Prologue
Sixteen years ago
The frogs weren’t happy. Of course, they were in a pillowcase, all smushed together, and my grandfather was about to use them for a variety of reasons, including potions and probably dinner. There was little my grandfather loved more than sautéed frog legs. Me? I could take or leave them. Gumbo was my preference. Still, we didn’t have much money and food was food.
“That was a good haul today,” Grandpa noted as he walked the sidewalk with me. He carried his own pillowcase. What was inside was much more dangerous than my sack of frogs. The snakes of the bayou could be deadly, especially the cottonmouth that was in the bag. I hadn’t asked why he wanted it. As a powerful brujo, my grandfather used a variety of things in his potions. The snakes always made me leery. I could catch them, was good at it, but I often had nightmares after.
“It was,” I agreed, thinking about our day in the bayou. People said I was a “taciturn” child. I no longer considered myself a child — I was twelve, for crying out loud, which meant I was practically an adult — so I had started questioning the description. I liked to think of myself as thoughtful, even cautious. I wasn’t morose, though. I enjoyed having fun as much as the next person. “I liked it when you fell in the water trying to get the cottonmouth and I had to use that stick to catch it.”
Grandfather arched an eyebrow and sent me a sidelong look. “You liked that, huh?” He had a wry sense of humor but was always quick with a laugh. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“You would’ve thought it was funny if it happened to me.”
Rather than readily agree, Grandpa hesitated. “The snakes are dangerous,” he reminded me. “While I’m grateful you wrangled this one, it’s important that you give them respect. What we do out there isn’t about killing snakes. We only take what we need. We don’t kill just to kill.”
“I know.” I scuffed my shoe against the sidewalk, annoyed that he’d brought up the subject again. I was well aware of what was and wasn’t allowed when mixing potions and practicing spells. “I was just saying.”
He was silent for a long time, so long in fact that I had to search his face for answers. I found a smile.
“It was funny,” he conceded, grinning as the snake hissed. “I would’ve been fine, but it was probably best that you intervened when you did.”
I nodded in agreement, happy. As far as my grandfather was concerned, that praise bordered on effusive. “When will we go back?”
Grandpa shrugged. “When do you want to go back?”
As much as I loved the city — and what wasn’t there to love about New Orleans? — our trips to the bayous constituted some of my favorite memories. A quiet that couldn’t be found in the French Quarter inhabited these places. As an only child, I liked the quiet — except late at night when the dreams chased me. Then I longed for something loud enough to wake me.
“We could go back next week,” I suggested. I liked to string out our visits rather than waste them all clumped together. “We need a few more snakes, and I know you don’t like putting them together in bags.”
“I don’t,” he agreed. “They fight when they’re on top of each other, like siblings. You wouldn’t know anything about that. You’re spoiled.”
I glanced over my shoulder, not surprised to find his twinkling eyes staring back. “I don’t know many girls who would spend the afternoon catching frogs in the muck while dodging alligators,” I pointed out. “I’m pretty sure I’m not spoiled.”
“Maybe.” His smile remained firmly in place as we turned the final corner that led to our house. We lived outside the French Quarter, but just barely. We were well within walking distance for a good meal (when Grandpa decided we could afford to eat out) and good music. That happened once a month or so, but it was often the highlight of my month.
That’s not to say that I didn’t like our house. Sure, it was small — especially compared to the ones my classmates got to call home — but it was comfortable and warm. Compared to the chilling memories that chased me in sleep, times when my parents were still alive but the darkness had teeth, the house was practically sweltering.
All in all, I had few complaints about my life. I was twelve, but that didn’t stop me from opening my mouth. I was just about to let loose a snarky comeback when a flurry of activity in front of the church down the road caught my attention. “What’s that?”
Grandpa followed my gaze, teasing and talk of spoiled tweens all but forgotten. “I don’t know.” He shifted the pillowcase to his opposite hand and furrowed his brow as he studied the faces of the crowd in front of the church. “Izzy, take the haul into the house.” He shoved his pillowcase toward me, his attention completely fixated on another point of interest. “Don’t open the one with the cottonmouth. Put it in the bathroom sink — keep it away from the frogs — and I’ll handle it when I get back.”
Confusion played a game of tag in my head. “I don’t understand.” I obediently took the pillowcase containing the snake. “What’s going on?”
“I’m not sure.” He flashed a smile that didn’t make it all the way to his eyes. “I’m going to find out.”
I hesitated as I gripped the pillowcase. “I want to go with you.”
“That’s not necessary. You should go inside.”
My heart gave a little lurch at the prospect. He was all I had and something didn’t feel right about what was happening. I’d lost my parents years ago and the thought of losing him was too much. “I’m going with you.” I shifted the pillowcases so I could plant them in the bushes — a decent ways apart so the snake couldn’t bite through the bag and attack the frogs — and then fixed Grandfather with a pointed look. “I’m ready.”
He looked amused more than anything else. “You have dirt on your face.” He licked his thumb and swiped it along my cheek. There was delight, and maybe a little pride, gracing his aged features — and something else. “You stick close to me,” he said finally. “Don’t go wandering off when we get over there.”
I didn’t understand why he was worried about that. I had an independent streak and was allowed to run wherever I wanted in the neighborhood. Now he seemed deadly serious. “I’ll stick close,” I promised him perfunctorily. “You don’t have to worry about that.”
“Good.” He checked the bags to make sure they were tied well — nobody would benefit if all our hard work escaped while we were investigating the disturbance on the corner — and then we set off. It took us only two minutes to reach our destination, and when we did he insisted we stay on the opposite side of the road even though the people walking and chanting in front of the church looked harmless.
“What are they doing?” I asked.
“It looks like they’re protesting.”
That wasn’t what it looked like. “It looks like they’re having a parade.”
That was enough to elicit his trademark forehead crease as he stared. “You know, they do kind of look like they’re having a parade,” he said, his eyes drifting to a young man passing us on the right. He was clearly heading toward the chanting group. “Excuse me, what’s going on here?”