A Chalice of Wind (8 page)

I hadn’t gotten anything from my dad’s lawyer about his estate, and Mrs. Thompkins said they were still sorting through everything. It sounded like a total headache. I wanted it to be all settled—I could put the house furniture into storage, and when I escaped from this loony bin, I could set up my own apartment or house back home. I was counting the days.

Thais Allard,
one envelope said. It was from the Orleans Parish Public School System. I ripped it open to find I was to attend École Bernardin, which was the nearest public school. It started in six days. Six days from now, a brand new school.

So, okay. I’d wanted to go to school, but somehow accepting the fact that I would attend school
here
felt like a ton of harsh reality all at once. An oh-so-familiar wave of despair washed over me as I headed up the narrow carriageway to the back of the building.

I went in, got blasted by the air-conditioning, and dumped Axelle’s mail in a pile on the kitchen counter. A weird burning smell made me sneeze, and I followed it through the kitchen and into my bedroom, where Axelle was—get this—burning a little green branch and chanting.

“What the heck are you doing?” I asked, waving my arms to clear out the smoke.

“Burning sage,” Axelle said briefly, and kept going, waving the smoldering green twigs in every corner of my room.

Burning sage? “You know, they make actual air fresheners,” I said, dumping my stuff on my bed. “Or we could just open the window.”

“This isn’t for that,” Axelle said. Her lips moved silently, and I finally got it: the burning sage was some “magic” thing she was doing. Like she was doing a “spell” in my room for some reason. So. This was my life: I lived with an unknown stranger who was right now performing a
voodoo
spell in my own
bedroom.
Because she actually believed all that crap. I mean, Jesus. Not to take the Lord’s name in vain.

Axelle ignored me, murmuring some sort of chant under her breath as she moved about the room. In her other hand she held a crystal, like you can buy at a science shop, and she ran this around the window frame while she chanted.

I freaked. I couldn’t help it. At that moment my life seemed so completely
insane.
Without saying a word, I turned around and ran out of that apartment, down the carriageway, and through the gate. Then I was on the narrow street, with slow-moving cars, tourists, street performers. It was all too much, and I pressed my hand against my mouth, trying not to cry. I hated this place! I wanted to be somewhere normal! I wanted to be home! While Welsford wasn’t exactly a mime-free zone, still, I wouldn’t encounter them on the street right outside my
house.

My eyes blurred and I stumbled on the curb. I had nowhere to go, no refuge. Then the word
refuge
made me think of a church, and that made me remember a place I had seen a couple of days before: a small, hidden garden, behind a tall brick wall. It was attached to St. Peter’s, a Catholic church between Axelle’s apartment and the small corner grocery store where I shopped.

I headed there now, walking fast down the brick-paved sidewalk. When I reached it, I pressed my face to the small iron grille inset into one wall, about five feet up. I walked the length of the brick wall and pushed some ivy aside to find a small wooden door, made for tiny Creole people of two centuries ago.

With no hesitation, I wrenched on the latch and shook the door hard until it popped open. Then I slipped under the ivy and entered a serene, private world.

The garden was small, maybe sixty feet square, and bordered by the church in back of it, an alley on one side, a parish office to the other side, and the street in front. But although all that separated me from the world was a seven-foot brick fence, this place was unnaturally quiet, set apart, not of the secular world somehow.

I glanced around. A few windows overlooked the garden, but I felt safe and private. Beneath a crape myrtle tree, its bark hanging off in silken shards, stood an ancient marble bench, and I sank down onto it, burying my face in my arms. I didn’t make a sound, but hot tears squeezed out of my eyes and dripped into the crooks of my elbows. I expected someone to come tap me on the shoulder at any minute, telling me the garden was private and I had to leave, but no one did, and I lay hunched over that cool marble bench for a long time, my mind screaming variations of,
Someone, for God’s sake, please help me.

Finally, after my arms felt numb and one thigh had gone to sleep, I slowly straightened up. I felt waterlogged and puffy and sniffled, wiping my nose on my shirt-sleeve.

