Chapter Twelve Marie #3
“Only what I must.” Jon was smiling now, and Marie was reminded of Corbin’s words, his saccharine voice at her ear.
You may wear a mask, but I have glimpsed the face that lies beneath it.
This was not the face of a trickster, some parlor charlatan, or a lowly shape-shifter.
Those were only the stories Jon wanted them to believe.
This was the face of the fallen, of the devil himself.
And in his eyes burned the intensity of a single word: revenge.
“I will bring this city to its knees, Marie Laveau,” he continued. “And I want you standing at my side.”
A shivering thrill passed through her at his invitation. Warm. Unbidden. In many ways the Quarter Queen dismissed her. But not him. With those few words, he’d invited her to be his equal.
A little black bird circled above him, cawing as it arced across the sky, wheeling through the moon’s silver light.
Screams tore through the courtyard now, rippling into a vicious chorus.
People were dying all around her, tipping right over like fragile baubles Jon had gleefully pushed from their shelves. Cold terror permeated the air.
Marie found Jon’s gaze. He tipped his hat at her, and in the next breath, he ruptured into a flurry of screaming black birds—every bit of him breaking away into a hundred fluttering wings that lashed the air, then shot skyward in a trail of darkness.
Marie stood frozen. Sanite had sent her here to make peace with Jon.
Not war. But she could see now there would be no peace with Jon returned.
Surely it would be only a matter of minutes before the tide turned against her and all the Voodoos.
This was exactly what Jon wanted. The city in a mindless terror, and the Voodoos caught in between, ready for the taking. But that would be only the beginning.
Marie hurriedly scanned the crowd. There were some already still as stone over the cobbled ground, too far gone for help, and others writhing in invisible agony, wildly gasping. A mixture of blood and wine splattered from their mouths. But of course—she could have guessed.
“The wine!” she cried. “It’s been spelled!”
A woman beside her hastily dropped her glass, the shards scattering at her feet. A rumble of panic seized the party. Mayor Corbin was being whisked away by a flock of Brotherhood alchemists he’d paid for additional guard.
There was no way Marie could heal everyone on her own. She’d need more time for preparation, more potions than she could make in just a few spare minutes.
Marie turned her eyes back to the man clawing at his own throat. He writhed and bucked on the blood-splattered stone, as useless as a worm beneath her feet. In a few seconds he would die if she did nothing.
Then do nothing. Let him die. Let them all die.
Jon was right; there were no innocents here tonight.
And yet…Sanite had not sent her here to cause more chaos, only to find the source of it.
And indeed, she had. This had been a mission of peace, nothing more.
If she let this man die, what fresh horrors would await the Voodoos come morning?
What would the papers say? The city-goers with their aurum rifles and pitchforks and collars and chains at the ready…
Marie knelt beside the man. His wild eyes found hers, reeling from the panic of Jon’s hex.
His hand flew up to Marie’s face, cradling her cheek with clammy fingers, smearing a bright red handprint. “Merci, priestess. Merci!” His brows drew together, confused, when Marie made no move to assist him. “Help me! Please!”
Marie opened her mouth, readying a healing incantation on her tongue, then remembered that day ten years ago again: Jon’s beaten and lashed body chained to that post, arms stretched like some sort of messiah, the heat of those golden eyes on her, challenging her, coaxing her.
Those circling black birds overhead, the scream of their crow-song in her head.
What had he said about the gods? They punish.
“No,” Marie said softly, surprised at the grim resolution she had come to. How easy it was. She pushed that bloody hand from her cheek. “I cannot.”
She could. She could heal him now, suck the poison from his veins.
But she would not. She was done serving selfish men.
She was done serving this city. Let them bear the mark of their sins.
Because death had marked them. Marie cast her gaze toward the darkening sky, where the black birds circled the moon, singing. Death was coming.
Drenched in blood and bile, Marie hurried down the garden path that led away from Chateau Corbin’s inner courtyard, eager to put the night’s horrors behind her.
“ ’Tis a real pity. All that magic, Laveau, and you could not spare a drop.”
