Chapter Seventeen Ree #2
“No.” The imploring sound of his voice surprised her. “Forgive him, young priestess. His mother was killed by the magical-blooded. Now Inquisitor Broussard believes this is the only way to spare others from that pain. Belief can be a fickle thing.”
Ree stilled. She had never known how Henryk Broussard had become an orphan, only that he didn’t remember much about his life before he was sent to live with the rest of the children with the Ursuline nuns at the convent.
But if his mother had been killed by those with magical blood?
Well, that kind of hate didn’t die easy.
“And what about me, Father?” Ree asked finally. “Did he always hate me?”
But Father Antoine’s eyes only twinkled.
“We are not always the sum of our beliefs, young Marie. Listen to me, I believe the boy you cared for is still in there. You saved his life, brought him back from the edge of darkness. You made him believe in more once. Maybe not in magic itself. But in you.” His line of sight moved to the pyre. “And you may yet do it again.”
When he left, Ree approached the pyre. They hadn’t yet transferred Marcel’s body to the flames. She closed her eyes as she silently paid her final respects to her friend. Oh, Marcel. You fool. Hot tears stung her eyes. What I’d give to see you again.
It had been a quick thought, a selfish thought, one she had no right to. Marcel had other friends, other family. But she was so alone now. Without her mother. Without Anabelle. And now without him too.
Ree felt a familiar pull, the lightness beneath her feet, the shiver down her spine as a voice whispered, Is it so?
It was the same dark voice of a man she’d heard as a child, the voice she’d heard in the sick ward while staring at a pale, bedridden Henryk Broussard, the voice she now knew belonged to Jon the Conjurer.
Her father. Death is but a doorway, Jon sang.
Open it, daughter. Open it further and see what you may find.
Then she felt the oddest sensation, like plunging into ice water, the magic flowing through her, surer, stronger than any magic she had ever felt.
She reached for it, that spark of power living inside of her, the one she had always known had been waiting, patiently dormant.
And it felt…well, it felt good. It was life and it was death, and it was the pale dusk that lingered in between. It was power like she had never tasted.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Ree glanced down. But she was too late. The wooden lid to Marcel’s coffin burst forth, throwing itself open.
And before she could utter a single word, a grayed hand was already emerging from the box.
And then another, until a man—no, a corpse hauled itself from the coffin and onto its feet.
It straightened its body in odd, crooked movements, each one preceded by a sickening snap.
A scream erupted behind her. It was Nan, she recognized. Others too.
Ree was rooted to the ground, frozen in place. The blood drained from her face, her heart hammering wildly against her chest.
Marcel took an uncertain step toward her. But it was not Marcel, was it? Marcel was dead. Two days hanged. His soul was gone from this plane and on to the next. What then was walking toward her? But she knew. He was not human any longer, not even a corpse.
He was a zombi now.
Creatures of old folktales. They were the undead, the unholy resurrected, damned to walk the earth barren of soul, hungering for life and flesh.
The portion of Voodoo forbidden in New Orleans.
The same magic that had overthrown Haiti during those long years of revolution.
It was the terrifying magic she’d glimpsed Jon wielding aboard La Lune—the awakening of the dead.
A thin, grueling moan came from his cracked lips. As the zombi neared, she could see violet light burning in his irises, a strange cold fire. When she’d consumed the Conjurer Root, she’d seen the undead rising from the earth. Had that been some sort of premonition?
“Marcel…?”
He was coming straight for her. Each step wooden, an unnatural contortion of limbs. Ree felt suddenly very dizzy, her head ringing. Still, she couldn’t move, couldn’t bring herself to utter a single spell. And what magic would she call upon? Her mother had never prepared her for this.
People ran by her, screaming. Even among the Voodoos, this was not the magic they had expected.
She caught Father Antoine’s eye from across the crowd.
Not horrified like the rest. Worry churned in those eyes.
Eyes that were old enough to have beheld the bloody work of the First Holy Inquisition, to have seen before the result of such magic, the dark path where it would surely lead again.
“Move!”
Ree felt a whoosh—then was flung to the ground.
Henryk shot in front of her, and in one thrust, he sent the zombi back into the flames of the pyre.
That thin, groaning sound stretched out into the dusky air, a sound of utter pain that gnawed through Ree’s chest and right into her heart.
Tearfully, she watched that dead thing twist and twist upon the roaring fire until it burned down to ash and became nothing at all right before her eyes.
Numbly, Ree struggled to her feet. The world was spinning in a maddening blur. Smoke filled the clearing, blanketing everything in its path. She couldn’t tell up from down; nothing made sense.
Through the twisting red flames, Henryk was staring at her, coldly appraising.
His face had changed again—as if he’d come to some grim resolve.
It was, Ree recognized with a stab of fear, the face of a hunter.
Her eyes dropped to the fire, to the last of Marcel withering away.
Then Ree realized—she had done this, performed this forbidden magic.
The Harbinger was slowly but surely coming true.
And so it shall be: A Laveau witch’s reign will raise hell upon the earth. From its gates, the damned will return.
Ree slowly met Henryk’s gaze through the fire.
This was her sin. And the Inquisitor had realized it too.