CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I had been living in New Orleans for a few months, but had never set foot in the infamous Ninth Ward until tonight. It wasn’t that I actively avoided the area, at least, I didn’t think it was. But the more I thought about it as I drove along a neighborhood where the waters brought on by Hurricane Katrina had been so high they tore buildings right off the ground, the less I believed the lie I had been telling myself.
For me, the Big Easy was all about the French Quarter where I lived, and the Garden District. I rarely went further out of the comfort zone I had built for myself, and when I did, it was only briefly, and only rarely in the direction of the Ninth Ward. Although, I had come close to the area once when we had our last encounter with Belial.
In many ways, I supposed I was still acting like a tourist, refusing to leave the bubble of the French Quarter with its jazz and restaurants. But New Orleans was so much more than Royal and Bourbon Street, more than crawfish and daiquiris, more than old houses and history. And as I was driven around the Ninth Ward, the place where so many had lost their lives, and so many more had their lives destroyed around them, I was starting to realize how ignorant—how disrespectful—I had been.
Eyes from the neighborhood’s inhabitants followed the Uber as it circled the area. To say my hackles rose would not give enough credit to the vice-like grip fear’s hand had upon my throat. I shouldn’t have come here on my own, but I was committed to it now. I couldn’t turn around and go back home.
Doing so would mean ruining any chance of forming a truce with Tamara.
I was dropped off in front of a lone, tiny house on a long street of nothing. Power lines hung overhead, and even from inside the car I could almost hear them hum with electricity from the transformers, but besides them and the odd streetlight, there was little else to see out here except for that house.
The house itself was orange, or possibly a long-ago faded red, and years of neglect showed by the paint chipping in multiple places. But from the house itself, I sensed a great power pulsating out onto the street, its radiance lapping at my feet like a slowly rising shore of dark water.
Tamara was inside, and she was waiting for me.
I unbuckled my seatbelt and stepped out into the night, shaking the apprehension off and strolling up to the front door like I had a purpose. I knocked hard, three times, and waited, but nothing happened. Then I knocked again, and the door seemed to unlock and open a crack, croaking as it went and leaving my knuckles trying to tap the air.
“Hello?” I asked, as I pushed open the door.
The interior of the house was cold. I watched my breath manifest in little puffs before my lips. By the time the door had shut behind me with a whisper of a click, I became almost hyper-aware my surroundings. Not only was I in the Ninth Ward, a dangerous place where wolves roamed wild and hungry, but I was in Tamara’s house—the very jaws of the bitch herself.
Walking through the stub of a hallway to the living room, I came across a door leading into the kitchen. The shades were drawn, but even in the dark I could see the kitchen was empty and dusty, almost as if no one had used it. I kept going, heading toward the living room. There, standing in the dimly lit room where thick, black curtains were drawn, was Tamara—half cast in light, half in darkness.
First, she turned her head, then the rest of her body followed. In one delicate hand, she held a long cigarette; in the other, she held the neck of a wine glass, half empty or half full—take your pick. “Welcome, child,” she said. “Please, make yourself at home.”
“Thank you,” I said, though I chose to stand instead of sitting down on the arm chair in front of the bookshelf, or the mangled, dusty sofa directly across from the inert fireplace. It didn’t look like anyone actually lived here.
The truth was, she made my skin crawl. Not because I found her disgusting as a person, though her morals were questionable. It also wasn’t her impossibly thin frame, or the almost constant sneer on her face. It was her presence that made the hairs on my arms stand on end, like being too close to a high-voltage transformer with a big DANGER sign slapped on the front.
She drew the cigarette above an ashtray and flicked the ash into the bowl. “I would like to thank you for coming all the way out here,” she said, “I understand the Ninth Ward can be somewhat intimidating to those who aren’t from here.”
“You can’t honestly think that I’d believe you’re staying here.”
“I’m not. I’m actually staying at the Wyndham in the French Quarter. But this used to be my home. I was raised in this house and lived here until I met Remy.”
She was using the fact of her being a local to her advantage, just like Jean Luc said she would.
