Birthright (Residue Series #2) (43 page)

Our pause at the entrance
indicated
to Jameson and Miss Celia something was wrong
,
and they were at our side by the time the scream had ended.

We raced
through the house. Miss Mabelle left her cane discarded at the door
and
flung damaged furniture aside
, clearing
a path as I kept at her heels. We checked every room and
even
the backyard but found no one. No cousin. No aunt. No Vire.

“That’s why the Vires aren’t at our gate. That’s why they’re all gone,” I said, frantic, my mind racing for answers. “The Vires have taken my family. And if they’ve taken them
,
then…”

Jameson was already reaching for my hand
,
having come to the same
conclusion
as me. If the Weatherfords were taken
,
there was a strong probability the Caldwells have been, too.

We reached the Caldwell residence in less than thirty seconds with Miss Celia at the wheel. She was the last to leave the car because the rest of us didn’t bother to wait until it had stopped moving before opening our doors and stepping out.

We found the same devastation and
absence of
living souls
,
and I could see the anger in Jameson’s expression as we collected our thoughts in the family room.

“Could they have linked the Vires’ deaths – Frederick and Anastas – with our families?” I asked, not wanting to think of the consequences if I were correct.

“Possibly,” said Jameson, his head down in deliberation. “But it was the Caldwell tools found in the swamp so that wouldn’t explain why Sartorius would take your family…”

“You think Sartorius is involved?”

His head lifted. “Absolutely. If he’s still in the city, he’s the one leading the Vires.”

“Jameson, could he be retaliating against us?
”
I asked, my heart stopping momentarily. “For what we did to him yesterday?” Without waiting for a reply, guilt
stabbed at me so sharp
it took my breath away.

“Maybe,” Jameson replied
as he pursed his lips
in anger. “We need to find our families.”

“Where would Sartorius
take
them?”

“The ministry?” I suggested.

“Nah, that’d be too far away,” answered Miss Celia.

Jameson’s eyes met mine
,
and all of us came to the
same
conclusion
simultaneously.
“The encampment.”

We stared
blankly at each other, because the very next thought was where to find it. We’d been there only once and without directions. In fact, we’d been carried there by…

“Ms. Veilleux,” I said
,
just as Jameson took my hand
, leading
me toward the car again.

On
the ride
to Ms. Veilleux’s house, no one spoke. When we arrived
,
the silence grew even more intense because the back door leading to the kitchen was open
,
and Ms. Veilleux wasn’t home. While there was no damage, there was enough suspicion to cause us to evaluate what exactly was happening.

“Why would they sequester Ms. Veilleux?” Jameson asked himself
,
aloud.

“Sequester?” I
repeated, confused
.

His attention came back to me long enough to explain. “That’s the term we use when someone’s called in for questioning by the Vires.”

Miss Mabelle brought us back to the conversation at hand by saying, “And if they’s sequestered her ain’t no tellin’ who else they’s sequestered.”

“You don’t think…” I said but didn’t bother to finish
,
because I knew the answer.

She believed everyone in our private world had been rounded up. “Sho’ wouldn’t put it past ‘em.”

“We need to find the encampments,” Jameson and I said in unison, my voice slightly more shrill than his
,
as we redirected everyone’s focus.

I quickly considered who else was in Ms. Veilleux’s coven
,
because they were the only other people who might be able to help us.

“Mrs. DeVille?” I proposed.

“She’ll do,” Jameson said
,
taking
my hand. “We don’t have time to waste. Can you…?”

I knew what he was asking before he finished
,
and by that time our feet had left the ground
. We
were levitating above the city lights. Jameson, being an excellent navigator, straightened my course
,
until we were directly over Mrs. DeVille’s shop. From there, I settled everyone to the ground in the private courtyard leading to
the rear of the store, where
their living quarters
could be found
.

The first thing I noticed was that the
door was open
.
The second
thing
was that, after calling for her and her husband,
there was no
response
, only silence.

It was eerie standing in the middle of the barren hallway
leading
between their home and the front of the store. There were no voices, no shuffling of boxes,
and
no crackling of lit candles. It felt as if we were the last ones alive.

I turned to Jameson. “T
hey have
n’t
taken everyone, have
they?”

Jameson’s nod brought out an unexpected reaction: Anger, intense and unfaltering.

I had no outlet for it, yet,
so
I focused on our options. The rest of the group did the same
,
and we finally deduced, “There’s only one more thing we can do.”

Jameson nodded, “Find it ourselves.”
He
paused, considering something, which he
preceded
to voice.
“But there’s a stop we’ll need to make first. If we’re right and everyone in our world within the city limits have been collected, we’ll need to go in prepared.”

“What did you have in mind?”

Jameson answered
,
unwaveringly, despite the risk it entailed. “The rope.”