“Try this.”

I jumped, startled, almost losing my balance over the back of the bench. To make my total humiliation complete, there was a guy about my age there, holding out a crisp white handkerchief.

“How long have you been there?” I demanded, all too aware of what I must look like: flush-faced, swollen eyes, Rudolph’s nose.

“Long enough to know you could use a handkerchief,” he said wryly, shaking it gently in front of me.

Okay. It was either that or blow my nose on my sleeve. Ungraciously I took the handkerchief and wiped my nose and dabbed at my eyes. Then what? Did one return a used hankie? Gross. The guy solved my dilemma by taking it from my hand and standing up. He walked to a small fountain that I hadn’t even been aware of: a blue-caped, Nordic Virgin Mary, with thin streams of water running from her outstretched hands.

The guy wet the hankie and came back, wringing it out. I sighed and took it again, and since this situation was already too far gone for me to possibly salvage it, I wiped the cool, damp cloth over my face, feeling tons better.

“Thank you,” I said, still unable to look at him.

“You’re welcome.” Uninvited, he sat down next to me. I was in no mood to make friends, so I just pretended he wasn’t there. Now that I was calmer, I looked at the fountain, the different flowers growing in the somewhat untidy beds. Narrow walkways of well-worn brick made a knot of paths around the fountain. Small birds chirped in the thick growth of shrubs that hid the brick walls from inside.

The air was still humid here, marginally cooler than on the street. A vine grew thickly on several walls, its shiny dark green leaves surrounding heavily scented creamy flowers.

“Confederate jasmine,” the guy said, as though he knew where I’d been looking. He knelt quickly and plucked a crisp white flower off a smaller shrub. Finally taking in his features, I saw that he had dark brown hair, almost black, and was tall, maybe almost six feet.

“Gardenia.” He handed it to me, and I took it, inhaling its fragrance. It was almost unbearably sweet, too much scent for one flower to bear. But it was heavenly, and I tucked it behind my ear, which made the guy laugh lightly.

I managed to smile.

“I guess I’m trespassing,” I said.

“I guess we both are,” he agreed. “But I love to come here in the evenings, to escape the crowds and the heat.”

“Do you work at the church?” I asked.

“No. But my apartment is right up there.” He pointed to the third story of the building next door. “I didn’t mean to spy on you. But I thought you might be sick.”

“No,” I said glumly, thinking,
Sick of New Orleans.

“I understand,” he said gently. “Sometimes it’s all too much.” He had a precise, crisp way of speaking, as if he’d gone to school in England. I looked at him, into his eyes, and wondered if he
could
possibly understand.

No. Of course not. I got up and rewet the handkerchief in the fountain. I knelt by its base, wrung out the thin cloth, and wiped my face again and the back of my neck.

“I’ll have to start carrying one of these,” I said, pressing the wet cloth against my forehead.

“You’re not used to the heat,” he said.

“No. I’m from Connecticut,” I said. “I’ve only been here a couple of weeks. I’m used to my air actually feeling like air.”

He laughed, putting his head back. I realized that he was actually really good-looking, his throat smooth and tan, and I wondered if his chest was that color. I felt my face heat at that thought and looked down, embarrassed. When I looked up again, he was watching me intently.

“They say the heat makes people crazy,” he said, his voice very quiet in the private garden. “That’s why there are so many crimes of passion here—the unending heat works on you, frays your nerves. Next thing you know, your best friend has a knife to your throat.”

Well, I was a
little
creeped out, but mostly his voice worked slowly through my veins like a drug, soothing me, calming me, taking away my raw pain.

“What did you do?” I asked seriously, and a glint of surprise lit his eyes for a moment.

He laughed again, and there was no mistaking it—I saw admiration in his eyes. Attraction. “I was speaking metaphorically. Fortunately, so far I haven’t stolen my best friend’s girl.”

For just an instant, I pictured myself, going out with some unnamed best friend and then meeting this guy, feeling this electric attraction, and knowing that soon he would steal me away. I shivered.

“What’s your name?” he asked, his words falling as softly as leaves.