“Well, I want to thank you for your invite,” I said, “I’m glad we can talk, witch to witch”
A slight smile appeared across her face, deepening the crows’ feet at the corners of her eyes. “Witch to witch. I like that.” She walked over to a drinks table where a tray had been set down. On it sat a bottle of wine and another glass. “Would you care for a drink?”
My eyes fell upon the bottle, cork gone, half-empty, and I hesitated.
“Oh no,” she said, “I’m offering you a drink to facilitate our conversation. If it were that easy to poison you, you would not have the reputation you possess.”
She had a point. I nodded, and Tamara filled a glass as I approached the table, allowing me to pick it up of my own volition. I pressed the rim of the glass to my lip, tipped the wine toward my mouth, but kept my lips shut and didn’t drink. Just in case.
“It’s delicious,” I said.
“I made it myself,” Tamara said.
“You made this?”
“Oh yes, but not with magick. No. This was grown in one of my vineyards in Italy.”
“Impressive,” I said, though without any real meaning.
“That isn’t impressive, my dear. Anyone can grow an old wine. What’s impressive is you.”
“Me?”
Tamara walked over to the fireplace again and took a long drag of her cigarette, then exhaled. “I must admit I underestimated you when we first met, and then when we met again. But your resolve, your dedication, your power. Rarely do I get the chance to meet a high-witch of such talent and renown.”
“I… thank—”
“Thanks are not necessary, dear,” she said, turning around to face me again. “What is necessary is that we talk.”
Her annoying habit of interrupting me was starting to pinch my nerves, but I had to keep it together. If not for my sake, then for the sake of the truce. I didn’t want any more blood to be spilled, whether that blood belonged to a witch, a vampire, or one of the many humans already caught in the crossfire.
“That’s why I’m here,” I said, “To talk.”
“I understand, but you must understand my position. Remy and I may have had our differences, our disagreements, but there was once a time when I loved that man; I loved him enough to make sacred vows before God and a crowd of gathered humans. I didn’t much care for God, but the people there… well, let’s just say my self-image was very important to me back in the day. Still, though we were usually at odds with each other, it’s a shame he’s gone.”
“It’s not a shame he’s gone; what happened to him was awful, and losing him was a tragedy.”
“Yet some might say he had it coming, that he had done a great many awful things. I know of many of them, but even that couldn’t squash the last ounce of affection I had for that man.”
“Remy had also done many good things.”
“Yes, I understand he was teaching you, and that he had donated his Garden District home to your school of witchcraft.”
I set the glass of wine down. “He had—has—and we’re all thankful for it. Thanks to him, the witches of New Orleans now have a place where they can go to learn about their kind freely.”
“And do they?”
I cocked my head. “What do you mean?”
“Learn, my dear. Do the witches come to learn?”
“Well… the school is new, so, there are only a few of us practicing.”
“And I suppose if this nonsense with the vampires hadn’t opened up like an old wound, there would be many more witches coming to learn in your school.”
“This isn’t just a conflict reopened. Those vampires attacked us when we were at our most vulnerable. Wrong doesn’t even begin to describe what they did to us that night, to our brothers and sisters. I wish you could feel the outrage I feel.”
“I am outraged. Believe me, I am.”
Tamara sipped her wine and allowed herself a second to relax. She swirled the glass in the palm of her hand and examined the liquid as it swayed with the motion. “And yet,” she said, “You would advocate for the vampires. You say they are innocent.”
“Some of them were with us that night,” she said, “They were attacked as much as we were.”
“And why aren’t they fighting their own kind?”
“They… are…”
“Ah, but the conviction in your voice fails you. You don’t know what it is the vampires are doing against their own kind, do you? For all you know, they’re all laughing behind your back as you squirm between both camps, vying for peace between our kinds. A peace that’ll never come.”
She had me. I tried not to make it clear on my face, but she had me. I knew Jean Luc and his family were doing their best to keep the situation under control, but didn’t know the extent of their activities or their plans. I had allowed them to keep the secret of their methods even from me, and trusted they were finding a way out of this mess. But so far, they had turned up nothing I could use—nothing that would help me confront the leader of the vampire pack that was hell-bent on destroying every last one of us.
