Chapter Five

“I swear if that was Baba Yaga messing with my head,” Jax ranted down the phone, “I’m going to be having words with that witch!” He’d called within seconds of us leaving The Broken Vial, outraged that we’d all been victims of the memory illusion, that we’d met on the street as strangers, that she’d played with us in such a way.

“Believe me, that was not Baba Yaga. Try Marie Laveau. She wanted us off her trail, and she succeeded. But Banks thinks he knows where she is; we’re headed there now.”

“Where?”

“St Louis One, the cemetery where Marie’s tomb is.”

“Makes sense,” Jax agreed. “Where are you now?”

“Just turned onto Dauphine Street. I need to make a quick stop at Le Tome Doux on the way. Daisy suggested I get a mojo bag to help with the voodoo side of things.”

“And Le Tome Doux is the only place that can do that?”

“Plenty of other voodoo shops have them, yes, but I need authentic, and I need it custom made.”

“Okay, I’m heading that way now. I’ll meet you there.” He disconnected the call, and I slid my phone back into my pocket.

“The memory illusion has lifted, I assume?” Banks asked.

“Thankfully,” I replied, wiping the sweat from my brow. “He wasn’t happy.”

Le Tome Doux was not what I was expecting. Instead of the brightly colored shops of Bourbon Street, this was a dim enclave that held a musty jumble of wooden masks and an alarming array of human skulls.

The wooden floorboards creaked under foot, and dust mites danced in the air as I made my way into the store. There wasn’t a counter to approach nor another soul in sight.

“Is this the right place?” I whispered to Banks, who was busy exploring.

“That’s what the sign above the door says,” he replied. I glanced over my shoulder at the dirty pane of glass above the door. Le Tome Doux was stenciled on it in faded letters.

“Hello!” I called out. “Anyone here?”

“Coming,” a voice replied from behind a beaded curtain, followed by shuffling footsteps. While I waited, I eyed the horse jaw rattles, strings of garlic, alligator heads, and clay Govi jars. It was as if I’d stepped back in time, and a certain sense of foreboding slithered down my spine, making me shiver. Which was kinda nice because this shop had no air-conditioning, and despite the battered rattan fan lazily spinning above our heads, the air was hot, heavy, and thick and smelled like a decaying forest with a bad case of asthma. Behind the curtain, I could see a wooden table and shelves crammed with strange things.

The bead curtains parted with a clatter, and a woman as old as dirt shuffled through. She wore a man’s white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, tucked into a pair of what I could only assume were men’s black pants. The hems were rolled up to the ankles to reveal a pair of weathered bare feet. Around her waist, a braided red cord held the pants up. She wore a straw hat and an alligator tooth necklace and leaned on a staff carved as a snake.

“Daisy send you?” she asked, her lips revealing a distinct lack of teeth. Her voice was deep, rich, and intoxicating, like brown sugar or the perfume that could be found in vials on shelves of antique shops.

I shifted from one foot to the other and nodded. “She did. I need a mojo bag.”

The old woman approached, and I couldn’t take my eyes off her filthy feet. She looked—and smelled—like she hadn’t had a shower in years, and it was all I could do to stand my ground while she shuffled around me, eyeing me up and down.

She slapped her chest. “I am Honorine.”

I inclined my head and mimicked her movement, placing my palm on my chest. “I am Midnight.”

“Very well.” She turned and headed back toward the beaded curtain. “Come.”

I followed. As we entered the room behind the curtain, we passed beneath an alligator’s head and a broom. “Protection,” Honorine said.

“Right.”

We appeared to be in a kitchen of sorts. There was a sink and cupboards along one wall, a beat-up wooden table, a mismatch of chairs, and a refrigerator that was so loud I was surprised Honorine had heard me call out over the din of the motor.

“I will make you a mojo bag,” she said, leaning her staff against the table and rummaging amongst the books and cloth bags stacked haphazardly around her. “You will need magical roots, herbs, botanicals, ritual oils, hand-pressed voodoo ritual powders.”

I had to take her word for it. “Sounds good.”

“Pick a bag.” She pointed to a box, and I looked inside to find hundreds of fabric bags, all painted with vibrant designs. I chose a purple one and held it out to her. Her gnarled fingers snatched it from me, and that’s when I noticed her eyes for the first time. Milky white.

“Are you blind?” I gasped.

But she’d looked me up and down as if she could see. “I do not need my eyes to see,” she said. “Now, shush. I must concentrate.”

