Under her mother’s disapproving eye—and without her grandfather, who’d ensconced himself in the library mumbling something about needing to check his notes—Isobel set off on a grand adventure in her tiny car, which seemed a heck of a lot smaller with both Chris in the passenger seat and Goshen taking up the back.

She drove, which meant Christopher sulked. “It’s emasculating having you drive me everywhere.”

“It’s my car.”

“When I inherit the Earth—”

“When you get your license and your own car, then you can drive me around. Until then…” She patted the dash. “This is my baby. A baby I had to have fixed because of someone.” She shot him a glare.

He refused to look abashed. “We don’t know how much of that damage was from me and how much was from the dead body monster attack.”

“The monster never touched my car.”

“Details.”

She shook her head but smiled. Chris had a certain lying arrogance that some people might object to; however, having grown up in a household that thrived on half-truths and pompous declarations, she found it familiar rather than off-putting.

“Where do you think we should go first in New Orleans?” she asked.

“Why ask me? You’re the one who came up with the idea.”

“Whining about that, too?”

He chuckled. “No. Actually, I’m glad you have an idea because, I’ll be honest, I didn’t have the slightest clue where to start. Although I am surprised you didn’t ask your grandfather for advice first. He seems to know his shit.”

“When it comes to the dead, Grandfather knows how to put them in that state and keep them that way. He’s never found anything to bring them back. Not for lack of trying. According to my mother, after the death of my grandmother, he tried everything he could. Tried and failed.”

“Is this your way of saying you set me to an impossible task?”

She flashed him a glance. “It’s not impossible.”

“What makes you think we can do it?” Chris asked.

“Not we, you. You. You’re the Antichrist, Sun of the Morning, The mighty man. If anyone can bring my father back, it’s you.”

“And what if I can’t?” Doubt crept into his tone, soft and uncertain, a vulnerability he seemed to show to her and no one else.

She reached out to place her hand on his leg. “Then at least I’ll know you tried.” By trying, he would show he’d meant it when he said he’d do anything to win her hand. Prove that he wanted her not just because their families said so, but because he thought she was worth fighting for.

The heavy palm of his hand landed upon hers. Awareness flared. Her breath hitched. He took it to mean something more and slid her hand up his leg. She snatched it back.

He chuckled. “Once I bring your dad back, and we get married, you’ll have to stop being shy.”

“I’m not shy. I just don’t think now is the time for me to be groping you.”

“It’s always the right time to grope me.”

“And, as usual, you’ve managed to turn a perfectly fine conversation into sex.”

“Of course I did. I’m a man.”

“You’re a pig.”

“I’m okay with that.” His smile really did its best to melt her panties off. Good thing for the magical chastity belt because a part of her was tempted to pull over and steam up the windows.

“This is such a bad idea.” The realization that she was on a road trip with the one man who totally turned her on and made her want to forget her morals sank in. How would she keep her hands off him? The man oozed sex appeal and made her virgin body burn.

“Don’t start doubting me now. I’m the Antichrist, duckie. I can do this. I can do anything.” A brash statement, one she truly hoped he could live up to.

“Have you talked to your dad since the…um…”

“Have I talked to him since you ran off, leaving me like a chump at the altar?”

She cringed.

“Not really. I did see my sister, though. She was the one who told me you were still alive.”

“You thought I was dead?”

“Well, there was that swamp monster. He had your necklace.” He rummaged in his jeans pocket and dangled the amulet.

She snatched it. “You got it back for me.”

“Yeah, sure, that’s what I did.” He smirked. “Why were you asking about my dad?”

“He came to see me just before we left.”

“Well, isn’t that fucking nice. Sees my girlfriend but can’t be bothered to talk to me,” Chris grumbled.

The use of the word girlfriend warmed her, but she couldn’t ignore the bitterness in his tone. “He’s the Devil, Chris. You can’t expect warm and fuzzy fatherly things from him. You should count yourself lucky that he didn’t kill you. Rumor has it that’s what he does with his sons.”

“I’d like to see him try.” Chris looked out the window, fingers drumming the armrest. What did he see? This stretch of the highway had nothing of interest.

She kept quiet, knowing he ruminated. Sometimes, it was better to not push. Eventually, he spoke.

“What is it like having a family?”