Tamara walked over to where I was, her face softening. She set her glass down on the table and put her cigarette to rest on the ashtray. “My dear,” she said, “I don’t mean to frighten you. We’re sisters, you and I, bound by magick in a way no one else can ever be. I know we are both doing the best that we can to turn the tide of this war in our favor. You are a powerful witch, determined and brave, but I have something you don’t—something you need.”
“What’s that?”
“Experience, child. I like to think I know a thing or two about people. That’s why I have a proposition for you; a way for us to end this conflict.”
I pretended to have another sip of wine. “I came here to listen,” I said, “So I’ll listen.”
“Good,” Tamara said, walking across the room. “My proposition is this, Madison; if you were to join me, then with my experience and your power, we could end this once and for all.”
“Join you?”
“It’s not as ominous as it sounds,” she said, turning again with a wolfish smile on her face, “But think about it. You and I, together, would be an unstoppable force. We would be able to negotiate whatever truce we want with the vampires. We could drive them out if we wanted to, draw lines in the sand, whatever we want. We could have it all—peace everlasting.”
“Peace everlasting,” I said, more to myself than to her. “And you think we can achieve that only if I join your side?”
Tamara nodded, almost gleefully. “I want the same thing you do, child. I want peace. I want my home back.”
“You would drop your need for vengeance just like that?”
“Well, of course we would teach the vampires a lesson, but—”
“Teach them a lesson?” I asked, inching closer to her, head lowered, eyes narrow. “What kind of lesson?”
Tamara seemed to retreat from me, moving slowly toward the fireplace. “Humility, for one,” she said, “But we would also bring to bear the consequences of their actions.”
“And how would we do that?”
“An eye for an eye, child. They killed Remy, we kill of theirs.”
I cocked my head. “By burning them at the stake?”
“If we must.”
“You understand we will never have peace if what we propose is more death.”
“What I’m proposing is one final death to seal the deal.”
I shook my head. “Death and violence never solved anything. If I join you, I’m sending a clear message not only to the vampires, but also to the witches of New Orleans, that I’ve picked a side, and this isn’t about us against them—it’s about unity.”
Tamara picked up her wine glass and finished what was left in one long swig. “So, you won’t join me?” she asked.
A cold chill suddenly entered my body, and I found myself now checking over my shoulder and looking at the open door leading toward the front hall and the way out. I turned my eyes back at Tamara. “No,” I said, “Tamara, we all need—”
Tamara threw her glass against the wall behind me, causing it to shatter and send glass raining to the floor. My heart leapt into my throat and started to pound. I turned and headed for the door going into the corridor, but it was as if my feet were made of concrete—like running inside of a nightmare. I was nowhere near it when the door slammed shut on its own.
I turned to look at Tamara again. A freak wind had entered the room and started to circle the empty space, pulling and pushing curtains this way and that, causing a fire in the fireplace to grow almost unnaturally and begin flickering violently.
“What are you doing?” I asked, my hands already balled into fists by my sides.
“I really wish we could have worked something out,” Tamara said, “I hate to waste good talent.”
“I don’t—”
With a flick of her wrist, Tamara sent a wave of telekinetic energy hurtling toward me. The sofa shifted, scraping across the floor and bringing a corner of the carpet with it, then it took off and flew across the room. I threw my hands up in defense, pulled the power out from within me, and using my own telekinesis, took hold of the sofa as it flew and turned its path into a wall, away from me.
The sofa struck with a loud crash. One of its legs went into a window, smashing the glass and wedging itself there. By the time I turned my eyes on Tamara again, she had sent the wine bottle, glass, and tray flying in my direction. Again, I put my hands up, succeeding in turning the bottle and glass away, but I wasn’t quick enough to stop the tray the wine bottle had been sitting on from striking me on the side of the head.
My legs turned to jelly and gave way. I fell hard, landing on my shoulder as stars danced in front of my eyes. Blinking didn’t help to dismiss them, and when I touched the side of my head, my fingers came back warm and wet. Tamara loomed over me, her tall, dark frame blocking the light from the fireplace.
She was the last thing I saw before passing out.