Birthright (Residue Series #2) (31 page)

Jameson and I trailed them
,
covering
only a few yards and
turning
down an alley
,
rutted and paved with uneven stones
. It was nestled
between the St. Louis Cathedral and a brick building, which housed a bar and a row of apartments on the second balcony. It was December and well past midnight so the
night
air was bitterly cold
and
our warm breaths
wafted
up through the still air between us.

With only a single lamppost at the
street
,
and a few dim lights along the remaining thirty yards, it didn’t feel all that welcoming.
The
dampness that
blanketed the space,
reflecting shadows, didn’t help to improve its peculiar character.

“This hea is Pirate’s Alley,” said Miss Celia, reviving her accent now that we were back in public. “Known mostly fo’ the unexplainable, supernatural stuff.”

“And fo’ Mista’ William Faulkna’,” insisted Miss Mabelle.

“That’s right,” agreed Miss Celia with a nod. “But what ya don’
t know is that right up thea…” s
he pointed to a darkened window on the second floor of the building to our left, “…is where yer two families tried to make peace by signin’ an accord back in 1899. But peace just weren’t meant to be. A single man saw ta that. Came inta the room and killed everyone in it
, making
it look like a duel broke
out between the parties.”

My eyes locked on the window, as I was sure Jameson’s
were to.
Whoever lived there now had their curtains drawn
. They were probably
firmly asleep with no knowledge that outside, looking up at their home, were relatives of two families
who had been
unconscionably murdered there over a hundred years ago while trying to prevent the very end they came to suffer:
a
needless death.

“Weren’t a single ounce of hope fo’ peace afta’ that,” said Miss Celia with a sad click of her tongue.
She
leveled her eyes at Jameson and me. “Not befo’
you
two. You two…you
is
the glue.”

With that, Miss Mabelle whirled around and strode back to the car, calling over her shoulder at us with a beckoning whistle. Next, she took us down to the riverfront, parked on Bienville Street, and led us to the brick jogging path along the Mississippi River.

“Woldenberg Park?” Jameson asked
,
as I stepped up to the metal guardrails overlooking the water. From behind, the sounds of the city drifted away and the slapping of the water
engulfed
us. Shrouded in light from the traditional lampposts lining the path, I could see the water for a few yards
, but
then it disappeared into
the
darkness. I found Jameson at my side
within
seconds
.

“It’s quiet here at night,” he said, almost inaudibly
,
and in a way that made me think he didn’t want to disturb the serenity.

“You’ve been here?” I asked
and then snickered
at myself before answering my own question. “Of course, you have. You grew up in this city.”

“Miss Celia used to take me here when I was a kid. Bribed me to walk with her every Sunday morning.”

“N’ what did I tell ya on those walks? Y
a
rememba’?”

A smile crept up and he laughed to himself, having just figured something out. “You were teaching me back then, too.”

“Sho’
was.”

He nodded to himself, not bothering to hide the respect he
held
for her.

“Wharfs and warehouses were built right where we are standing. Back then, this was where the steamboats would line up one after another and unload their cargo, which were things like barrels of molasses and sugar, bales of cotton…
but
the reason they brought us here tonight, I think, is because this is where most of the casters entered the city. They were
mainly
slaves back then, bringing their abilities from the West Indies. When our ancestors caught on to what they could do, they learned from them…traded casts and rituals, helped each other avoid the authorities, suggested ceremonial spots, that kind of thing. The slaves, or really
Voodoo
practitioners, never wanted to integrate with us. They wanted, and still do, prefer to remain on the fringe of our world. But they keep a close eye on us, don’t you, Miss Celia?” He twisted at the waist to grin at her.

“Sho’ do, boy.”

“But I don’t see how any of that applies to us…to Jameson and me,” I said, also turning to look at Miss Celia and Miss Mabelle.

“We been watchin’
ya
fer a long time now, n’ not just here but everywhea’.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“Allies,” pronounced Miss Mabelle. “We’s allies.”

I chuckled. “Allies? Sounds like we’re at war.”

“
Ya
are,” said Miss Mabelle,
far
too bluntly to be taken as a joke. “Ya just don’t know it yet.”

I was unnerved at how serious she was in making that statement.

“Is that why you are telling us all this?” I asked,
speaking
to their backs
,
because they
already
turned to leave.

Without giving me an answer, the ladies
continued
heading back.

I was annoyed
and
tired,
generally
in a poor mood
,
so their lack of an answer really
aggravated me.
Because of this, I demanded one when we got back in the confines of Miss Mabelle’s car.

“Well?”

Our housekeepers glanced at each other and
,
through an undetectable sign
,
determined it would be Miss Mabelle to deliver some level of understanding.

