Chapter 30
As we prepare to return to Gator Pride, Andrew attempts to ask Orion about our meeting with Sabine, but Orion steers the conversation to more mundane topics, like that of their relationship.
I dig out a pair of earbuds from my bag and quickly tune out Orion as he asks Andrew whether he’s seeing other people.
I know he’s only distracting Andrew, but I don’t even want to pretend like I’m listening.
Instead, I think about the dagger stuffed in my bag. Could I kill Aria or Gloria or some other member of their coven? I’ve been terrified of facing my own grisly death on the sharp end of a blade, but now it seems I’ll have to inflict that same pain on someone else.
Violence begets more violence. Death’s taste for blood is insatiable; it will always require more souls to feed its bottomless appetite.
After returning to the car, my brother and I speed back to New Orleans. I tell Orion to drop me off at Gramps’s volunteer event.
“You’re really going to tell him that we went to see Sabine?” Orion asks incredulously. “He’s going to kill us.”
“Maybe.” I unzip my bag and take out the dagger. The hilt is solid and heavy in my hand. When I remove the sheath, the blade glints in the light, wickedly sharp. “But I’m sure he’ll be interested to know that we have a way to stop the Hightowers now.”
“So, we’re really going to war, then?”
“It might be the only way.” I think about Aria.
She tried to kill me at the party, but that could’ve been at the urging of her grandmother.
I may still be able to reason with her one last time.
Unless she was the one behind the wheel of the red sedan.
“I don’t want to hurt anyone, but they struck first.”
Orion shakes his head. “God, I need to get stoned one more time.”
“We’re not going to war tonight.” I roll my eyes. “I’m sure Gramps will want to put together a game plan first.”
Orion parks in front of the food bank and releases a deep sigh.
We stare at each other for a long moment, two siblings on the precipice of being ripped apart forever.
Without warning, I reach across the center console to pull him into a hug.
He stiffens at first, before giving in and wrapping his arms around me in return.
Neither of us speaks; the hug says everything.
He peels away from the curb as soon as I shut the car door behind me. I don’t know whether he’s off to party and drink. It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m done casting judgment on my brother. He’s gotta do whatever he has to in order to get through this.
Inside, there’s a large space filled with bustling volunteers filling care packages with food and personal-hygiene supplies.
There are so many people walking around wearing the organization’s orange shirt that it’s hard to find Gramps in the crowd.
I wander aimlessly, scanning the room. I’m so preoccupied that I don’t even notice Mike Dupree striding toward me.
“Miss Broussard.”
His deep baritone voice fills me with disgust. Instead of wearing a volunteer shirt like everyone else, he’s dressed in a three-piece navy-blue suit with a massive Rolex on his wrist and shiny patent-leather shoes that probably cost a fortune.
His overt display of wealth is sickening at an event where everyone is meant to be giving back to the community.
If there’s anything I take from Mr. Dupree’s attitude, it’s that he’s only interested in enriching himself.
“Mr. Dupree,” I say through gritted teeth. “Nice to see you.” The lie sends a wave of nausea rolling over me.
“I can’t say the same.” I jolt at the rudeness of his tone. “My daughter told me that you’ve been harassing her.”
“What?! She’s lying—”
“Isn’t it enough that the school deemed you their charity case? They got to preen over their Black valedictorian and use it to bolster their own standing.” He scoffs. “It’s sickening that people are so afraid of upsetting the woke mob that they’ll strip the accomplishments of their white students.”
He’s so happy to spout the same conservative agenda we’ve had shoved down our throats since the MAGA crowd took over. I’m so sick of people diminishing the hard work that I put in solely because of the color of my skin.
“Mr. Dupree, I really don’t think this is an appropriate conversation to have. If you’ll excuse me, I need to find my grandfather.”
He sidesteps me, blocking my escape. “Stay away from my daughter, or I’ll be forced to involve the police.”
“I’m not harassing your daughter.” She’s the one who keeps appearing out of nowhere. I don’t even want to see her ugly mug. If I could, I wouldn’t want to see anyone from the Dupree family ever again.
I’m about to tell him so when my gaze drops to his lapel pin. It’s so small that it’s difficult to make out the details, but I can see enough to know that’s a maroon-colored family crest. Something about it sets off alarm bells in my head.
“Excuse me.” I turn on my heel and dart from the building before he can say another word.
Once I’m safely outside, I sit down on a bench near the entrance and pull out my phone. It takes a minute of scrolling, but when I find the photo I’m looking for, my blood runs cold.
Mike Dupree’s pin looks a whole lot like the family crest that appeared in my scrying mirror.
“What could he possibly have to do with this?” I wonder aloud.
I sit in shock, running over everything that I’ve learned these past couple weeks.
The mysterious illness is caused by a demon stealing the power of witches. The Hightowers have a history of dealing with demons. They have a vested interest in destroying our coven because they don’t want to be cast out of the city like how their ancestors were run out of Salem.
Mike Dupree wants to destroy our family, but for political, not magical, reasons. He’s a racist and he’ll probably do whatever he can to win this election.
So, what if they’re connected?
I Google both their names, but nothing relevant appears. After following a rabbit hole of Mike Dupree’s campaign, I finally stumble across a link to his political donors. It’s a long list of various Republican groups and then a smaller list of individual donors.
And right there near the bottom is Gloria Hightower’s name.
This doesn’t prove anything other than the fact that Gloria’s a Republican, which tracks, honestly. But it does make this whole conundrum a lot more confusing.
Something tells me that while I’ve been staring up at the spiderweb of clues, the spider itself has been winding its thread around me.
“Mikaela?”
I look up to find Gramps standing before me, wearing one of those neon-orange volunteer shirts and a pair of khakis. A man of the people, always.
“What are you doing here?”
I stuff my phone into my pocket and force a smile. “I wanted to see if I could help,” I say.
His forehead crinkles. “From out here?”
“Oh, uh, I got a little sidetracked. One of my friends texted me.”
He squints at me for a moment before turning away. “Well, the event’s over now. Come on. Let’s go home.”
My stomach bubbles the entire drive back to the house, but I don’t open my mouth once.
Instead, Gramps talks the whole time, telling me about the people he met while volunteering.
Even though I fully intended to tell him about the visit with Sabine, I don’t dare mention a word—not while I’m still sorting through the sheer amount of information swirling around in my head.
Seeing that crest on Mike Dupree’s lapel has completely unsettled me.
Time is running out, and I feel like I’m more in the dark than I was to begin with.