Chapter 28
28
ESME
I slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb Brogan's sleeping form. His chest rose and fell with unnecessary breaths—a habit from his human life that his body hadn’t forgotten, I supposed, because if I remembered correctly, vampires really didn't need to breathe.
The bond between us hummed like a live wire, a strange, almost erotic current that flowed between our very souls. As I prepared to leave him behind, I sensed his contentment, a deep, almost purring satisfaction emanating from him, and a pang of guilt twisted my stomach.
I didn’t want to do this, but I forced myself to turn away. With the people from Seattle missing, it was more important now than ever that I follow through with my original plan. I only had a few hours before sunrise to complete one final trial. The most dangerous one.
I dressed silently in the darkness in the same clothes I'd had on earlier, slipping on my most comfortable boots and tying my hair back before gathering the supplies I'd hidden in my bag when I'd left Mexico. At the time, I'd only been desperate to hang onto any kind of mementos I could find. I never expected I’d need to use them.
Brogan rolled over onto his stomach, and his hand slid across the sheet, searching for me. I froze, silently inhaling and exhaling through my mouth until he moaned in his sleep then settled again, his breathing evening out. If I'd known I was going to be in his bed tonight, I would have come prepared with a sleeping potion to make sure he wouldn't wake up while I was gone. But I couldn’t have known Marcus would come back to my apartment, and I’d had no privacy to make one once we’d gotten to the house.
For a long moment, I stared at Brogan’s strong back, wanting nothing more than to climb back into that bed with him so I would be there when he woke. And I would be , I silently swore to myself.
But first, I had to survive the night.
The house was quiet as I crept downstairs, wishing I'd paid more attention to any creaky spots on the stairs when we’d traversed them today. I hit a spot midway down and froze, listening for footsteps. A few seconds passed, and I heard nothing but the ticking of the clock in the front room and the pounding of my heart in my ears. Hurrying down the remainder of the stairs, I tiptoed across the kitchen and out the backdoor, only stopping to grab a reusable bag and a few beeswax candles from the front room that I recognized from Lizzy's shop.
Outside, the foggy New Orleans night wrapped around me like a shroud. But the French Quarter was never truly silent, not even in the dead hours before dawn. The streets still carried what were quickly becoming familiar sounds—distant laughter, the muffled bass of a closing bar, the scrape of a street sweeper against uneven cobblestones. Even Bourbon Street, usually a riot of neon and noise, had quieted to a low murmur, save for the occasional drunk stumbling home, or a pair of barbacks hauling trash to the curb.
I turned onto a side street, and the air grew thick with the lingering scent of spilled liquor and other disgusting smells I'd rather not linger on. The gas lamps flickered weakly, casting long, wavering shadows along the uneven pavement. Away from the heart of The Quarter, the city’s age pressed in around me as iron balconies loomed overhead, draped in vines and history, watching as I passed.
By the time I neared the cemetery, the noises and smells from Bourbon street were almost completely gone. The streets were empty other than the occasional homeless person or a lone cab rolling past, its headlights cutting through the mist that pooled near the old tombs. The towering white walls of St. Louis Cemetery rose ahead, stark and silent against the dark sky…
Waiting.
The locked wrought iron gate swung open at my touch, and I carefully closed it behind me.
Finding a secluded corner between two mausoleums, I set up my altar. Candles made of pure beeswax. A lock of my mother's singed hair that I'd managed to save from the embers. My father's worn leather wallet, melded together from the heat of the fire. And a blackened piece of my abuela's dress. The white one with the large blue, pink, and orange flowers sewn around the square neckline. The only possessions I'd saved from what remained of my family once the fire had burned itself out.
Sniffling back the tears that tried to cloud my sight, I arranged the last pieces of my heart in a circle, the only remaining threads connecting me to the family I'd lost. With trembling fingers, I pulled out my small knife and laid the blade against my palm, closing my fist around it. I barely flinched this time when it sliced through my skin, and as the blood dripped from my fist, I carefully traced a complex pattern around the altar.
" Yo invoco a los espíritus de mi sangre ," I spoke the words with power and intent, calling to my ancestors. I invoke the spirits of my blood.
The cemetery mist thickened around me, swirling in unnatural patterns as the spirits roused from their slumber. The two previous trials had strengthened me, but this—the Trial of Death—would demand everything I had. I sliced my palm again, watching as dark droplets fell onto the altar's center.
" Con mi sangre como puente, busco su sabiduría ." With my blood as a bridge, I seek your wisdom.
The candle flames stretched upward, unnaturally tall and still despite the night breeze. A pain ripped through my gut, and my body felt suddenly hollow, as though something essential was being drawn from me. This was the price—a piece of my spirit to commune with those who had passed.
" Mamá, Papá, Abuela ," I called out, my voice breaking. " Por favor ! Guide me. Show me the path."