“You know. You had a family.” Kind of. Chris had grown up with the woman who adopted him, but he’d also been the central figure for a cult. He’d lost everything at a tender age when his mother was arrested for murder.

“A real family doesn’t lock you in your room watching The Omen so your mom can have an orgy in the basement with strangers in robes.”

Not exactly normal family life, and she wondered at his question even as she answered. She spoke softly. “My mother was the one to always harp on my manners. ‘A lady doesn’t slouch.’ ‘A tsarina doesn’t burp.’ ‘Hold your head high.’ She actually made me learn to walk down the stairs balancing a book on my head.”

“But you love her?”

“Yes. She might be controlling and fierce, but she does it out of love. She wants me to be the best daughter there is. And in her defense, she hasn’t made me do anything she didn’t do herself.”

“What of your father?”

Dear Papa, lost during her tween years. “My father was my best friend. He would steal me from my dancing lessons and take me to the field, where he’d teach me how to fight. He would read me stories at night, tales of ordinary people doing great things. He taught me that being me was good enough.” Papa didn’t care that she didn’t have magic. He’d just loved her.

“I’m never going to experience that, am I?”

Honestly, with Lucifer as his dad? “No. But,” she said, reaching to grab his hand for a squeeze, “one day, you’ll be a father. And you can be all the things you wished you’d had growing up.”

“Me, a dad?” He said it with such surprise. “I guess if we got married, we’d have kids. Hunh. I never even thought of that.”

“At least two,” she declared. “A boy and a girl preferably.”

“Or more,” Chris declared. “A whole bunch of them.”

“Says the man who won’t have to carry them for nine months and push them out of a tiny hole.”

He laughed. “Very well, two at least, then. A father…” He said it with such wonderment, the smile on his face hitting her hard.

This was why she loved him. This man, who saw a future with her and greeted it with such happiness.

She pulled over.

“Why are we stopping?” he asked.

She reached for him and hugged him. He hesitated only a moment before hugging her back, his arms winding tightly around her. It seemed only natural for their lips to meet in a kiss. A soft and sensual joining that might have lasted awhile if they hadn’t heard a distinct pfft from the back seat.

A moment later, they were rolling down the windows and gagging.

“Your dog reeks,” Chris declared, his head hanging out the window as she drove off, trying to push the stench out.

“My dog is perfect. He’s probably just getting used to Earth food.”

“Earth food? What is he, an alien?” Chris mocked.

“According to your dad, he’s a Hell Hound.”

“Hold on a second. I’m the Son of Perdition, but you get the Hell Hound? That is so unfair.”

“I didn’t choose him. Gooshie chose me, didn’t you, my big fluffball?” She reached over her shoulder to give her dog a scratch.

With a glare over his shoulder, Chris muttered, “You can keep your dog. I prefer cats.”

“Woof.”

“Big ones,” he added with a side-eye at her pooch.

As the car chewed up miles, they chatted about this and that, but eventually, when the sign indicated they were close, he finally asked, “What do you think we’ll find in New Orleans?”

“Not what, who. We need to talk to a woman. Marie Laveau.”

“Who is that?”

“Only the greatest voodoo practitioner to have ever lived.”

“Lived? Is she dead?”

“Yes and no. According to history, she died in 1881.”

“I smell a but.”

“After her death, people claimed to still see her. It could have been her daughter, but in the circles I run in, it’s believed she shed her failing fleshly body to assume a new form.”

“So we’re going to see a zombie?”

“Call her a zombie, and I doubt you’ll live very long. Again, I don’t know what shape she takes now. Madame Laveau guards her secrets well.”

“Then how do you know about her?”

“Because, when it comes to the dead and voodoo arts, she’s the name that people utter.”

“So she’s a necromancer.”

“Not exactly.” Isobel frowned. How to explain it. Chris hadn’t been raised with the same magical knowledge as she. “A necromancer animates the dead. He imbues the bodies souls have discarded with power. He animates them, but they are mindless things. Puppets to the necromancer’s will. Marie Laveau is said to have done more than that. She took souls and put them into new bodies.”

“What happened to the soul that was there?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Again, not something that’s really talked about, but I would imagine the essence was sent on to the next plane.”

“You mean Heaven or Hell.”

“Those are some of the options, yes.”

“So what are ghosts, then? Are those souls that didn’t move on?”

