What can I get you? Anything to eat or drink?” she asks, the lines on her face seeming deeper than my last visit, her hands moving a little slower. She rolls the bag of cash back up and places it under the table, and my heart thrums against my ribcage. I lick my dry lips and swallow because if I don’t jump in and ask now, I won’t do it at all.
“No, nothing. Thank you. I was hoping I could talk to you about the take.” I clear my throat as her eyes slit like she might set me on fire. “More and more seems to be coming out each visit, and it’s getting harder for me to pay my bills.”
Violetta crosses her legs, fluffing out her taffeta skirt. “It’s so very unfortunate you can’t afford your lifestyle.” Her voice sounds sympathetic, but there’s not a trace of sympathy on her face.
“It’s not my lifestyle that’s becoming harder to keep up with. It’s the fact that more and more of what the vampires pay me is being taken out…”By you, I want to say but am quiet. She is an elder and I must respect her at all costs, but she sure makes it hard.
Her graceful hand slowly stirs more milk into her tea. “As the leader of this coven, it’s my job to make sure all the women are taken care of. As the True Witch of this coven, a direct descendant of our founding witch, it’s your job to create the potions and creams that keep us all afloat. You will get your time to be cared for. I told you to move out of The Quarter. That building is just too much for one woman to afford. You can live comfortably in Metairie or on the North Shore. All lovely places.”
My hands ball into fists, a wave of anger taking hold of me. “That is my home. It was my grandmother’s home. It’s where I do business, my shop is there. I promised to keep and take care of it. It’s where the Wildes women will live forever.”
Violetta’s eyes drop to my stomach, and I instinctively cover it, my jaw hardening.
“There is an order of things,” she says, and I know a lecture is coming. “Maiden, mother, crone. The maidens care for the crones. And I don’t see a child in your lap, making you a mother, so until that day you will hand over my cut and I won’t hear another word about it. Our coven was forged at the feet of the hung women of Salem…” And now for the history lesson. I buckle up for the story I’ve heard over and over my entire life.
