This Wicked Game (5 page)

“W
e need to leave by twelve thirty today, Claire. Don’t be late. I don’t want to be rushed,” her mother said at breakfast the next morning. She poured coffee into one of the delicate floral cups without spilling a drop.

Claire finished chewing her toast before she answered. “Twelve thirty?”

Her mother’s expression turned to disbelief. “Hair and makeup? For the ball?”

“Oh, right.”

The Priestesses’ Ball was the highlight of the year for the Guild, a throwback to the past, when many members of New Orleans’s high society were also secret practitioners of voodoo. Everyone in the Guild spent weeks running all over town in preparation, and her mother was no exception.

“Don’t tell me you forgot!” her mother said. “After all that gown shopping?”

“Don’t remind me,” Claire groaned.

It had taken three weekends and eight different boutiques for Claire and her mother to agree on a dress. If she’d forgotten, it was only because of the order for panther blood and the receipt Claire had shoved into the top drawer of her desk after getting home from yoga yesterday. She was distracted, and who could blame her?

Her mother surveyed Claire with a mixture of sympathy and disappointment. “I thought shopping was fun. And besides, it was worth it. The gown is beautiful.”

Claire fought a twinge of guilt. Her mom couldn’t help who she was or how she’d been raised. And she was right; the dress was beautiful, just the right shade to bring out the green in Claire’s hazel eyes.

Claire smiled. “Thanks, Mom.”

“Did you give more thought to the headpiece?” her mother asked. “I can still pull some strings to come up with something simple.”

“I don’t need to give it more thought,” Claire said. “I’m not wearing one.”

The women of the Guild spent months planning elaborate headpieces to go with their gowns, often designing them to complement their family voodoo history. Claire hadn’t worn a headpiece since she was too young to object to the ones her mother had forced on her.

Her mother was silent, trying to decide whether or not to press the issue.

Claire was relieved when she didn’t say any more about it.

A few hours later, they made their way across town to Myrtle’s, the scent of jasmine wafting around them as they stepped through the doors. Pilar wouldn’t go anywhere else, even in an emergency, preferring instead to wrap her hair in a fashionable scarf and wait for an appointment. Claire would have liked to have tried one of the salons in the Quarter, but her mother wouldn’t hear of it. And Claire had to admit that her own hair catastrophes—including the time she’d tried to dye part of it blue only to have it turn a sickly and persistent shade of green—were always the result of experiments gone awry.

“Claire! And Pilar!” Myrtle was around the front desk even before they were all the way through the door. She put a hand on either side of Claire’s face, the wrinkles deepening around her blue eyes as she smiled. “My! Look how you’ve grown. You’ve become a lovely young woman. Although” —she leaned back, her gaze becoming more critical— “I do think your hair is overdue some attention.”

Claire just nodded and smiled. It was always easier that way.

Myrtle led them through the salon, chatting with Claire’s mother about people they knew in common. They stopped at a station near the back.

“I booked you with Toni,” Myrtle said. “As you know, she’s the best when it comes to updos.”

“I don’t want an updo,” Claire protested.

“Of course, you do.” Her mother’s voice was firm. “It’s a formal event.”

“So? Just because everyone else will have their hair piled on top of their head and plastered with two cans of hairspray doesn’t mean I have to.”

Her mother snapped her handbag closed with a tired sigh. “I wish you would be agreeable, Claire, just this once.”

Claire was prevented from issuing a sarcastic retort when Toni emerged from the velvet curtains at the back of the salon.

“Hey, you two! You ready to knock ’em dead?”

Toni Moran was the only stylist at Myrtle’s who was under thirty. She was gorgeous, with porcelain skin and short red hair. Nearly five foot ten inches tall, with small, pixie-like features, she looked like she belonged on a catwalk in New York, not an old-school salon in the Garden District.

After a little discussion, they decided Claire would go first. Toni listened patiently while Pilar described the elaborate topknot she had in mind for Claire.

When her mother finished, Toni turned to Claire. “Is that what you want?”

Claire rolled her eyes. “Not exactly.”

Toni cocked one hip, her mouth turning up at the corners. “Not exactly?”

“Okay,” Claire said. “Not at all.”

“Oh, Claire!” Her mother turned away in exasperation.

“How old are you now?” Toni asked.

“Seventeen.”

“You’re going to college next year, aren’t you?”

Claire nodded.