“For the most part? No. They are echoes of what used to be. Leftover energy of that person. Again, mostly mindless, given their actual personality, who they were, departed when the soul did.”

“But you seem to think your dad is more than a ghost.”

“He’s aware of us. I know he is. And he spoke to you.” She turned her gaze from the road to glance at Chris. “Ghosts don’t speak. Ever.”

“So if he’s not a ghost, then what is he?”

“I think his soul somehow got separated from his body. He’s trapped in that form.”

“So you want to see if we can stick him back in.”

“Yes and no. Without a soul, his body probably died. Which means—”

“He needs a new body.” Chris groaned. “And exactly whose body do you plan to steal?”

That was a question she didn’t have an answer to.

Pulling into New Orleans around the dinner hour, they stopped for food first. Isobel spent much of that time on her phone, doing Internet searches. In between bites of his gumbo, Chris asked, “What are you searching for?”

“A store.”

“You want to go shopping?” His brow creased, and he paused, his heaping spoon hanging mid-air. Goshen, thinking he was done, slurped it. Chris glared at the dog, who’d joined them outside for their impromptu dinner by the food truck.

“I need to buy some things,” she said, scrolling through the search results.

“What happened to visiting that Marie chick’s grave in the cemetery?” It stood to reason that the first place to look for a dead woman was the last place she was supposedly seen.

“We are going to the cemetery, but this is New Orleans, a place where the dead have more power. We are going to need some magic to protect us.”

“Why didn’t you grab some from your mom?”

“You think I should have trusted any spell from my mother? She is the one who put me in a chastity belt. Given she didn’t want me coming here, who knows what she would have given us.”

“Good point. But I feel like I should mention that you’re talking about trusting some unknown magic practitioner with our lives.”

“Do you have a better suggestion?” she asked, getting back into the car and getting them back on the road.

“Isn’t magic like a drug dealer: you should never try a new supplier unless your friends try him first?”

“Kind of hard to ask for references since I don’t know anyone who’s ever needed a charm to keep them safe from a dead voodoo practitioner. Although, apparently, it is a Google search term because I got a few hits.”

Chris drummed his fingers on the door. “The last time I went asking someone for magical help, she got blown into meat chunks.”

“That is unfortunate, but we’ll have to take that chance unless you want to call your dad and ask him for some help? You are Lucifer’s son, after all.”

“I ain’t calling Lucifer.”

Boldly said and yet insight had her saying softly, “You don’t know how to reach him.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not exactly as if I have a phone anymore, and he never gave me his number.” He shrugged. “No biggie. I don’t need his help.”

“There is one way you can get his attention,” she advised, stepping out of her car. Goshen shoved at the window in the backseat, but she shook her head at him. Stores frowned on pets. Especially giant-sized ones.

Christopher unfolded himself out of the passenger side and glanced at her over the top of the car. “And how do I do that, not that I have any interest?”

“Say something nice using his name.”

He arched a brow. “Don’t you mean take his name in vain?”

“No, that’s for his brother. Your dad hates being complimented. And by compliment, I don’t mean telling him he is the most murderous demon known to mankind. Those kinds of things make him stronger. I’m talking about mushy compliments. The kind that he finds insulting. Like, hey, Dad, I love and miss you. You’re the best.”

That truly creased his brow. “That makes no sense. How is that supposed to grab his attention?”

“Try it. You’ll see.” Now that a connection existed between the Devil and his son, Chris could contact him—if he wanted to.

He didn’t seem ready judging by the way Chris clamped down on his expression. “I don’t need him. I don’t need anybody.” So he said, and yet his fingers curled around Isobel’s as they entered the magic shop with a sign proclaiming: Pestle and Mortar.

From the outside, the storefront appeared rather benign, yet the website promised magic. Real magic according to the symbol at the bottom, which only true magic shops received. Isobel had never met the Magical Authority, MA for short. The MA governed the use of spells and potions on Earth. It separated the charlatans from the rest.

But Isobel had to wonder if they’d made a mistake the moment she stepped into the shop. The interior burst upon the senses with bright colors and light. Totally unexpected.

She stopped dead, as did Chris.

He remarked, “Are you sure we’re in the right spot? Because it looks like a rainbow barfed all over this place.”

He had a point. Used to magic that required shadows and vile concoctions of unhealthy color, she couldn’t help but gape at the pastels all around, and was that a mural on the wall of a freaking unicorn prancing amidst a field of four-leaf clovers?