While she worked, I crossed to an old, framed photograph hanging on the wall. Oak trees, a big house with the unique craftsman architecture popular with the sugar plantations along the Mississippi River.

“Willowrock Plantation,” I read out loud the inscription on the frame.

“I was born there,” Honorine said, startling me.

“It’s beautiful.” I wanted to lift the photograph off the wall to take a closer look but didn’t dare. For one, I suspected the frame was held together by layers of dust and grime. But there was something else holding me back. A vibe. A gut instinct that told me Honorine would not appreciate me taking such liberties.

“It used to be,” she said wistfully. “Now it is nothing but ruins.”

“Oh, what a shame! What happened?”

“The slaves revolted and burned the plantation to the ground.”

I frowned. “The slaves? The slaves revolted in 1811. Just how old are you?”

“Age is but a number.”

“True, but that would make you over two hundred years old,” I pointed out. I figured the old broad was pulling my leg. Doing what she no doubt did to the tourists, spinning a fascinating tale mired in history and folklore.

“Here, it is done.” She threw the mojo bag at me, and I caught it in one hand. “Carry it in your left pocket.”

I dutifully shoved the colorful purple bag in the left pocket of my jeans. “Thank you. How much do I owe you?”

“I only demand your first born in payment,” she replied.

I guffawed. “You’re gonna luck out on that one, lady. That boat sailed a long time ago, and it’s gonna take a medical miracle for this barren womb to produce anything other than cobwebs.”

A wide, toothless grin split her face. “In that case, twenty should cover it.”

“Twenty? I could have picked one up on Bourbon Street for five dollars.”

“You could have but didn’t.”

“True.” Shaking my head, I handed over a twenty-dollar bill. I knew it was highway robbery, but I figured Honorine could use the money. Maybe buy herself some shoes.

Banks was waiting by the front door, tail swishing, stirring up dust. The beads clattered behind me, rattling and bouncing off each other. The hollow eye sockets of the skulls followed me as I made my way to the front door, my steps hurried.

“Come on.” I scooped him up and turned the knob, “let’s get out of here. This place is giving me the creeps.”

Stepping outside was a relief. The heavy, oppressive air from inside the store was swept away with the sultry heat of New Orleans. I could hear the sound of jazz music in the distance, drifting on the breeze from Bourbon Street.

“Well, would you look at that,” Banks said in my ear.

I turned my head, looking left and right. “What?”

“The Le Tome Doux sign above the door,” he said. “It’s gone.”

I craned my neck, peering at the dirty pane of glass above the door. “What the…” Reaching forward, I wrapped my fingers around the doorknob and turned. It refused to move. I wriggled it, hard. It didn’t budge.

“There you are!” Jax called, hurrying toward us, his long legs eating up the pavement with ease. “I’ve been up and down here three times trying to find the voodoo store you mentioned.”

“It was here,” I said, pointing at the dilapidated building in front of us. When I’d first arrived, the front windows had been intact. Filthy, but intact. Now they were boarded over.

“They moved, huh?”

I shook my head. “No. Still here.” I reached into my left pocket and pulled out the mojo bag, holding it up for him to see. “I met a blind woman as old as dirt. Her name was Honorine. Paid her twenty bucks for this.”

Jax’s eyebrows shot up. “Twenty?”

I held up my hand to stop him. “Don’t even. I know I could have picked one up way cheaper elsewhere, but this is where Daisy sent me.” I tucked the mojo bag back into my pocket. A trickle of sweat made its way down my spine, and I squinted at the sun. It was farther across the sky than I’d realized. No longer midday but mid-afternoon. How long was I in Le Tome Doux?

Sliding my sunglasses over my eyes, I placed Banks on the sidewalk, keeping a firm hold of his leash. “Let’s keep moving.”

Sweat soaked my shirt and plastered it to my body. My chest heaved as I struggled for breath, and my cheeks blazed like molten iron. My hair hung in damp strands around my overheated face, as if I’d dipped my head in a bucket of water.

“Geez,” Banks whined, “you are the picture of fitness. Not.”

Jax shoved a bottle of water into my hand. “Drink,” he commanded. Twisting off the cap took an embarrassing amount of energy, and I mentally berated myself for how weak I’d become. Years ago, when I’d worked for the SIA, I’d been at the peak of fitness. Walking around New Orleans during the heat of the day would not have presented a problem. Hell, I probably wouldn’t have worked up a sweat. Unlike now, when I was a damp, soggy mess, red-faced and out of breath.

“Thanks,” I puffed.

