Chapter 19
I haven’t seen Joelle since Saturday. She’s been busy with new student orientation, and I’ve taken days off from work to do research and tail the Hightowers.
Even though we haven’t been physically together, she’s been blowing up my phone with cute selfies taken in different places on campus.
I tried to resist texting her back, but that didn’t last long.
For some sick reason, I’ve got a crush on my future murderer that I can’t seem to shake.
She’s only been nothing but nice to me, and I haven’t seen anything in her mind to suggest an ulterior motive. I’m not sure how I can reconcile our budding friendship with my vision. I want more than I should, like a real date where I’ll get to kiss her at the end of it.
The photos she’s texted me of Tulane have sent a pang through my chest. That should’ve been me—and it would’ve been if Gran hadn’t died. It still could be someday if I can find a way to survive the month.
I’ve thought about reaching out to Gran, but I’m too afraid to try. Mom has never answered me when I called, so why would Gran be any different? Either the ancestors don’t want to talk to me or I’m not strong enough to reach them.
But if I could speak to her, I don’t even know where I’d begin.
I’ve hit a dead end with Joelle, and I haven’t been able to find any information about the crest I saw while scrying.
Aria didn’t fess up in the bookstore. While no one else has fallen ill since Mr. Peterson, I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.
The truth is, I’m exhausted. I want to be a normal girl with normal problems. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but I’m hoping Gran was wrong.
Maybe I won’t die. My vision could have been the outcome of one possible path.
Grandma Rose thought she could save that witch’s life by warning her to have a doctor present.
What if I can save my own life by befriending Joelle?
I don’t have to work today, so Joelle and I make plans to meet in Jackson Square. She wants me to take her on a proper tour of the French Quarter, and I don’t mind playing tourist for the day.
I wait for her on a bench near the riverfront and watch a stream of people file onto the deck of a steamboat for a brunch tour. I don’t even need to busy myself on my phone; the people-watching is enough entertainment.
This part of the French Quarter is always packed with people from all around the world.
Every ten feet you walk, you can hear a conversation being held in a different language.
The tourists are young, old, and everything in between.
I’ve spotted at least one group of college students wearing matching shirts and taking videos of everything under the sun.
And quite a few couples are strolling along hand in hand.
“Mikaela!”
I glance up to see Joelle walking toward me. She’s wearing another touristy T-shirt—this one has a screen-printed image of a streetcar and Historic Nola written beneath.
As soon as she’s within reach, I pinch the sleeve of her shirt. “I thought you said New Orleans was home now,” I tease. “What’s up with all the cheesy shirts?”
She sweeps her arms out and strikes a pose. “That’s because you’re not cool enough to rock this style. This is couture,” she says with a wink. “But no, actually, I found a bunch for cheap in a shop the first day I got here, and I couldn’t resist buying them all.”
“It’s a bit overkill, don’t you think?”
“What can I say? I’m a sucker for a good souvenir.”
We pass by the statue of Jackson Square’s namesake and walk toward the stately facade of St. Louis Cathedral.
Its three massive steeples stretch toward the heavens and stand guard over the Mississippi.
Music from various street performers mixes with the underlying buzz of chatter.
The cobblestones along the front of the cathedral are lined with tables displaying various services.
Three in a row advertise psychic and tarot readings.
“They’re stealing your business,” Joelle says, gesturing in the direction of the tables. “You should give them a piece of your mind.”
I shake my head. “Nah, I’m not threatened. I know my readings are miles better than anything they could provide.” My shoulder rubs against hers as we pass by. She doesn’t move away.
“So, what should we do today?” I ask. “I’m all yours.” In more ways than one.
Joelle ticks off a list of all the tourist attractions she’s done already: Audubon Zoo, a ghost tour, cemetery tour, and the Museum of Art.
“I want to see everything I can,” she says.
“Well, lucky for you, there’s one thing missing from your list,” I say. “Let’s go to the French Market. My uncle has a food stand there, and there’ll be plenty more opportunities for you to buy souvenirs.”
We walk to the market side by side. After getting jostled in the crowd one too many times, she reaches for my hand and laces her fingers between my own. I inhale sharply at the sudden touch.
The cacophony of the market swallows us the second we enter. The French Market isn’t always this busy, but during the summer, it’s often bustling with activity. The semi-open space is filled with vendors and shoppers.