“The history between your two families has been tumultuous. Unity has been impossible, until you two. You two are the bond, you two will bring your families together. Under you, the families will unite and begin to build your own forces. These forces will conquer The Sevens.”

“You,” I laughed
,
scornfully. “You rely so much on us.” My snickering died away
but
my next question
came out sounding
obstinate
. “What if you’re wrong about our birthrights?”

As
that
demand
loomed in the space between us, unanswered, I knew why I asked it.
I wanted to know if my destiny, my birthright
,
could be avoided. I wanted to know if Jameson
would ever
be safe with me.

“There isn’t room for you to be wrong,” Miss Mabelle
seethed.

Then h
er eyes narrowed at me and her plump hand, twice the size of my arm, came over the shoulder of her seat to latch onto my knee.

At
that instant,
from
the point
of contact between
our
skins
,
it felt as if it
wasn’t
her hand wrapped around my leg but a scorching branding iron. My leg jerked in reaction but didn’t go far. Her grip was too strong.

Jameson processed what was happening and reached out to defend me
,
but Miss Mabelle’s hand came down on him, too, sending the same scalding pain up his arm.

With gritted teeth and wide eyes, Miss Mabelle held on despite the
helpless
screams of agony and our bodies’
convulsive
gyrations. In the midst of it, my hand found Jameson and, having
learned
what was needed to protect us
,
we began working together.

While
we had been
told in our previous lesson words weren’t the factors help
ing
us overcome these assaults, they certainly
did
help
.
So I immediately conjured the energy from within me, Jameson channeled, and I repeated a phrase until Miss Mabelle released her hold.

“With this energy I bind your power, protecting us from you this day, this hour. I cast it aside and make it flee. Thine will be done, so make it be.”

When her fingers
recoiled, settling
back
at
her side, she composed herself
, drawing
in a
heavy
breath. “Burns have been found on the body of many Weatherford
s
who did not die by natural causes. This means you will likely encounter some form of it during an attack. Be prepared.”

While we recovered, Miss Celia interjected, “It isn’t enough to fear The Sevens. You need to know what they are capable of doing. You need to understand this
,
because you are at risk. Right now, right here, at this very moment. Your enemies want you dead. And they are seeking out ways to
accomplish this
. These lessons are to help you
comprehend
what they have done in the past and recognize their approaches. That,” she said firmly, her face constricting with tension, “is what you are learning.”

There was a long silence in the car before Jameson spoke. “Strategy and tactics,” he said
,
under his breath. “You are teaching us their strategy and tactics.”

Pleased with
his
assessment, our housekeepe
rs settled back in their seats so that
Miss Celia
could start
the car and
drive
us back.

In the days that followed, Miss Celia and Miss Mabelle took us through historical sites
,
referencing the Caldwell
’
s and the Weatherford
’
s feud
and refusing
to ease their testing during
these
lessons. When Jameson and I least expected it
,
we would be struck with blindness, muteness, or searing pain
, forcing us to find
ways
of working
together to block their casts.

Jameson continued to be reserved when I was present;
masterfully
performing as we’d agreed
, assuring
the Vires we
were still
enemies.
The
days and the distance did nothing to lessen my need for him. Eventually I conceded
,
the pain in my chest
steadily becoming
permanent.

Without him, sneaking out for healing errands came easy
,
while the actual practice of curing others seemed to get more challenging. No one had to tell me why. I already knew
,
it was because the two of us were stronger together. Still, I tried, slipping by
the
Vire
s
’
shadows after school and on the weekends to visit emergency rooms around the city.

The holidays arrived without
m
e
paying much attention to them
; m
ostly
because I found it hard to be festive
while
Jameson’s presence perpetually taxed my emotions. It helped a little whenever I
allowed myself to admire the city’s decorations -
the garlands,
the
red bows, and
the
strands of white lights
neatly
wound around streetlights and drooping from balconies
-
or
as I listened
to the carolers in Jackson Square
– festively dressed and melodically sharing the joys of the season
. The city really did take on a mystical harmony
then
.

Yule, or the equivalent of Christmas in our world, was one of the lesser celebrated holidays, but there was still a lot of
jolliness.
Estelle and Aunt Lizzy decorated every room of the house with ivy
,
christening it with incantations like “We consecrate and clear this space, letting nothing but happiness remain in place.”
Well
before the actual holiday arrived, Miss Mabelle filled the tables with gumbo, jambalaya, crawfish etoufee,
muffulettas
,
beignets, and bananas foster. There was no tree
and no
exchanging of gifts, but there was a constant ring of laughter through
out
the rooms.