This Wicked Game

  She stood there, her conscience warring with her mental exhaustion, before finally turning around. As much as she didn’t want to count the money and clean up the store, she didn’t want her parents to have to do it either. Their night was probably even worse than hers.

  Besides, Claire hadn’t bolted the door before they’d left for the Toussaints,’ and she doubted anyone else had either. The woman who’d ordered the panther’s blood was proof that not everyone who had a key was a friend, and the Kincaids didn’t have a security system like the one at the Toussaints’.

  Downstairs, everything was like she left it. The lamps were even still on. She went to the door, pulling the big wooden bar across it. It was the only time they were really off-limits to the voodoo community.

  She went to the counter, pulled out the lockbox, and started counting the money. Despite her lack of interest in the craft, she was happy that business was good. Suddenly, it seemed everyone was interested in alternatives to traditional medicine, traditional religion, traditional everything.

  And those alternatives included voodoo.

  From lighting purple candles for insight to burning herbs for health to wearing gris-gris bags as a talisman against evil, people wanted to believe there was something else in the world, something that couldn’t be explained by science or conventional religion.

  Finished counting, Claire turned off the wax, cursing when she realized she would have to start over making the small forms. Sometimes people bought the wax raw and shaped the ritual figures themselves, but the Kincaids also sold them ready-made. Claire hated the way it smelled and the residue it left on her skin, but it was a staple of their business.

  She surveyed the store, her eyes traveling over the ochre-colored walls. Everything was more or less the way her mother liked it. Jars and bottles containing various powders, elixirs, oils, and seeds were neatly labeled on grid-like shelves, while the more exotic ingredients, including adder’s-tongue, black hen’s egg, and devil pod, were locked up in a case that ran the length of the counter. Gris-gris bags and bolts of red flannel were stacked at the front of the store, ritual garments neatly folded on the shelves. Bins and barrels held incense, sandalwood, lengths of devil’s string, coffin nails, and the ready-made forms that were called doll babies by real voodoo practitioners—a deceptively innocent name for something said to cause so much damage—and voodoo dolls by everyone else, stared back at her, their expressionless faces eerie in the low light.

  The weirdest thing about it was how unweird it was to Claire.

  Sighing, she grabbed a broom and started to sweep the tile floors. It was the only job in the store she didn’t mind. It was soothing, moving the broom back and forth, the scent of incense hanging like a ghost in the room. Her mind wandered, landing not on the woman who had ordered the panther blood but on Xander.

  She almost couldn’t remember what it was like when they were just friends, back when they only saw each other at Guild functions or at school. The change had been so subtle she hadn’t noticed it at first. He’d stop by when his parents had messages for Claire’s or drop off special orders from the Toussaint stores instead of having a delivery service do it. It had taken her a while to catch on.

  Until one day, she did.

  He’d caught up to her as she was leaving the store. She’d known it was intentional even though he said he was just passing by, and they’d gone to Marco’s for pizza and talked for three hours. After that, being together had felt inevitable. It wasn’t right or wrong.

  It just was.

  She pushed the broom under the counter, where powder, herbs, and wax shavings sometimes dropped. She was brushing everything into a pile when a piece of paper caught on the leg of the counter. She tried to use the broom to free it, but it was stuck. She finally bent down and pulled the scrap free.

  It was a receipt. At the top was a picture of a computer and the words NEW ORLEANS NETWORKING SERVICES. Underneath it was a name and address:

  Eugenia Comaneci

  548 Dauphine Street

  Claire stared at the name. There were very few clients she didn’t know, and she didn’t know Eugenia Comaneci. Which meant the receipt could only belong to the woman who’d ordered the panther blood.

  Claire looked at the slip of paper a few seconds longer before stuffing it into the pocket of her shorts. She would show it to her mom tomorrow. Or maybe to her dad, who probably wouldn’t freak out as much.

  She swept the rest of the debris into the dustpan and threw it in the trash. Then she turned off the lamps and headed upstairs.

  It was already hot and humid when she left the house the next morning, and she was glad she’d put her hair into a messy bun. She was meeting Sasha for yoga at 2:00 p.m., but had a stop to make first that would take her to another part of the city. Even biking, she’d be drenched by the time she got there.

  She slung her messenger bag over her head, letting it fall across her body. It smacked against her leg as she left through the kitchen door and made her way along the side of the house.

  Using her Guild key, she unlocked the store and reached for her bike. She was easing it out the door, walking backward, when someone tapped her shoulder. She looked to her left, felt a tap on her right, and looked that way. Still no one. Finally she turned around, coming face-to-face with a grinning Xander.

  She punched him playfully in the arm. “Very funny! Jerk!”

  He laughed, pulling her toward him with one arm. “I’m sorry. I was just playing with you.” He dropped a quick kiss on her lips. “Where are you going?”

  She followed his eyes to the bike, still balanced on one hand.

  “Why?” she asked, hedging.

  “My mom had a package for your dad. I was dropping it off when I saw you pulling out the bike. I thought we could get lunch or something.”

