Birthright (Residue Series #2) (32 page)

I
was expecting
my mother to come through the door any second, since holidays were the only times we saw each other.
Sadly
though
, the only thing that
did come w
as
her phone call
,
and
that was how I
learned
why Theleo
was
absent.

“Jocelyn,” she
said
,
her voice barely audible across the scratchy line. It was a bad connection, I guessed, but it gave me the eerie impression that she was making her phone call from a secret location. “You’ll need to spend the holidays with Aunt Lizzy and your cousins.”

That was my plan
,
but I wanted her
here
with us, too. Judging from her choice of words
,
she actually conveyed two messages. First, she wouldn’t be making it home. And, second, neither would Uncle Lester, who had taken a position to help
her
at the ministry.

“There’s absolutely no chance?”

“None,” she said
,
unequivocally steadfast.

“Well,” I sighed. “Why?”

When she answered, her voice grew fainter
,
as if she were intentionally lowering its volume. “I need to stay here
,
because the Vires have found something.”

Either intuition or the strain in her tone told me it was not good. “What?” I asked, hesitantly.

“You’ll need to tell Aunt Lizzy right away. Understand?”

“Yes. What did the Vires find?”

“You’ll need to tell the Caldwells as well.”

“Okay.”

“Immediately,” she demanded.

“I will.”

“They found tools in the bayou where Frederick and Anastas died.” She sounded so disappointed.

“What tools?”

“The kind unique enough to be traced back to their owners.”

“And who are their owners?”

She exhaled, fraught with tension. “The Caldwells. They don’t know it yet
,
but they’ve found the Caldwells tools.”

After
I placed a
frantic phone call to the Caldwell household
,
the next several weeks became a waiting game. When Theleo returned the tension only worsened. Every knock on the door, every car screech
ing
outside, anyone coming up quickly from behind was the possibility of a
highly anticipated
ambush. We
were living
on pins and needles.

For the first time, I didn’t care
if
I made straight A’s on my report card or
if
I received a high score in Ms. Veilleux’s evening class after I demonstrat
ed
the aptitude to heal the entire school during my final, graded assignment. I didn’t care when Miranda thanked me afterwards for curing her sinus infection or when Ms. Veilleux gave us a
n appreciative
nod for eliminating a pulled muscle that left her with a limp. And I couldn’t have cared less when classes started again after holiday break. These responsibilities seemed inconsequential in comparison to the challenges Jameson, our families, and I were facing in real life
, everyday
.

At times,
I
was beginning
to feel as if our only hope
were
the housekeepers who persisted with their antagonistic and constructive midnight lessons.

“This is where Jocelyn’s Great Uncle Clay and Jameson’s Uncle Heim started an argument over the interference of a business deal,” Miss Celia announced
,
as we stood behind S
t. Louis Cathedral
in a gated, grassy area. “One that ultimately resulted in their deaths.”

It was a little past midnight on Thursday evening
,
leaving the area where we stood shadowy and unnatural. While streetlights illuminated the sidewalk beyond and parts of the buildings around us, robust trees with thick foliage shaded and darkened where we stood. It wasn’t entirely inviting, especially when considering the ground was moist, causing our feet to sink into the earth
,
planting us
in one
spot.

“Jameson, you were with him that day. Can you recall the memory?”

We had perfected our ability to channel without touch weeks
ago,
so holding hands was no longer required. A circumstance that, if I were honest with myself, left me disappointed.

I immediately began reading his memories as they came. He settled on one in particular
,
and I began to hear and feel Jameson’s recollection
.

“Accusing me will get you nowhere,” said my uncle, flippantly, playing nervously with a ring on his finger – one that held my family’s stone.

“I have proof,”
boomed
a voice
,
and Jameson turned to look up. Jameson’s head swung back and forth between the men as
they argued,
each growing
tenser
as the exchange heated.

“Proof of what? How can there be proof when I wasn’t involved?” asked Clay.

Jameson’s uncle, Heim, leaned in. “But you were. That’s why the deal went bad.”

“It went bad on its own,” said Clay, glibly. “Those men weren’t going to go into business with you.”

Heim snorted in disgust. “Because you convinced them otherwise.”

Clay shrugged, his expression showing how appalled he was at the accusation. “They came to me, Heim. Not the other way around.”

Heim paused, anger boiling from behind his eyes, and declared, “You’re a liar.”

“What did you-?” Clay looked stunned. “I ain’t no-”

“Liar,” seethed Heim.

Both men suspended their argument and each of them cast quietly at one another.

“
Incantatio
c
icatrix
,”
whispered Heim
;
at the same time Clay fumed, “
Incantatio u
lceratio
.”

The two men spun around and stomped off in opposite directions, Heim passing directly by a Vire wearing a
moldavite
tie clip.