“Then it’s probably a good idea to start making these decisions yourself, wouldn’t you say, Mrs. Kincaid?” Toni gestured to her chair without waiting for Claire’s mom to answer. “Sit.”

Claire did, and they discussed the options for her hair. At first, her mother said nothing, but after a while, she couldn’t help herself. Finally, after a full-fledged negotiation, they agreed to meet in the middle and Toni went to work.

For the next forty-five minutes, Claire watched as Toni twisted pieces from the front, piling them onto her head bit by bit and pinning them in place. When she was done, Claire’s hair still hung down her back, but the pieces from the front added volume to her crown. The effect was only slightly formal with a loose, effortless feel that allowed Claire to look at least a little like herself.

Claire looked at her mother in the mirror. Just because she’d agreed didn’t mean she was going to be nice about it.

For a minute, no one said anything. Even Toni seemed to hold her breath until Pilar nodded, her lips curving into a smile. “You look beautiful, Claire. It suits you.”

She returned her mother’s smile in the mirror. “Thanks, Mom.”

Easing herself out of the chair, she stepped aside as Toni wiped it down for Claire’s mother.

“Let me just have Myrtle get someone for makeup . . .” Her mother turned toward the front desk.

“No makeup.”

“Claire” —her mother tipped her head— “you can’t go to the ball without makeup. It’s a special occasion.”

“I didn’t mean I won’t wear it,” Claire protested. “I just don’t want someone else to do it. I want to look like myself.” She glanced over at Toni. “No offense.”

Toni grinned. “None taken.”

Her mother sighed deeply. “I suppose you’re old enough to make your own decision about that, too.” She favored Toni with a meaningful glare.

Claire smiled at the hairdresser in silent thanks.

Now that she was finished, Claire was itching to get out of the salon. It would take Toni at least an hour to touch up her mother’s color. Add to that another forty-five minutes for the updo Claire knew her mom would want, and that left plenty of time for a walk and a few pictures. It took ten minutes of negotiating and a promise not to mess up her hair before her mother finally agreed.

Claire started up Jackson, her camera heavy in the bag hanging from her shoulder. She stopped at a neighborhood market for an apple and a candy bar, and hung a left on Coliseum Street.

She munched on the apple as she walked. The neighborhood had an ebb and flow, and she passed a few restored historical houses before crossing into a more run-down portion of the street.

Soon, the familiar white wall of the cemetery came into view. She walked alongside it, hanging a left on Washington. A couple of minutes later she came to the iron gates,
LAFAYETTE CEMETERY
emblazoned across the archway that marked its entrance.

Even as she stepped into the graveyard, she wasn’t entirely sure why she was there. It had never been one of her favorite places, even when she wanted to take pictures. With its elaborate tombs of the city’s most famous historical residents, it was too in-your-face, too obvious. The fact that a lot of the attention was due to its fame as the resting place for her great-great-grandmother just made it weirder.

Claire made her way through the aisles, marble tombs rising on either side. She could hear trumpets and trombones playing faintly in the distance. Other than that, it was unusually quiet.

She made her way past a tall white tomb, a red rosebush growing incongruously out of the tiny swath of grass in its shadow, and continued past the McClellan plot.

Eventually she came to the place she’d been heading for all along. For once, no one else was in front of the site, though there was the usual assortment of offerings left by strangers. Wilted flowers, half-burned candles, strings of beads, and a powdery residue whose composition Claire could only guess.

She lowered herself to the ground, leaning against the tomb, the marble cold against her back. She didn’t know why she’d come. She’d decided long ago that her great-great-grandmother, like most legends, hadn’t even resembled the portrait painted of her by history. At best, she was probably some half-baked, wannabe psychic.

At worst, a fake.

Claire thought absently of her camera and realized she had no desire to take pictures today. She took it out anyway and took a few shots of the tomb next to Marie’s. A cheap plastic Virgin Mary figurine had tipped over on its side, and a half-crushed energy drink can lay crumpled on the ground in front of the marker. The composition was interesting, but Claire’s heart wasn’t in it. She put her camera away and pulled out the candy bar. Tearing it open and taking a bite, she thought about everything that had happened.

She and Xander hadn’t talked about what to do next, but she knew he would want her to fork over the receipt with Eugenia’s address to the Guild. After that, they would take care of the woman and whatever plan she had for the panther blood, and Xander wouldn’t dream about her being in danger again.