“You realize we’ve only been walking five minutes,” Banks continued to moan, his tail flicking in irritation.

“I’m aware,” I snapped, equally irritated.

Jax threaded his fingers through mine, and I winced at how slick my skin was. I disengaged, wiping my palms on my denim-clad thighs. Why did I even wear jeans? Why not a cotton dress? These were the stupid questions I asked myself as we made our way to St. Louis One.

“The gates might be locked,” Jax said. “Unless we can catch a tour.”

“Pft,” I snort-puffed. “Don’t tell me you can’t pick a lock.”

He glanced at me sideways. “Not really a necessary skill for an NOPD officer.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not NOPD anymore. You’re Bounty, and picking a lock comes with the territory.”

Jax was right. The gates were locked with a chain and padlock. Just inside, a sandwich board announced the next tour was leaving later in the afternoon. Banks squeezed himself through the bars of the gate while I sank onto one knee and eyed the lock. Easy enough.

“What are you doing?” Jax asked, standing behind me, his body blocking the sun and offering some much-needed shade.

“Little bit of magic will open this baby right up,” I said, my tongue between my teeth as I concentrated on calling forth my magic. Gently. I needed the lock open, not the gate blown to smithereens. A few seconds later, the padlock popped open with a sparkle of yellow. “Done.” With a groan, I heaved myself back to my feet, using the gate for support. Jax stepped around me and unwrapped the chain, opening the gate just wide enough for us to slip through before replacing the chain but leaving the padlock open. From a distance, it would appear as if the gates were still locked.

“How do you think Aunt Tilly got in?” Jax asked as we walked among the tombs, heading toward Marie Laveau’s final resting place.

“I’m sure Marie can walk right on through any locked door. Or gate.” Not to mention Aunt Tilly still had her own magic, although she clearly hadn’t used it on the lock.

“I guess.”

Marie’s tomb was in sight. It was narrow and white, with crosses marked in black where tourists had continued the tradition of leaving a cross to ask Marie to grant them a wish.

It was eerily quiet in the cemetery. There was no buzz from the insects, no birds flying overhead, no rustle of leaves. The air was deathly still. The earth smelled like smoke, like a fire had recently burned here, which was odd, because there was no sign of a fire. Just the smell, but it was a strong one. I swallowed, my mouth dry, my throat a burning desert.

“Well, isn’t this creepy?” Jax joked, trying to lighten the mood. I couldn’t bring myself to laugh, instead taking another swig of water, trying to ease the dryness. Banks sat in front of Marie’s tomb, studying it.

“Aunt Tilly isn’t here,” I finally said.

“No.” Banks approached the tomb and sniffed all around. “She hasn’t been here either.”

The weight of disappointment was monumental, almost buckling my knees. We were running out of time. If Marie hadn’t returned to her tomb, where had she gone?

“Do you think it’s true?” Jax asked no one in particular.

“Is what true?”

“That Marie Laveau isn’t actually buried here? Maybe that’s why Aunt Tilly—Marie—didn’t come here. There has always been speculation on where Marie was really buried.”

“If not here, then where?”

“Cemetery #2?”

“Are you suggesting we search all the cemeteries in search of her grave?” I could have cried at the monumental task of it.

“We could try a locator spell,” Banks suggested. “There’s probably a hair or two of Aunt Tilly’s in the back of the Jeep.”

“That’s not a bad idea.” I bent to scoop Banks up, and my back cracked, alarmingly loud.

“Midnight?” Jax touched my arm, his face a mask of concern. “You all right?”

I’d frozen when my spine had crunched, but now I slowly uncurled my body until I was fully upright. My lower back spasmed in protest. What I really needed was a long hot bath and a heat pack for my protesting bones.

“I’m fine.” I wasn’t, but I wasn’t going to admit that because then Jax would pull me off the case, force me to go rest, and I couldn’t do that. Not while Aunt Tilly’s life was in danger. “There’s something you should know,” I said, shaking my head so my ponytail swung against my back, creating a breeze that helped cool my damp skin.

“Oh?”

“The spell? To boost Marie out of Aunt Tilly? I need something of Marie’s.”

Jax looked from me to the tomb and back again. “You thought you’d get something off her corpse?”

I gagged, almost threw up in my mouth. “Nothing so macabre.”

“What then?”

I shrugged, waving my arm toward the streets of the French Quarter. “There must be a few authentic relics that truly did belong to Marie Laveau scattered throughout the Quarter,” I said. “We just need to find one.”