Page 7 of The Royal Street Witch
“Our ancestors watched their beloved mothers hang from the gallows. Their collective rage and sorrow created the magic, the coven that we are still today. Those three women—one of your ancestors, the original and True Witch—led one of my ancestors and one from the Howe family, to form a circle of three impenetrable, unrelenting women. They bound together and vowed to never allow another man to ever control or have power over them or their daughters ever again. We made our own family, not one constrained by blood but by sisterhood. It was then our coven became family. Birthing only women. Living a life without the need for a man. Being the only dictators of our lives.” With an irritated huff, her angry eyes meet mine.
“It broke my heart to see your grandmother bled dry by your mother, and I did all that I could, but now it’s my turn to be taken care of. I didn’t make the rules. This order has worked for 300 years. We aren’t going to change it now. Do your part. Make the potions and creams and be quiet about it. And please don’t get me started on the baby business. I’ve been in touch with your mother and she’s told me you’re quite hard-headed on the subject.”
She saidbaby business. I don’t even want to think about that. I can’t.
Fluffing her hair with one hand, she tsks, shaking her head. “You are the chosen one, the one whose blood is the same blood as the founding witch of our coven. It’s your lineage. It’s hard but necessary work.”
I close my eyes, taking a moment to really consider begging her. Because I’m prideful. I would rather break my own back than fall to my knees. I’m reminded about my water being turned off last week, how I used magic to turn it back on. How dire things are becoming. My back is breaking and I’m not the one breaking it.
“Please. I’m begging you to help me. I just need a little more to live off of. I—”
“Witches don’t beg, darling. Please stop.” She licks her bottom lip, uncomfortable with my vulnerability, the harshness in her voice a warning.
The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth from biting my tongue. How easily she can shut me down. How little she cares about my struggle. It hurts and I’m embarrassed and wounded. I’m to provide for her until she dies, and then her younger sister, and then hopefully my mother. For now, I am at her mercy.
Bastian’s words echo through my mind from last evening.I think you will find it financially beneficial.That smirk, those eyes, and I think about Cassius.
“You’re right,” I say, pouring myself a cup of tea. “And Bastian has returned from New York. There will probably be an increase in goods sold.” It actually won’t make a difference, but now I need to pivot the conversation.
“Bastian Delacroix is the most decent of those pitiful creatures,” she pipes, happy to be changing the subject.
“Yes, I’ve noticed that.” I clear my throat and sit up taller. “I also noticed Cassius looked, well, he looked tormented. Like he was suffering…more than usual.”
She titters, her red fingernails tapping the linen tablecloth. “Cassius has been suffering since he was a child. It’s nothing at all new.”
“Yes…” I nod in agreement. “But I was just curious if you knew why. If you knew what happened to him to make him so…depressed?”
“Good grief, girl. That boy is downright miserable and has been since 1794 when he set the town on fire.”
I laugh because that is not what I expected, not at all. “One of the great fires?”
“Yes, set by Cassius and some other young boys playing with flint and tinder. Wind caught the flames and set a hay store on fire. Two hundred and twelve buildings were destroyed. People were killed. When Cassius’s father found out it was his boy that set the fire, he orphaned him, got on a boat back to France. He was cast out. Shunned by an aching city. Never had a mother. He lived destitute and penniless until he practically begged Nicola Delacroix to turn him. But that made no difference. He’s been positively unpleasant for most of his life.”
My back falls against my chair, the breath I was holding slips out. There’s so much to digest from that statement, and my aunt said it so nonchalant, so flippant.
“I didn’t know that. How did I not know that?”
“Well, it’s not well known, girl. If you google it, you won’t see his name. We know it. The vampires know it. He’s lucky in that regard. History forgot, but he can’t. He never will.”
He never will. But how could he? How could you forget being the cause of one of the biggest fires in New Orleans’ history? How could you forget that your father abandoned you when you were only a child? And how the fuck can I complain about my life? I square my shoulders and smile at the woman in control of so much of my life, sitting in front of me as if it’s no big deal. And I see Bastian’s hands on my display case. Obsidian and gold rings, a life he can offer me. Free from the begging, the worry, the unknown.
I shake my head, and she eyes me, witnessing my internal struggle.
“At least you don’t got it that bad,” she laughs and taps the table, and I suddenly feel very sick because I can’t think of the life that I could have. I need to focus on the life I’m creating, the life I will have. But that doesn’t help the here and now. I need to get out of here.
“See you in two weeks,” I say, rising with my measly bag of cash. “I’ll let myself out.” I kiss each of her cold cheeks, and she clicks her tongue at me.
“You have the strongest bloodline in New Orleans, you can survive a little financial strife.”
I blow out a breath and feign a smile. “I certainly can.”
When my back hits the seat of my car, a sense of dread washes over me—from the tips of my toes to the top of my head. I’m leaving feeling worse than when I came. Everything in my body seizes, my knuckles locking around my car keys, my jaw widening as I open my mouth and release a scream I wish could be heard all the way to the Mississippi Delta. But only one person can hear it, and I meet her eyes from her parlor window.
That’s when my car starts, the keys still in my hand, and it’s Violetta’s way of telling me to be on my way, don’t cause a scene, get the hell out of here. The curtain swings closed, and she doesn’t give a shit that I’m struggling. In fact, she’s never really given a shit about me or my mother. Her greed has grown with her age and there’s nothing I can do about that. It stings, being in a coven yet so alone.
I WASN’T FIRM ENOUGH. BASTIANknows it. I know it. His offer is too enticing, especially after my trip to Aunt Violetta’s earlier today. And so, in an effort to avoid him, I locked up the shop early and got dressed for a night out. It doesn’t matter what night of the week it is, the French Quarter is always ripe as a Georgia peach, luscious and full of flavor.
My thigh-high boots clunk along the worn concrete as I take Toulouse St. to Bourbon. I decline the call from my mortgage company’s 1-800 number that I know by heart. On the other end sits a man or woman, hating their job, having to constantly harass the late mortgage payers. It’s 8:58 p.m., for god’s sake. Nice try, fuckers!