So why did Claire feel like something still had to be done? Like all at once, there was a ticking time bomb under her life that she couldn’t ignore?

Polishing off the candy bar and stuffing the wrapper into her bag, she shook her head. She needed to get a grip, that’s all.

When she stood up and checked her phone, she was relieved to see that it had only been an hour since she’d left Myrtle’s. She was slipping it back into the pocket of her shorts when the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood up.

Claire looked around. No one was there, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching her. She resisted the urge to break into a run and started walking.

She tried to hurry without seeming like she was afraid. She reached the entrance to the cemetery and hurried along the sidewalks, past the grand old homes, wanting nothing more than to get back to Jackson Street.

Ten minutes later, she did. She continued on toward Myrtle’s, looking around one last time as she reached the door.

Her gaze was drawn to a man crossing the street. She knew who it was right away. It was more than his fitted slacks and the tight T-shirt, an almost-exact replica of what he’d been wearing yesterday when he’d left the house on Dauphine. It was the bend of his neck and the way she could tell, even behind the reflective lenses of his sunglasses, that he was watching her.

His head was turned in her direction, but he didn’t seem concerned that she had seen him. It was unnerving, and as she pulled open the door to Myrtle’s, she wondered if this was the first time she’d been followed.

T
he lights from the Toussaint house were visible even from the road. The ball itself wasn’t a secret, but the purpose of the association that sponsored it—the Guild—was. Claire had once asked her mother about the neighbors. Didn’t they wonder what was going on the one night a year when the Toussaints’ was suddenly flooded with expensive cars, men in tuxedos, and women in gowns and feathered headpieces?

“New Orleans is overrun with historical societies and organizations, Claire,” her mother had said, waving away the question. “No one cares about their purpose. People today don’t want to know about the past.”

It had surprised Claire, the idea that the Guild—as much a part of her everyday life as New Orleans itself—was something some people didn’t even know or care about. That she was part of something so old that it was irrelevant, not only to her, but to everyone else, too.

Claire straightened the skirt of her dress. Guild events always made her nervous, and she’d spent the whole drive taking deep breaths, talking herself down.

They got out of the car, and her dad handed the keys to one of the jacketed men the Toussaints had hired to park cars. Claire’s mother put on her headpiece. An elaborate creation of black feathers and faux amethyst with a silver band, it matched her deep blue gown perfectly. It had been too tall to fit on her head inside the car. Now she adjusted it while Claire’s dad, dapper in his tuxedo, waited patiently and Claire held her bag.

Her mother turned to her, raising her eyebrows in question. “Good?”

Claire nodded. “Perfect.”

“Is it even?”

Claire laughed. “It’s even, it’s even. Now let’s go.”

Her mother took her husband’s arm and the threesome started up the walkway to the house.

The Toussaints had hired an older man to work the door, and he took their coats, handing them off to a woman standing at his elbow. Betsy was probably in the kitchen, watching the caterers with her infamous eagle eyes.

Claire trailed behind her mother and father, trying to fix a smile on her face as they headed down the hall, her emerald-green gown brushing against her bare legs.

A familiar blend of music grew louder as they approached the back of the house. Claire recognized the undercurrent of percussion—a distinctive beat that went hand in hand with many old-school voodoo rituals—coming from the soundproof walls of the ballroom while the strains of traditional New Orleans jazz came from the open doors leading to the back terrace. Estelle always had the music set up this way. As big as the Toussaint property was, the neighbors could probably still hear the music being played outside.

Better jazz than voodoo.

Claire stuck by her parents’ side, the drumbeat vibrating under their feet as they crossed the threshold to the ballroom. It wasn’t as big as the name suggested, but it did look beautiful, softly lit by the chandeliers that hung from the ceilings and the old-fashioned candle sconces that lined the walls. Tables were set up in a circle, the center of the floor kept clear for ritual dancing, and the room was decorated with elaborate floral arrangements combined with lush feathers. Everywhere Claire looked, headpieces caught her eyes, an explosion of colored feathers, jewels, and beads.

The room was packed with people she didn’t recognize. While the Guild leadership was part of her everyday life, the Priestesses’ Ball was one of the only times she saw the other Guild members, people who ran smaller stores throughout the South or wholesale supply houses online and were deemed important enough to receive a coveted invitation.

Percussionists played in the corner, and Claire’s shoulders loosened a little with the beat. She didn’t have to believe in voodoo to enjoy the music. It was a sound as familiar to Claire as her mother’s voice. She’d probably heard it in the womb.