Joelle is thrilled to find a vendor selling handmade jewelry.
I study her profile as she speaks to the owner.
Her curls, swept up in the breeze, float around her face, and her dark roots are beginning to peek through the blond.
Joelle taps her credit card and sticks her brand-new fleur-de-lis earrings into her ears.
She’s beautiful, both inside and out. I want to erase the vision from my mind and wipe the slate clean between us. The universe has taken so much from me already. Can’t it give me this?
We stop at another table with an older woman selling packets of herbs. Joelle opens a list on her phone and asks, “Do you have any ginkgo?”
I peer at her sharply. “What do you need that for?”
As the older woman steps away to search through her extra stock, Joelle’s cheeks redden. She doesn’t meet my gaze.
“I’ve started creating potions,” she admits. “I bought a couple of books from Zeke’s. If I start practicing now, I can have something for my mom to try by the holidays.”
My heart pounds in my chest. “I thought you only studied magic.”
“Yeah, I did—I mean I do,” she stammers.
The woman returns with a few packets of ginkgo.
Joelle pays and stuffs them into the bottom of her purse.
She finally meets my eyes as we walk away.
“Can’t you feel the magic in the air? Working in the shop with your family has inspired me to do more than watch from the sidelines.
This seems like as good a place as any to try my hand at witchcraft. ”
I bristle at her words. “Witchcraft isn’t something you try, like some hobby,” I snap. “It’s not something you can become an expert at after reading a few books.”
Joelle gapes at me, and this time, I’m the one who averts my gaze.
“Sorry,” I murmur. “I don’t know what I’m talking about. None of it is even real.” I almost gave everything away. It’s so hard not to want to spill everything to Joelle. The boundary between genuine friendship and investigation has grown blurry.
“Hey.” She squeezes my hand. “I know you’re worried about me getting too deep into something I don’t understand. I promise I won’t accidentally brew up something poisonous. But I’ve got to try to help my mom.”
“What does she have?”
Joelle lowers her gaze. “MS. She barely leaves the house anymore. She’s got this constant tremor and dizziness.” She sighs and glances back at the herb vendor. “I want her to have more good days. Maybe it’s ridiculous to try.”
“It’s not.”
Joelle can never find out that magic is real. Witches throughout time have contemplated using magic on a widespread basis to heal mortals, but ultimately, there are too many of them and not enough of us. So, we take care of our own.
She would be furious if she knew that we have the tools to help ease her mother’s symptoms. Maybe even furious enough to kill.
“Enough of this,” Joelle says, pulling me along. “Didn’t you promise me lunch?”
I shake my head to clear my mind. “Yeah, come on.”
We push through a throng of people to wind up directly in front of Larry’s BBQ.
Uncle Larry is busy ringing up a customer, but he meets my eyes and inclines his head to the side.
I turn in that direction and spot a card table set up next to the stand with a stack of flyers and business cards spread across it. Sitting in a folding chair is Gramps.
“Mikaela!” He clambers to his feet and towers over Joelle and me. “What are you doing here? And who is this young lady?”
From the gleam in his eye, he knows exactly who she is, but I play along anyway.
“I don’t think you’ve met my granddad yet, Joelle. Gramps, this is your new employee, Joelle Murphy.”
Joelle immediately sticks her hand out. “The famous Zeke!” she exclaims. “We spoke over email, but I want to thank you again for the job, sir. You have a beautiful shop and the kindest grandchildren.” She flashes me a dazzling smile. “Mikaela’s really taken me under her wing.”
“Has she now?” He tilts his head in my direction, giving me a look that says, I hope it’s been worth it.
It has been but not in the way he would like it to be.
Joelle continues, oblivious to the silent exchange. “Yes, sir.” She steps closer. “I would love to speak to you sometime about what led you to open a magic shop. Mikaela says you don’t practice, but—”
“Why don’t you try some of Larry’s fried chicken, huh?” Gramps interjects, grasping Joelle’s shoulder and pointing her toward the register. “I’m sure my brother-in-law would love to fix you a plate. On the house,” he adds, for my uncle’s benefit.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Uncle Larry mutters, opening a Styrofoam tray and filling it with chicken and sides.