“This is the right address. According to its MA symbol, it’s legit.”

“Are you sure? Because I don’t see how this”—he held up a crystal-shaped horn—“or this”—a neon-pink rabbit’s foot—“is gonna help protect us against the dead.”

She frowned. “Perhaps the shop has changed owners.” Or whoever ran the place kept the good stuff in the back, which went counter to approved practice. Hiding product tended to gain the attention of human authorities. In her experience, MA-approved shops preferred to deal in the open.

“Hello, children.” The bright and cheery voice came from a rotund old lady who popped out of the back, the beaded curtain rustling at her arrival.

“Are you the shopkeeper?” Isobel asked, brow still pinched.

“I am indeed. Babette Yager. But you can call me Baba.” The wide smile produced a dimple. The woman appeared so cute and cuddly, so warm and grandmotherly, that Isobel instinctively distrusted it.

Poor Chris, being a man, fell for it. “Hi. I’m Chris.” He held out his hand, and the little old woman grasped it, held it so long that Isobel took a step forward, only to stop as Babette spoke.

“For he is the Wicked One, the Destroyer of Nations, the King of Fierce Countenance. At his coming, the armies of dark and light will sweep the land. Scouring it clean. Remaking the world in a new vision. For he is darkness against the light. The shield against the fiery sword. The King that Cometh.”

The woman turned to look at Isobel and, with pupils the size of a spinning galaxy, added, “And you shall be his queen, the strength behind his throne. The mother of the future.”

Blink.

The lady with the dimpled smile returned. “My, what a strong handshake you have, dearie.” She giggled.

A laugh that held hints of a cackle.

Isobel frowned. Had she imagined what she heard? This was New Orleans, a place steeped in magic and portents. Things had happened here. Things that left a mark. Echoes that sometimes spoke loudly enough to be heard.

Christopher certainly didn’t act as if the old woman had said anything out of the ordinary. He perched himself on a stool at the counter and took the cookie offered on a plate—a plate that appeared out of nowhere. He smiled, a tad too widely to be genuine.

“Won’t you have a nibble, dearie?” The plate, fine china with a flower pattern around the edges, extended in her direction, the cookies on it large and gooey, still warm to the touch.

“Are they poisoned?” she asked, turning it around to peek and then bringing it close for a sniff.

“What a silly question, dearie,” chortled Babette.

“If they are, I’m going to die happy because they are damned good,” Chris declared, grabbing a second. He inhaled it and then washed it down with the glass of milk on the counter—made of wood, butcher-block style, old and scarred and at odds with the rest of the store.

Isobel perched on a stool beside him and took note of the glass jars behind the counter. Filled with candy for the most part, strange creations with odder names. Gummy Eye of Newt. Fuzzy Spider. Mermaid Hair. Leprechaun tongue—the green on those was a nice touch.

“Who are you?” Isobel asked.

“Are you simple, dearie? I told you my name.” Said with a bit of a bite.

“You told me a name. I don’t believe it. The magical authority wouldn’t have certified a charlatan dealing in rabbit’s feet and candy.”

“What makes you think these items aren’t magical?”

Grabbing a charm in the shape of a four-leaf clover, Isobel waved it. “This is just plastic. There’s no magic in it.”

“You think you know magic, dearie?” The sharp gaze pinned her.

Given how Isobel was raised, it was not conceited at all to say, “As a matter of fact, I do.”

“And what kind of magic are you looking for that you don’t see? Luck? Angling for a promotion at work? Perhaps you need a curse for a coworker who’s been bringing you down. Or do you need something to help your love life?” A sly glance tossed at Chris, who had finished the plate of cookies and leaned back, grinning at the large-bladed fan spinning on the ceiling.

Someone appeared dazed and confused.

Turning an accusing stare on Babette, she snapped, “What did you do to him? What was in those cookies?” She dropped her uneaten one on the counter and scrubbed her hand on her pants lest it seep into her skin.

“A bit of opium. Not enough to hurt him. I need him alive if I’m to fetch a proper price.” Babette’s expression turned calculating.

“What price? Who are you selling him to? What am I saying?” Isobel jumped to her feet and loomed over the older woman. “You can’t sell him. Or me. Do you have any idea who we are?” Because she had just figured out who she faced.