Again, I took the knife to my palm, offering more of my blood as I repeated my plea. Again. And again. And again. I gazed in wonder as the first cuts healed before my eyes, right before I sliced them open again, calling to the family that I'd lost. “Help me find them!” I begged the spirits.
Had my family abandoned me? The way I'd abandoned them?
Magic, dark and moody, pulsed inside of me. Through me. Building stronger and stronger as I fed my blood—Brogan’s blood—to the altar. The surrounding mist coalesced, taking vague human shapes that never quite solidified. I could almost see them—my mother's gentle eyes, my father's strong shoulders, my grandmother's weathered hands. Almost, but not quite.
"The book," I pleaded, tears streaming down my face. "Please. I need to find it before he hurts anyone else."
The spirits wavered, moving closer. I felt their presence—their love, their sorrow, their concern—but they remained silent about the thing I sought. Instead, impressions washed over me: warning, danger, sacrifice.
"Please," I begged, swaying as the ritual drained my strength. "I'm not strong enough to face him without it. I need it to send him back."
The candle flames suddenly flared a brilliant blue, and I gasped as knowledge flooded my consciousness—not about the book's location, but about myself. Power I hadn't recognized. Strength I hadn't acknowledged.
The spirits of my family were showing me something else entirely. Not where to find the book, but how to find my own power within this dark magic inside of me. Something I’d always shied away from because of how dangerous this power could be.
"No," I told them. "No! I can’t. Please! Por favor! Don't leave me!" The last came out as a desperate, hoarse scream as they faded away. Leaving me alone.
I collapsed onto the cold stone, my body folding in on itself as sobs wracked through me. The items on my makeshift altar scattered across the ground, my family's precious remnants now just objects again, devoid of the spiritual energy that had briefly animated them.
"Why won't you help me?" I whispered, my voice raw. "I can't do this alone."
But no one answered this time. There was only fog and stone and silence. My candles still burned, but with ordinary yellow flames now, casting distorted shadows across the weathered tombs. Blood dried on my palm, itching as it crusted over, the wounds healing with miraculous speed.
A twig snapped somewhere behind me.
I froze, every muscle tensing for a split second before I shoved myself off the ground, reaching for my knife. The cemetery should have been empty at this hour.
"You won't need that," came a soft, feminine voice.
I spun around, knife raised defensively. A woman stepped from behind a nearby mausoleum, her honey-blonde hair catching the dim candlelight. She wore flowing clothes in bright colors that seemed incongruous against the somber backdrop of the cemetery. Her brown eyes held a gentle warmth, but also unmistakable power.
Alice Moss. Not the ghost from my vision, but the flesh and blood witch.
I stood there, stunned, not knowing what to say. "I…I was…"
But she only smiled. "I know what you were doing." Her smile faded. "I didn't know your type of magic was so brutal on the one wielding it."
Glancing up at the sky, I started to gather the candles and the now bloodstained mementos of my family, stashing them away in the reusable bag.
"You’re trying to find the book for him."
I saw no reason to lie to her. " Sí . Well, to use against him.” Holding the bag tight to my chest, I turned to face her. "I have to. It's the only way to keep you all safe." Renewed determination lifted my chin. "It's the only way to send him back to the hell he came from."
Alice watched me carefully. "You think the way to send him back is in this book?"
" Sí . Yes. I do. Why else would he want it so badly? He's powerful enough to destroy us all on his own. He doesn't need some old spell book. The only reason for him to need it is so no one can use it against him.” But then my shoulders fell. "Unfortunately, I still don’t know where it is.” My voice dropped to a whisper. "They won't talk to me."
"Your family," she stated.
A jolt of panic hit me. How long had she been watching?
But then I stopped. Took a breath. It didn't really matter. Staring down at the ground, I tried to figure out where I'd gone wrong. "I fasted and purified myself. I gave my blood, my soul, to the magic. I did everything I was supposed to do." Terrified, I raised my eyes to Alice's. “I don’t know what else to do. They won’t help me.”
Empathy filled her features and she crossed the short distance between us, wrapping her arms around me in a quick, hard hug before stepping back again. "I know how hard you tried. Your magic woke me up tonight. And that must've been you the other nights, too.” She paused. “Esme…"
She waited until I wiped my eyes and she had my full attention.
"You're a very strong witch. It's not your fault." Glancing at the tombs around us, she murmured, "We'll just have to find another way."
"There is no other way. Your high priestess forbid it."
Alice stared me right in the eyes and hers grew hard, her magic a pulsing white glow around her. "I love my aunt. I do. But I'm not going to sit around here anymore and do nothing while that monster plays with our lives."
She held out her hand, and I didn’t hesitate to take it as we made a silent pact, and a small sliver of hope bloomed inside of me that we might actually have a chance.