“Let’s find a table,” her mother said over the drums.

Claire wasn’t surprised when she led them to a table at the front, near the dance floor. She might have been poor by birth, but Pilar Kincaid was no wallflower. She smiled and raised a hand in greeting to a few people as they passed.

Claire and her mother put down their bags while her father went to get them drinks. After taking a sip from the crystal goblet, Pilar announced that it was time to “mingle.”

Claire nodded, but she had no intention of mingling.

She just wanted to find Xander.

She made her way upstairs, looking for a quiet place where she could text him without seeming rude. She knew the Toussaint house as well as her own. Most of the Guild’s big events were held there, and Claire had been roaming its halls since she was a kid.

She headed for the east wing, as far away from the staircase as possible. Her hopes were dashed that no one else would bother to go that far for a bathroom when she saw Allegra St. Martin in the hall, leaning toward an antique mirror and reapplying her lip stain. She wore a simple white dress that hugged her every curve. It stood in contrast to her exotic coloring and was topped off by an elaborate swan’s feather headpiece, her glossy dark hair twisted up around it.

Feeling the twinge of self-consciousness that Allegra always inspired, Claire prepared to turn around and creep back the way she came.

“Hey,” Allegra said, catching her eye in the mirror.

Claire sighed, continuing reluctantly toward the bathroom.

“Is someone in there?” Claire tipped her head at the closed door of the bathroom.

Allegra nodded, pulling back from the mirror. “Laura.”

“I’ll find another,” Claire said, relieved for the excuse to leave.

Allegra’s voice stopped her as she was turning around. “Claire.”

“Yeah?”

Allegra bit her newly stained lower lip. “You’re not as alone as you think, you know.”

The words took Claire by surprise. She searched her mind, trying to figure out what Allegra was talking about. They weren’t enemies. But they weren’t friends, either.

“What do you mean?” she finally asked.

Allegra leaned against the ornate, gilded table under the mirror, one bare leg exposed in a slit that extended well above her knee. “Listen, I know you don’t believe, but that doesn’t mean the craft isn’t real. And it doesn’t mean you don’t have the power, either. It’s yours to call on whenever you need it.”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” Claire said softly. But even as she said it, she was unnerved. Rumor was that Allegra had a proven gift for precognition and had predicted all kind of things—good and bad—since she’d been old enough to mix recipes and cast her own spells.

Allegra stepped toward her, stopping when they were only a foot apart. Claire flinched as the other girl put a gentle hand on her arm.

“You’re in trouble,” she said. “We all are.”

“We?”

“The firstborns,” Allegra clarified. Her eyes seemed to cloud over, her voice growing distant. “I can’t see the threat clearly, but it’s out there.” She hesitated, seeming to return from some far-off place. “I know we’ve never been close, but I just wanted you to know that you’re not alone. We’re here for you, even if you don’t want us to be.” She smiled. “Kind of like family.”

Claire was mesmerized by Allegra’s eyes, an icy blue that stood in contrast to her Creole coloring, and a soothing quality in her voice that Claire had never noticed before. It took her a few seconds to step back and break the spell.

“Thanks. I appreciate the concern.”

The door to the bathroom opened and Laura stepped out. She smiled in surprise.

“Claire! You look so pretty!”

Claire had to force herself to smile as she headed for the bathroom. “Thank you. So do you.” And she did, though Claire barely had time to register the black dress that set off Laura’s shimmering copper hair as she made a beeline for the bathroom. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

She shut the door even before she turned on the light. Then she braced herself against the sink, taking big deep breaths and trying to resist the urge to puke. She told herself it was irrational. That Allegra was just drinking the voodoo Kool-Aid.

So why did she have a sinking feeling that Allegra was right? That something
was
coming for them—for her. That whatever it was had been put in motion by the order of the panther blood and the presence of the people on Dauphine.

Turning on the cold water, she used her hand to drink. She dried off her mouth with one of Estelle’s fancy hand towels before fishing her phone out of her bag.

WHERE ARE YOU? she texted Xander.

ARBOR.

She left the bathroom, relieved to see that both Allegra and Laura were gone. The upper hallways were quiet, the noise from below growing louder as she came to the staircase.

When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she worked her way through the crowd, leaving behind the rhythmic drumming and heading for the less insistent sounds of the jazz band in the backyard.