Jameson and I opened our eyes then
, recognizing
each other’s confusion.

“Ulceratio?” I asked.

“Translated as…ulcer?”

“That’d be correct
,” said Miss Mabelle. “
Yer Great Uncle Clay gave Jameson’s uncle an ulcer. It ultimately
took
his life. That man
…He
was always mo’ potent than he knew.”

“But what does cicatrix mean?”

“Scar,”
Jameson
said very quietly.

“Really?” I couldn’t help
sounding
astounded
or holding back a quick, ironic laugh
. “You Caldwells…You really like casting those scars.”

Although I was intending to be humorous, Jameson didn’t
find any humor in it
,
but
he didn’t break his stare.
I quickly learned why when he changed the subject.

“Something happened, Jocelyn, when my uncle cast, right when he said the words. One of your memories invaded mine.”

I tensed, wondering which one that might be.
Still keeping
our fate a secret
,
any mention of a memory instantly put me ill at ease.

“I no longer saw my own,” Jameson continued. “Yours took over.”

“Oh, I didn’t-I didn’t realize that.” I
grew
more nervous. “What was the memory?”

“Your scar. The one that crept up your arm during English class back in New York.”

I was instantly relieved.
“Right, the one that brought me here,” I replied
,
wondering why he was so thrown by it. “What about it?”

“You think that my family cast it,” he stated, concerned but no accusatory.

“That’s…” Now I was stumped. “That’s what I was told.”

Jameson shook his head slowly,
deliberately.
“We didn’t.”

“Maybe Charlotte did it without telling anyone?”

“Jocelyn,” he said tenderly. “None of us knew you existed
,
until you and I met in Olivia’s shop.”

“Well,” I said slowly, processing what he was telling me. “If you didn’t cast it
,
who did?”

Miss Mabelle cut in. “Time we moved on.”

“Just a second,” I said, not close to being ready. “I want to figure this out.”

“N’ y
a
will,” reassured Miss Celia
,
bringing Jameson and me to look at her.

“Do you know about this, Miss Celia?” asked Jameson, evaluating her. “Did you know about her scar?” There was a hint of defensiveness in his tone even though he knew full well
I
healed completely.

“I sho’ do,” she pronounced
, but
didn’t speak another word about it. Instead, she turned and strolled back to the car.

“Miss Mabelle?” I asked, inquisitively, even though she was following Miss Celia.

“Next lesson,” she stated, resolutely, not bothering to turn around. “Ya’ll find out next lesson.”’

Unfortunately, the next lesson
wouldn’t
come for several days. They said they were making arrangements, whatever that meant
so
I pestered Miss Mabelle every time I saw her, hoping she’d eventually tire of me and just give in. She
never did.

They gave us no warning when they were finally ready for the next lesson, instead
,
breaking the news with a knock to our bedroom doors at midnight on the fourth day.

Once we were in Miss Celia’s car
,
and Jameson had moved from his place in the back to sit next to me, I noticed that his eyes looked just as groggy as mine. I deduced he’d also been woken up spur of the moment.

As if he sensed me watching him, h
e turned
suddenly
and caught
me sta
ring. I flinched and then
froze in place, unable to look away when his translucent
,
green eyes locked with mine.

His face, so handsome in the passing streetlights, remained expressionless, void of any emotion that might hint at what he was thinking. Only the stillness of his breathing told me that he was stirred by our private moment.
His
jaw tightened and
his chest
rose
, attempting
to control the feelings unraveling inside. As if instinct
took over,
he slowly, sadly turned to stare
forward and didn’t dare to
turn in my direction for the rest of the drive.

From that
moment, I had no
doubt Jameson was still su
ffering through our separation and I had to fight the urge to reach out my arms to him. That, of course, would only cause him more pain and make me feel the pierce through my own heart, a feeling
far
too common these days.

Since o
ur housekeepers gave us no hint as to where we were headed
, we again traveled at their whim
.
A
fter just ten minutes of driving, once the Vires were lost, Miss Mabelle entered the Uptown neighborhood where streets of small, stylish shops and restaurants intermingle
d
with streets lined with oak-shaded
,
frame houses. This neighborhood felt more like a quaint village than part of New Orleans
.
It was behind one of these houses – blue with white trim and ferns hanging over the porch – where Miss Celia pulled to a stop. There was just one other car in the back lot, which bordered a small garden and wooden shed. Yet, the house was lit up, despite the late hour, and there were more than just a few muffled voices coming from inside.

“Whose house is this?” Jameson asked, exiting from his side of the car.

I stepped out trying to identify them through the windows, but
the effort
was a futile
thanks to
thin, white curtains obstructing our view.

Miss Celia gave us a mysterious grin. “Chil’in…yer ‘bout ta meet the most powerful witches in this hea city.”