At that, Babette’s lips split into a wide smile, with big teeth and clear avarice. “I do indeed know who you are. I recognized you the moment you walked in the door. Isobel Rasputin, the granddaughter of the mighty Russian wizard. And, as if you weren’t prize enough, Lucifer’s son. And you think my charms aren’t lucky.” The old woman tsked, and with each shake of her head and cluck of her tongue, the shop began to lose some of its shiny brightness. “I knew investing in that newfangled Internet business would pay off.”

“The Magical Authority will hear about this,” Isobel declared.

“Do you really think I care what those old fools say?” The woman laughed, the cherubic sound transitioning into something darker, more menacing. “They’ll do nothing. They wouldn’t dare.”

“My mother—”

“Will be too late to help you, dearie.” The lips spat the name. “By the time she realizes what I’ve done, I’ll have ground your bones into dust.”

The shop darkened further, and suddenly, the things that seemed so innocuous took a darker turn. The Gummy Eye of Newt became bloody and floating in liquid. The tongue desiccated and gross. The rabbit’s foot still bloody and fresh.

Isobel backed away and fumbled at her hip for her magical sword, only her fingers grasped nothing as the old woman advanced on her.

“Looking for something, dearie?” The old woman, whose cheeks lost their rounded appearance and whose eyes glinted with darkness, laughed. “Your magic won’t work in my store. This is my realm. My rules.”

“My mother will kill you if you harm me.” Mother would avenge her against one of her oldest adversaries. But vengeance didn’t exactly help her at the moment.

“Your mother isn’t strong enough to face me.” The arrogant sneer pulled the woman’s lips tight. “What I still don’t understand is why you’re here. Why come to my shop instead of going to your mother for aid?”

Since there was no harm in the telling, she told Babette the truth. “We sought protective gris-gris charms.” Mother was better at curses.

“To protect against what?”

“Marie Laveau. We want to visit her grave.”

“Her grave? You mean that empty tomb that people worship?” The old woman snickered.

“You mean she lives?” The rumors claimed she did, yet they also claimed Elvis roamed the mortal plane. False. Everyone knew he had a permanent gig in the second circle of the Pit.

“By certain standards, yes.”

“Do you know where I can find her?” Isobel asked.

“I know everything, except what business you have with that woman.”

“We need to speak to her about a soul that is trapped.”

“You think to demand information.” A cackle erupted. “You would have needed more than a simple bag of herbs and magic to protect you from the likes of Laveau. That woman only deals in trades, and the most valuable thing you can offer is about to become mine.”

Isobel frowned. “If you can’t help, then I guess coming to your shop was a waste of our time. Time to take our leave and chance a meeting with Madame Laveau.”

“You aren’t leaving, dearie.” The old woman reached for her, fingers longer than before tipped in yellow nails, sharpened to a point. Isobel leaned back, wishing for her sword. But the spot at her side remained empty, leaving only her hands and her wits.

Surely, she could handle one little old woman—if that little old lady weren’t a sorceress.

She managed to dodge the first zing of magic. Lucky, too, since the zap froze the shelving unit behind her.

She jabbed, but the old woman proved spry and dodged with a cackle.

“You’ll have to be quicker than that, dearie.”

Isobel ducked and evaded the next fling of magic. A lean to the side and a quick step behind a shelf avoided a few more.

The jars on the shelving unit wobbled and gave her an idea.

She lobbed one. Then another. The satisfying crunch of glass not accompanied by any grunts of pain or shrieks.

“Do you know how expensive those are, dearie?” the old witch complained. “Maybe I’ll fatten you up and sell you by the pound.”

“You won’t win,” Isobel exclaimed, crouching to the floor and using her shoulder to heave at the case holding the macabre goods.

The noise and subsequent chaos allowed her to scoot behind another tall shelving unit just in time to avoid the sticky web tossed where she’d last stood.

“I always win, dearie. But, sometimes, I like to play with my new toys first. Catch!”

The ball of slime hit the bookcase and soaked in, the acid chewing at it quickly and dangerously. Isobel backed away but had nowhere to really hide, nowhere the witch wouldn’t find her.

And the old bitch knew it.

Baba smiled and waggled her fingers. “Gotcha!”

Standing straight and tall, Isobel smiled wider. “You’re right. I do.”

And that was when the tables turned.