She was at the edge of the terrace when Sophie spotted her through the crowd. Her eyes lit up, and she ran toward Claire with a gap-toothed smile.

“Look, Claire!” She pointed to the empty spot on the top row of her teeth. “I lost a tooth!”

Claire laughed. “You definitely did! Did the tooth fairy leave you money?”

“Five dollars!” she exclaimed.

“What?” Claire feigned shock. “No way! You’re totally treating next time we get ice cream.”

Sophie beamed. She held out the skirt of her lavender dress, giving Claire a better look at the elaborate pleating. “Do you like my dress?”

“Love it,” Claire said. She looked down at her own gown. “Do you like mine?”

Sophie nodded, grinning. She gestured for Claire to come closer and leaned in to whisper in her ear.

“You look beautiful. Xander will think so, too. He’s waiting for you in the arbor.”

Claire leaned back, unable to hold back her smile. “Thanks, kiddo. See you later.”

Stepping off the terrace, she headed for the back of the property. It was just as beautiful outside as it was inside, the trees strung with white lights, multicolored lanterns hanging from their branches. Candles flickered on the tables that dotted the landscape, and torches were lit along the pathways that wound through the Toussaints’ property.

Claire started down one of the paths and spotted Allegra huddled with Laura and the Valcours at one of the tables. Allegra smiled. Claire waved a hand in greeting, wondering if she’d stepped into some kind of alternate dimension where she and Allegra might actually be friends.

She continued toward the back of the property. The torches were more sparsely placed as she got farther away from the terrace, the night reaching out to her with inky fingers from the darkness beyond the path. She thought of the man who’d followed her to Layafette and picked up her pace, hurrying for the arbor and the safety of Xander’s arms.

Two final torches marked the end of the path just in front of the arbor. Claire stepped into the shelter of a wooden structure that had been a meeting spot for the two of them since they first began their secret affair.

Candles were lit atop the iron table, white lights casting a golden glow from the wisteria vines above. She peered into the shadows.

“Xander?” She didn’t know why she was whispering. There was no reason why she shouldn’t be seen having a simple conversation with him. But the night seemed to hold its own secrets, and their meeting suddenly seemed like one of them. “You there?”

He stepped out of the darkness, and she sucked in her breath. She sometimes forgot how beautiful he was, but now, as he came toward her in his tuxedo, the candlelight flickering across his smooth skin, there was no denying it.

He pulled her into his arms, holding her for a minute before he leaned back to get a better look at her. His eyes roamed her hair and face, traveling the length of the green dress that skimmed her body in all the right places.

“You look stunning,” he said.

She smiled. “Thank you. You don’t look so bad yourself.”

He narrowed his eyes, appraising her. She wondered if it was her imagination that there was a teasing glint in the upturn of his full mouth.

“I think you just need . . .” He turned around, heading for the table and pulling something from one of the chairs. “One more thing.”

The box he handed her was large and flat. Wrapped in simple, glossy white paper, it was finished with an enormous green silk bow.

“What is this?” she asked, looking from the box to him. “It’s for me?”

He nodded.

“Xander . . . You didn’t have to get me something.”

“Open it.”

She took the box to the table and began removing the thick paper. “This is crazy.” She lifted the lid. “You shouldn’t have done this. I didn’t get you anything.”

“It’s just a little something.”

She peeled back the tissue paper inside the box, her eyes coming to rest on a garland of white peonies. “But . . . what is it?”

He reached around her, his body brushing hers as he lifted the item out of the box.

“You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to,” he said. “I know you don’t like headpieces. It just . . .” He cleared his throat. “It’s different. It made me think of you.”

He held the headpiece up. The white peonies were open and lush, wound with peacock feathers that came to an exotic point in the front, a large jewel, as green as her dress, dangling like a teardrop. Green ribbon in more shades than she could count trailed off the back of it. It was almost casual, breathtaking in its understatement.

“Xander . . .” Tears stung her eyes. This was just like him. To give her something that celebrated both her individuality and the heritage she couldn’t seem to deny. “If I’d known a headpiece could so beautiful, I would have chosen it myself.”

“You like it?”

“Like it?” She threw her arms around his neck. “I love it. Thank you.”

He peeled her arms away and placed the headpiece on her head, adjusting it a couple of times before he slid in the combs that were built into the sides to hold it in place. When it was secure, the emerald rested against her forehead, the ribbons trailing through the curls down her back.

“How does it look?” she asked.