As Joelle wanders over, Gramps leans in close. “So, the girl isn’t a witch,” he states.
I shake my head. “No spark.”
“And no ties to magic whatsoever? A distant cousin? A friend?”
“Nope, but she’s got an…interest.”
“Hmm.” He glances over my shoulder. “And no motive yet?”
I don’t speak this time, letting the shake of my head answer for me.
“You need to stop dragging your feet on this,” he scolds. “Have you even questioned the girl, or have you spent the entire time befriending her?”
“Yes! I’ve learned—a lot,” I stammer. “I even read her mind like you wanted. She doesn’t have an evil bone in her body.”
Gramps doesn’t look convinced. “Dig deeper.”
All my confidence earlier melts away beneath Gramps’s stare. In his presence, I’m not a Witch Queen. Instead, I’m reduced to a little girl searching for her grandfather’s approval. The last thing I want is to disappoint him with how little progress I’ve made.
“Mikaela—”
Before he can continue, a trio of older Black women approaches the table.
Gramps goes into instant politician mode, replacing his frown with a wide grin.
He hands each woman a flyer and spouts a rehearsed speech about the dangers we’re up against and what Mike Dupree would do to this city if elected.
“The Duprees are old money,” Gramps says, “with old ideals. But the people of New Orleans don’t want to move backward.”
“Amen,” one of the women croons.
Another remarks, “My granddaughter played me an episode of that podcast.” Her face scrunches in disgust. “The things he said about public schools made my blood run cold.”
Gramps’s eyes light up. “Let me tell you about my views—”
The hairs on the back of my neck prickle and rise as the sensation of being watched splashes over me like icy water. I lift my gaze to the crowd surging around us and find a pair of eyes across the way.
Britney’s boyfriend, Tyler, stares directly at me from behind the counter of another stall. The construction on his mom’s new location is nearly finished, but it looks like she’s selling baked goods here in the meantime.
My skin crawls beneath his gaze. He doesn’t break eye contact until another employee hands him a tray of cupcakes. I blink as I realize that I recognize the other employee. It’s Britney! He points in my direction, and a scowl immediately crosses her face.
Gramps is still deep in conversation with potential voters, so I steel myself for a confrontation and meet Britney halfway between the two stalls. She’s dressed unseasonably warm in a long-sleeved shirt with jeans. Dark circles beneath her eyes are visible even with makeup.
“It’s cute that he still thinks he has a chance,” Britney sneers. She glances past me and spots Joelle chatting with Uncle Larry. “Aw, voters would love to know more about Ezekiel’s granddaughter and her girlfriend. I’m sure it won’t alienate a chunk of his base.”
I bristle at her sarcasm. “This isn’t the fifties. Besides, Gramps wouldn’t want people like that to stand behind him, anyway. Homophobia is more your dad’s scene, isn’t it?”
“Whatever.” Britney brushes her hair out of her eyes and takes a step in my direction. I stand my ground. “Tell him to back out of the race already.”
“No.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Why does it even concern you? This is between your dad and my grandpa. Why don’t we both stay out of it?”
“You really think I’m going to sit back and let your family keep stealing from mine?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“We all know you were just a DEI pick,” Britney says. “There’s no way your GPA was better than mine. I’m not going to let you steal this election, too.”
“I didn’t steal anything—”
“Mikaela, are you okay?” Joelle appears at my side, eyeing Britney with a frown. “I think it’s time for you to leave.”
Britney glowers at Joelle and begins to back away. “Fine, whatever,” she snaps. “Have it your way.”
We watch her stalk back to the bakery’s booth, and Joelle lets out a low whistle. “She’s intense! Do I even want to know what her problem is?”
“Nope.” I’m over Britney’s petty high school rivalry. I have more pressing concerns than her bigotry.
Joelle tugs me back over to Uncle Larry’s stall. My stomach does somersaults every time she holds my hand. After she orders another plate of mac and cheese, she turns to me and asks, “Would you want to come over to my place?”
I nearly melt into a puddle of pure joy. But then I catch a glimpse of Gramps. He wears a deep scowl as he stares at the back of Joelle’s head. When he catches me watching, he looks away.
“I’d love to,” I say.
No more messing around. I’ve got to find out once and for all what Joelle is planning.