  “Actually, I just ate.”

  “Ah, okay.” He hesitated. “So . . . where are you going?”

  She thought about it. She hadn’t really intended to tell anyone. But Xander was more than her boyfriend, however secret. He was also her friend.

  She sighed, pulling the receipt from her shorts. “Last night when I was closing up the store, I found this.”

  He took it, looked at it for a few seconds, and handed it back. “I don’t get it.”

  “It’s a receipt.”

  “I can see that. So what?”

  “I think that woman dropped it yesterday. The one who ordered the panther plasma.”

  “Wait a minute. You think this is her address?”

  Claire nodded. “It’s not the name of any of our regulars.”

  He rubbed his chin, his expression thoughtful. “Think you should give it to the Guild?”

  She chewed her bottom lip. By the Guild, what he really meant was Estelle and Bernard Toussaint—his parents.

  “I thought I might check it out first. You know, see if it’s really her address?”

  She held her breath, preparing herself for the argument Xander would give her. Instead, he opened his mouth to say something, seemed to think better of it, and closed it again.

  “Want some company?”

  FOUR

  They took Xander’s car from Claire’s house in the University District all the way into the Quarter.

  Xander turned onto one of the quieter streets that surrounded Washington Park. They had agreed it was best not to park right in front of the woman’s house, and Xander pulled to a stop next to the curb on another small side street.

  He turned to look at her. “Ready?”

  She nodded and they got out of the car, looking up at the street signs as they went.

  “I think it’s up there,” Xander said, pointing to the corner as they passed the park.

  Despite the secrecy of their mission, Xander held her hand, staying on the outside of the sidewalk and generally doing everyth
ing possible to make Claire feel like a fragile female in need of protection. Asking him to stop wasn’t an option. Xander’s chivalry was bred as deeply in him as his belief in voodoo.

  They stopped to check the address of the house on the corner against the receipt and did the same with the one across the street before deciding to take a right.

  The houses were small and quaint, alternating between cute and slightly run-down. They saw a couple of “For Rent” signs as they continued down the street, the shade from the great oaks on either side providing welcome relief from the heat.

  Claire made note of the house numbers as they walked. They were halfway down the block when she stopped.

  “Wait . . .” She looked back at the iron gates they’d just passed. “I think that’s it.”

  Xander tensed, scanning the gate for a house number and turning to Claire when he didn’t find one. “How do you know?”

  “Because the house back there is 546 and that one”— she pointed to the house on their left— “is 550. This one has to be 548, even though it’s not marked.”

  “Okay,” he agreed. “Now what? There’s a courtyard.”

  Claire considered. The courtyards that fronted some of the city’s homes made it impossible to get close without being spotted by someone inside the house.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Let’s just wait. See if anyone comes or goes.”

  Xander sighed. “This is crazy. Even if we see the woman who came into the store yesterday, what will it prove? That she lives in New Orleans? She hasn’t exactly made that a secret.”

  “I know, but—” Claire stopped, hearing the sound of heels on pavement. She pulled Xander behind the foliage of a large camellia bush.

  They stood, bodies pressed together, trying to get a view of the sidewalk as the sound of footsteps grew louder. A few seconds later, the woman named Eugenia came into view. Her legs were long and slender in a black pencil skirt, a billowy white blouse over the top of it.

  And she wasn’t alone.

  A man walked by her side. His head was bowed, silver hair glinting at his temples. He wore trousers and a snug button-down. A fraying rope bracelet was wound around his wrist, incongruous against the well-groomed backdrop of his clothing.

  Claire sucked in her breath, a surge of energy pulsing through her skin at the sight of him. She shivered, the back of her neck growing slick with cold sweat, the blood running faster through her veins as panic set in.

  Every instinct in her body screamed danger.

  They watched as the pair stepped through the gate. It closed with a clang, and the footsteps suddenly stopped. The woman murmured, and Claire caught the sound of another voice, deeper and louder.

  Xander glanced at her. She held a finger to her lips, listening, trying to catch snippets of the conversation between Eugenia, the man who’d arrived with her, and the third person she couldn’t see.

  A moment later, Eugenia and the silver-haired man resumed their progress toward the house, and a younger man stepped onto the sidewalk. Dressed in slim trousers and a fitted T-shirt, he walked right past Claire and Xander. His shoes, some kind of modern loafer, were quiet on the pavement. Claire tried to get a look at his face, but all she caught was a glimpse of pale skin, dark hair, and thin, angular features.

  “That’s it,” Xander said when he was gone. “We’re leaving.”

  Claire gazed over the bushes, eyeing the stucco building. “Maybe we should just—”

  “No. We’re leaving, Claire.”

  “You didn’t even let me finish,” she said angrily.

  Xander crossed his hands over his chest. “You don’t have to finish. I already know what you were going to say.”

  “How could you know when I didn’t say it?”

  “You were going to say we should have a look inside the courtyard.”