“Thais,” I said. Tye-ees.

He stood and offered me his hand. I looked up at him, his even features, the dark eyebrows slanting over incredible eyes. I took his hand. Unbelievably, he pressed my open palm against his lips, leaving a whisper of a kiss. “My pleasure, Thais,” he said, awakening every nerve ending I had. “My name is Luc.”

Luc,
I repeated silently.

“Come here again soon,” he said, looking at me as if to memorize my features. “I’ll watch for you.”

“I don’t know when it will be,” I hedged.

“It will be soon,” he said confidently, and I knew that he was right.

“F
orgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” Marcel whispered the familiar words, anticipating the comfort of absolution. In this dark cubicle he was completely himself, and everything was all right. “It’s been one week since my last confession.”

“Have you any sins to confess, my son?”

Brother Eric. He was always understanding.

“Yes, Father,” Marcel murmured. “I have . . . felt anger. Great anger.”

“Feeling anger in itself is not a sin, Marcel,” Brother Eric said. “It is only when you enjoy the feeling of anger or act upon it.”

“I fear . . . were I to confront this anger, it could lead to . . . violence.” There, it was out.

“Violence?”

Marcel took a deep breath. “I have been contacted by former . . . associates. I’ve tried to leave these people behind, Father. I’ve tried to escape them. I’ve come
here.
These people do not acknowledge the Lord our God. They play with . . . fate. They have unholy power.” Marcel felt his throat close. He shut his eyes, remembering that power, how it had flowed from his hands, how beautiful the world seemed when he held it.

“Explain about the violence, son,” said Brother Eric.

“If I see them or one in particular—I’m afraid I will do him harm.” A cold sweat broke out on Marcel’s forehead. Yes, God was listening—but He might not be the only one. What a risk he was taking. . . . He looked around himself, contained in this dark cubicle.

“Do him harm out of anger?”

“Yes,” said Marcel. “For trying to make me renounce what is good.”

“Does he so threaten you, lad, that in order to protect yourself, you’d destroy him?”

“Yes,” Marcel whispered.

“You don’t see another path, Marcel?”

“I can never see him again,” Marcel offered. “I can refuse to go to him, to help him.”

“He’s asked for your help?”

“Not yet. But I think he might. He’s asked to see me.”

“Perhaps he’s changed his ways?” suggested Brother Eric.

“No,” Marcel said with certainty.

“Then what does he want from you?”

“My . . . power.” The words were so faint as to barely penetrate the wooden piercework screen.

“No one can take your power from you, Marcel.”

Instantly Marcel saw that this was pointless, that Brother Eric could never understand, that there was no salvation for him here. He almost wept. He needed a strong hand to hold his, to say,
We will not let you go.
But the Church was all about free will. How to explain that sometimes, his will was not truly his own?

Liar.
His conscience was a small, cold voice, mocking him inside his head.
Your will is your own. You like the power, Marcel. You like wielding it. You love feeling life, energy, pure force flowing from you, from your hands. You like what you can do with it. You like what you can do to others.

“No! No, I don’t! You’re lying,” Marcel cried, covering his face with his hands.

“Marcel?”

It doesn’t have to be bad, Marcel,
said his conscience.
Remember, “There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.” You can use your power for good. You can convince the others. They want to be good anyway. It’s only Daedalus—Daedalus and Jules and Axelle. Maybe Manon. Maybe Richard. But the others, they’re for good. They follow the
Bonne Magie.
You can too. Your power could elevate them to goodness.

“No, no,” Marcel sobbed as the velvet curtain opened and Brother Eric touched his shoulder. “I can’t go back.”

“Marcel, we must all face our demons,” Brother Eric said softly. “Now come, rest. You’ve been working too hard. I’ll have Brother Simon bring you some soup.”

Marcel let himself be led out of the chapel, its stones standing watch over God’s disciples since 1348. But Marcel knew they could no longer protect him. It was only a matter of time. Every step he took was a step closer to his own personal hell, and whatever awaited him in New Orleans.