Marie whirled to find Silas Favreau leaning against a stone fountain that was spewing water from a marbled goblet. He held a chalice of wine to his own lips and drank deeply from it.
“Wait! That’s—”
“Do not fret. It is not poisoned.” His dark blue eyes danced behind a silver viper mask. “I checked.”
“How curious that you did not check the rest an hour ago.”
“Who says I didn’t?” The alchemist’s lips twisted in a sneer. “You misunderstand the Brotherhood’s aims, priestess. And here I thought you an exceptionally quick study.”
Irritation spiked her blood. She was in no mood to humor the likes of the Brotherhood any longer. “Out with it, alchemist.”
“It is true what they say. You are as formidable as you are lovely.”
“Careful, now, Silas. We wouldn’t want any of your kind to hear you bestow such flatteries on the enemy.”
“There is no harm in speaking the truth, witch.” He leaned in, dark eyes glittering. “Only in acting on it.”
“You’re playing a dangerous game. Keep away from me. I want no part of it.”
“As you wish.” He finished the last of his drink.
His long hair fell about his collar in ruddy gold waves.
“Oh, and Marie? If tonight is any indication of the coming days, your friend Jon poses a threat to us all. The Brotherhood might be willing to overlook certain…differences to accommodate a mutual goal.”
“Are you proposing an alliance, alchemist?”
“Do try to have some patience, priestess.” The alchemist strode down the garden path, spangled robes billowing in the night air. “Everything in due time.”
Everything in due time. Marie couldn’t help but mull over the alchemist’s cryptic words as she made her way to the carriage that would take her from the city and back to the wilderness.
By the time she reached the bayou house, Marie found Sanite outside amongst the whispering dark of the trees.
She was facing the sky, crowned in the white flare of moonlight.
And that was a good thing, for she did not see the bloodstains slashed across Marie’s ruined gown, her matted hair, the red handprint across her cheek.
As Marie approached, the older woman’s fingers curled around her gnarled walking stick, her displeasure clear. “You took long enough.”
“I had to be sure. I needed time to observe him.”
“And? What does Jon the Conjurer want?”
What you dare not do. What none of us have ever done. “He doesn’t want the throne, Sanite. His ambitions lie far past that.” Marie hesitated. “He wants war.”
“And you, Marie? Tell me, after observing Jon’s power, what exactly is it that you want, my dear child?”
A test. This was a test. She could not tell Sanite that she wanted Jon’s magic for her own, because it was forbidden—he was forbidden.
“I do not know what happened to Jacques. No one does. But I know what he wanted, for me and my magic. He wanted it to be for something more.” Marie hesitated. “Like Jon.”
“You are tempting the devil. You don’t want Jon’s war. You simply want the magic he could give you. And I warned you repeatedly, little girl, about the magic you seek. Veil magic is expressly forbidden. Even to one such as I.”
“But it is possible,” Marie said. She couldn’t smother the note of hope in her voice, a piece of tinder caught aflame now that she’d dared speak the words aloud.
“Many things are possible with the help of a man like Jon. But there are costs.”
“And I will gladly pay them.”
Marie did not bother hiding her ambitions from Sanite any longer. What did it matter? Sanite was dying. Her death was imminent, and soon Marie’s reign would be upon them all. This they both knew. They were beyond lies and games now.
Though her eyes were failing her now, Sanite Dede had the gift of vision.
What she lacked in the art of channeling or pure might, she made up for with her talents as a seer.
It was this talent, Marie supposed, that made her such an exceptional queen.
To see her enemies’ moves well before they’d conjured them up, to peer into the realm of possibilities and see the shape of things not yet formed. That was power.
Sanite Dede turned to face Marie at last. Her eyes were completely white, glowing with all the sovereignty of the Quarter Queen. Fear flared in Marie’s belly. Because Sanite was seeing her with the eyes of a true seer. When she spoke again, Marie knew that these were the words of prophecy.
“You will look, Marie Laveau…” The light from Sanite’s eyes faded, and Marie startled to see they were full of unshed tears for her. “…and you will never find.”