Birthright (Residue Series #2) (34 page)

“I saw light here. Right here,” said one of them, his
thick
moustache bobbing as he spoke. He halted right below us while his associate strolled a bit farther.

I braced myself
, ready
to be shot out of sight
from
the two men
,
but it never came. Jameson caught my eye and shook his head, slowly, conveying his thoughts. Any motion now would be too risky. We needed to wait out their
interruption.

“Nothing here now,” said the other one.

“We should report it to command,” insisted the first one, clearly not wanting to be undervalued.

The other one lifted his shoulder in a careless shrug and spun around to head back. The first one didn’t follow immediately
, however
. Instead, he stood
his ground
,
swiveling his head back and forth in search of any evidence. When he found none, his foot came out and kicked a stone across the grass
as
he hurried to catch up.

We remained silent until they were well out of earshot and then
Jameson’s voice broke through the stillness.

“What are Vires doing here this deep in the backwoods?”

When no
one answered it was very likely because none of us
knew.

“They usually take up hotels and apartments to blend in better,” claimed Mrs. DeVille. “This…
it’s
not typical.”

Ms. Veilleux’s
exaggerated
intake of air made us turn. The fog had parted across the water, either by the Vires who
were
just here or by nature it
self, exposing
a camp of lights and
,
what appeared to be
,
the building of a settlement. Even this late at night, there were dozens of people actively constructing buildings from the local lumber supply.

“That is a Vire encampment,” declared Ms. Boudreaux
,
anxiously.

“Yes, it is,” replied Ms. Veilleux, her tone equally as tense.

We hovered less than a minute before Miss Mabelle prompted, “It’d be time ta leave now, Ms. Veilleux.”

She nodded
, agreeing, and
suddenly
we were
back in Ms. Veilleux’s yard. Still, n
o
one spoke until we were safely in the kitchen and the door was closed.

“An encampment,” Jameson
stated
, clearly irritated.

“When was the last time Vires built encampments here?” I asked him.

“Definitely before I was born,” he said, stiffly.

“Never,” answered Ms. Veilleux, rigidly. “They’ve never been built here.”

I took in a deep breath
and released it slowly, hoping
my
nervousness would leave with the exhale. It didn’t
. “
So
what does
this
mean?”

“Encampments mean only one thing,” said Mrs. DeVille
,
as if I should already know
.
“War is coming.”

“War? But…what provoked it?” I asked, bewildered.

As the ladies
offered
suggestions, I was
fighting
to formulate my own answer.
But, I found I already knew.
We, the Caldwells and the Weatherfords, had provoked
the
war.

Jameson met my eyes and I was certain
we
were recalling the same memory, the one when we were attacked by Frederick and Anastas in the bayou. The Vires were preparing for war against those who took their associates
’
lives. And if they were setting up an encampment here
,
it meant they’d determined the assailants were
also
here
,
in the city.

“They are here to vindicate their associates who lost their lives in the bayou,” stated Ms. Veilleux, bringing the group to silence.

Without having to say it, I knew by their expressions that the rest of the coven agreed.

“We need to spread the word,” said Jameson. “Others should be told.”

As
they
deliberated
on his suggestion
,
Ms. Roquette replied, “Yes, they’ll need to prepare.” Her insinuation was obvious. The Vires would apply any means possible,
which included using
innocent
people
in our world, to reach their associates’ assailants.

With Ms. Roquette’s gaze pinned to the ceiling – her sight having been replaced to give her a voice – she wasn’t able to see everyone nod in agreement.

Silence
was captivating
us.

“
Maybe
it’d be a good idea to finish
the
ritual you started tonight,” I
mentioned
. While that may have sounded like a humorous understatement in any other scenario, no one took it that way tonight. Their faces remained grim.

“We will,” confirmed Ms. Veilleux. “Tomorrow night, ladies?”

“Second site?” asked Ms. Boudreaux
,
evidently referring to their next optimal ritual
location
because the first one was clearly no longer available.

They each nodded.

I sighed, without ever realizing I’d been holding my breath. “Thank you. It’s nice to know you’re on our side.”

Jameson’s voice was filled with respect when he added, “A coven of the most powerful witches in the province…” He paused to glance between the women. “And
just
why
were
we told you are a coven?”

Ms. Veilleux
examined
the faces of the rest of her coven
, seeking
approval
before answering,
“The time was right.”

“I-I’m not following,” I
admitted
. “Why is now the right time?”

“Because you asked about the scar….” Ms. Veilleux stared back at us, perplexed
and
causing Jameson and me to exchange a
wary
glance.