  Claire tried to cover her surprise. “Well . . . okay. That’s what I was going to say. But so what? What harm will it do? Maybe we’ll even get more information for the Guild.”

  Xander took her arm and began leading her away from the house. “I think the Guild can take it from here.”

  “Xander, just . . .” She tried to pull her arm from his grip, but he held tightly. She finally wrenched it free with an almost-painful tug. “Stop!”

  He stopped walking. “What?”

  “What’s the matter with you?” she asked him, rubbing her arm. No one would ever accuse Xander Toussaint of being a wimp, but he wasn’t a bully either. Especially not with her. “Why are you acting like this?”

  He took a deep breath. “Claire . . . you’re just going to have to trust me. I don’t know who these people are or what they’re up to, but it’s not good.”

  “How do you know that?” she asked. “You don’t know any more than I do.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not doing this now. Let’s go.”

  “You know something.” She leaned against the trunk of an enormous oak. “And I’m not leaving until you tell me what it is.”

  Xander paced away from her before he turned back, defeat on his face. “You won’t believe me anyway.”

  She thought about it. “Why? Because it has to do with voodoo?”

  He hesitated before nodding.

  “I promise I’ll try to keep an open mind, okay? Now, spill.”

  He crossed the distance between them. “I had a dream last night. About you.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “You were here, Claire,” he said softly.

  “What do you mean ‘here’?”

  “I mean, you were here. On this street. In front of this house.”

  She shook her head. “That doesn’t make sense. Neither of us knew the woman lived here until now.”

  Xander’s eyes didn’t leave her face.

  She sighed. “Lots of houses in the city look like this, Xander. You know that. And lots of streets look like this one, too. You could have been dreaming about anywhere.”

  His gaze still didn’t waver. “It was this street. This house.” He looked across the street at a red house with balconies on two levels. “That house was right where it is now. I even saw that beat-up car.”

  Claire’s eyes settled on the old Chevy parked in front of the red house.

  “Okay, so you dreamed about this. Maybe you have some kind of psychic ability or something.”

  “You believe in psychic ability but not in the craft?” he asked skeptically.

  “They’re totally different. One is based on superstition and the other . . .” She stopped. “Look, forget about it. Dreaming about us coming here doesn’t mean something bad’s going to happen.”

  “I didn’t tell you the rest,” he said softly.

  She didn’t want to hear it. She wanted to check out the house. See what they could find out about the woman and her friends. Most of all, she wanted to know how Eugenia knew her name when Claire had never seen her before in her life.

  But Xander was shaken. Claire could see it in his eyes. He wasn’t going to stay unless she heard him out.

  She sighed. “Okay, tell me.”

  “It was dark, and you were being dragged out of the house, through that courtyard,” Xander said, pointing to 548 Dauphine. “Then you were in a forest or a swamp or something. A Houngan priest was chanting and marking the area around you in a circle of blood. There was a fire burning and three other people in headdresses. The priest had a knife. He . . .” Xander stopped, his expression far away.

  Claire knew that he wasn’t making it up.

  He was remembering.

  “Keep going,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

  “He bled you. He cut open the veins in your forearms and bled you dry.”

  Claire couldn’t speak. It wasn’t just the dream. Everyone had dreams, even scary ones.

  There
was something else. Something familiar about the scene Xander had described. It was like she’d already lived it, even though she knew she hadn’t.

  She shook it off, reaching for his hand. “Look, it was just a dream, but if you want to go, we can.”

  He hesitated before pulling her to him. “I’m sorry, Claire. I just know you’re not safe here.”

  She stood for a long time in the confines of his arms, trying to shake the feeling that he was right.

  FIVE

  Xander was silent as they headed across town. Claire spent the time thinking about the silver-haired man who had inspired such visceral fear. Who was he? And what did he and the others want with the panther blood?

  When Xander finally spoke, Claire was surprised it wasn’t about the people living in the house on Dauphine.

  “We’ve been seeing each other for over a year now,” he said.

  “I know,” she said quietly.

  “I think it’s time to get it out in the open, don’t you?”

  She looked out the window, trying to come up with something—anything—that wouldn’t hurt him. Something that wouldn’t sound like a repeat of everything she’d said before.

  “I’m the last person your parents would want you to date,” she finally said.

  “This isn’t about them.” His voice was fierce. “It doesn’t matter what they think.”

  She glanced back at him. “Maybe it matters to me.”

  He shook his head. “If it does, then your priorities are screwed up.”

  “It’s not just your parents,” she said. “Next year, you’ll be at Duke or Emory, and I’ll be . . . I don’t know where, but—”

  “Someplace far from here,” he finished. “Probably cut off from the Guild like Crazy Eddie. I know. You’ve mentioned it once or twice.”

  She was taken aback by the bitterness in his voice. She’d known he was upset that she didn’t want to go public with their relationship, but she didn’t realize he was mad enough to compare her to Crazy Eddie, the only person Claire knew of who’d been kicked out of the Guild.