At that suggestion, my eyebrows rose. There was only one rope he could be referring to. The Rope of The Sevens, seven pieces of skin and hair compiled from each one of them.

“It’ll be a last resort but I have a feeling we’re going to need it.”

Until now,
I’d never considered using the rope. It
was
a souvenir, a prized possession,
not to be used
for the purpose of a concrete objective.
However, now
it took on a
new,
different meaning. I understood why I had been warned multiple times to keep it safely hidden until I was ready to use it. It had influence
,
because it could save my family and, if we were correct,
everyone else from
our world who
were taken from their residences
within New Orleans. That seemed like a good
enough
reason to me to bring it out.

“Let’s get it,” was my response, to which Jameson
nodded
.

As the four of us hurried back to the courtyard, I picked us up one by one until we were gliding down the hallway.
The second we crossed the threshold,
I lifted us into the sky,
soaring
over the city, and placed us down at Aunt Lizzy’s back door.

Miss Mabelle opened the door for us, for the first time showing Jameson and me some sign of credence by allowing us to pass and enter the house first. We rushed up the stairs, our feet never touching the steps
,
and into my bedroom. I flicked the lamp on
,
as Jameson bent down in front of the rope’s secret
hiding place,
his attention focused on retrieving it. Mine, however, was distracted.

A mirror had been mounted to the back of the closet door so when
it was
open
,
I could see my reflection. It was open now.
I assumed
Miss Mabelle put it there sometime over the course of the last few months. I wasn’t much for looking in the mirror so I hadn’t paid attention
, but
tonight I did.
I caught sight of myself
with
light-colored, floral, loose-fitting clothes h
anging
from my body. Standing there, entranced by my reflection, I tried to determine what was not quite right about me. Something was different as I stood glancing between the row of hanging clothes and the mirror. After a few seconds,
it dawned on me.

I no longer saw myself as someone who
fit with
the relaxed, bohemian style of my wardrobe. I felt edgier
,
rebellious,
and
in control of my own destiny. I wasn’t the innocent, little girl who had been transplanted here a few months ago. I
had
witnessed death and
had
been altered by it. I was about to consciously go into battle with enemies who wanted me dead. But, most importantly, I was a witch with roots in my past that could no longer be ignored.

Immediately, I went in search of the darkest clothes from my closet, pulling out a tight, black, long-sleeved top, fitted, black jeans, and black, knee-high boots. I discarded my standard number of bracelets and wore just the one with my family stone, liking the fact that it was emphasized
against my dark outfit
.

As I wiggled the skirt from my hips, I felt eyes on me and glanced over my shoulder to find Jameson standing in the center of my room, eyebrows raised.

“Feeling a little warm?”

I frowned at him and went back to undressing. There was no time to be self-conscious and, besides, I had my underwear on. That was the equivalent
of
a bathing suit.

By the time I fit the new black top over my head, he was leaning against the dresser, arms crossed,
and
one side of his mouth raised in a smirk.

“What?” I demanded, pulling the jeans from my bed and stepping my leg into them.

“I was just thinking
,
if I die tonight, I’ll do it happy.”

He sounded so definite and untroubled.
His
smirk faded and he crossed the room in two strides, taking my waist in his hands and guiding me to him.

“Jameson…”
Pestered by the jabbing reminder that our future together wasn’t possible, my intention was
to stop him before he got started, but my own desires overcame
the concern for a brief moment
as his lips found mine.

His kiss was slow, deep,
and
seductive
. When
it ended
,
he kept his hands on my hips, pressing firmly
,
as if he didn’t want to let me go.

“Now I’ll be euphoric,” he whispered, genuinely content, without a hint of playful humor behind it.

Death being a sore subject for me, I forced myself to pull away from him and finish dressing
, believing
I was concealing my thoughts well enough
. But
he caught on.

Gently taking my elbow and drawing my attention back to him, he said, “If it happens, you won’t be the cause of it.”

I wasn’t so sure. We were going into a fight
,
and in chaos the conflict is never certain. While I knew I would never willingly hurt him, there was the fear of making a mistake, thinking he was a Vire instead of…I didn’t allow my thoughts to continue any further, feeling the bile churn in my stomach at the risk of harming him. Giving him a halfway encouraging smile, I bent over to slip on my boots – and
to
avoid his eyes. He remained beside me
as I finished dressing,
observing me, calculating how he might be able to break down
the
fear
that was
so well entrenched in me
.

As
we were about to leave my room, I realized something was missing. As if my subconscious already knew what it was, my eyes landed on
the
canvas bag
I
used for evening classes. Piled inside were the same tools I knew every other one of my classmates wore on their bodies daily. I
was
the only exception
,
and an argument could be made that I was one who truly needed
to
. So, I went about finding hiding places on my body to store my tools, dropping stones into my pockets, pinning talismans inside my jeans, and storing satchels of dried herbs inside my boots.