“Why would my scar have anything to do with you?” I asked,
still
trying to piece it all together.

The gaze of everyone in the coven landed on Miss Celia and Miss Mabelle
then
.

“Clearly, they haven’t told you,” said Ms. Veilleux, sounding slightly offended, as if she hadn’t been given credit for an honorable act. “Jocelyn, it wasn’t the Caldwells who gave you that scar.” She
lowered
her chin
toward
me. “We are the ones
who gave it to you
.”
Her disclosure concluded with
her hand casually
sweeping
across the rest of her coven.

“You?” I was confused. “Why you?”

It made no sense. These people were supposed to be our allies. They were our teachers, our neighbors,
and, presumably,
our friends.

“You hurt her?” demanded Jameson, stepping forward in a move
looking
a little too much like an advance. “Why?” He experienced it himself, I remembered, when witnessing i
t through my memories, so his anger was in my defense.

Ms. Boudreaux looked dismayed
,
as she said, “We are sorry the transition here, to New Orleans, was poor.”

“No, we’re not,” Miss Mabelle
d
eclared
, tersely
.

“Transition?” Jameson
questioned
his voice
commanding and
loud
.
It looked like he was just as offended as I felt.

“Poor?” I asked, appalled.

“And
did you say
you’re not sorry?” Jameson swung toward Miss Mabelle, defensive
ly
.

“It was time Jocelyn came to us,” Miss Mabelle replied
,
uninfluenced by
our
reactions. “Considering the number of people involved, Jocelyn’s safety, and the overall objective of reaching New Orleans
,
where she would be most secure
…
” her voice
was
becoming
more resolute, “there were no other alternatives.”

Her response, both the words and her vehemence, kept anyone else from speaking up.

“Let’s not lay blame for a plan that was executed as perfectly as it could be done. The goal was met. Jocelyn is with us
, and she
is safe.”

With that, Miss Mabelle scoffed, not
bothering to hide the fact she was perturbed.

Good. So was I.

But, trying to be fair, I wasn’t going to allow myself
to ignore
her
perspective
of
the situation
.
If they had
truly
done their best
,
I couldn’t ask for anything more. It
certainly didn’t seem
easy to bring me out of hiding. Even I could appreciate that challenge. With Vires virtually everywhere – and one in particular
,
by the name of Phillip Turcott
actively looking for me – it was no wonder they had to make
my relocation
quick and discreet.
P
onder
ing
this
, I
concluded
it
might have been best
if they’d
just
left
me in upstate New York.

“Why did you bring me here in the first place?” I asked, observing
them all
as the coven became very still. Not a single muscle mov
ed
while
they
stared
back at me
. 

No one
seemed
interested in
answer
ing
.

Jameson
snickered
in disbelief. “There must be a reason to risk her life like you have. You understand you’ve put her in that situation?”

Miss Celia’s spoke quietly, hesitantly
from near the door
as if she didn’t want to disclose some truth to us.
“That, Jameson and Jocelyn, will be covered in your next lesson.”

She turned and opened the door
,
preparing to leave.

“When is our next lesson?” I asked. It took them several days to answer about my scar so that was a legitimate question.

“Right now,” Miss Celia replied, already stepping out the door
with
her back to us. “Blessed be, Ladies.”

“Blessed be,” they responded together, some of them still
showing
tentative expressions.

After an abrupt and uncomfortable goodbye, Miss Mabelle, Jameson, and I left the house and were soon sitting in Miss Celia’s car, driving back toward the Garden District where we lived. Although they didn’t drive us home. Miss Celia
, instead,
stopped outside a wrought iron gate with an iron sign
hanging
above it that
read Lafayette Cemetery #1, and headed for the entrance.

“A cemetery?” I said, peering
out
the window.

“Not what I expected, either,” Jameson mentioned.

“Maybe we’re here to dig our own graves,” I ventured.

Jameson scoffed. “I wouldn’t put it passed them.”

Miss Mabelle’s cane banged against the window next to me
then, jolting me
.
Although she intended to demand we step out, it proved our point
,
and we both held back a
grin
as we met them at the gate.

Miss Mabelle and Miss Celia
became
preoccupied with breaking the lock, which proved to be challeng
ing, as proven by the cursing under their breath.

They
despised being delayed,
so
Miss Mabelle finally took the hammer she’d brought along and,
just
as she’d done on our very first midnight lesson, gave the lock several good whacks.
To their satisfaction it
shattered
,
and they pulled the gate
wide
open.