“Millicent is a beautiful name,” he murmurs and then turns away as if he didn’t just say the sweetest thing ever. “Call me when you need me.”
He leaves, and I glance down at Sanguine, who’s decided to take a bath on my counter.
“You can’t do that there.”
“Meow.”
It’s been a day. Sanguine is sweet and little and stubborn as hell. Like me. So, because she found her favorite perch on my counter, she didn’t want to move. None of the customers said anything, but I didn’t love it. When my employee, Esme, came in to cover the afternoon shift, I took Sanguine to the pet store to get all of her supplies and then hurried home.
“For such a little thing, you’re heavy,” I say as I set the cat—in her shiny new carrier—at my feet on the front porch as I search in my bag for my keys.
I literally just had them in the car. They can’t have gone far.
But my bag is cavernous, and I can’t find them, so I glance around to make sure no one is watching and unlock my door with a flick of my wrist.
Just a little parlor trick I picked up that comes in handy now and then.
I reach for Sanguine, and when I glance up, I frown.
“Blood on my door,” I murmur. “Just a few drops.”
I carry the cat inside, then return to my car for the litter and the other supplies. When I cross the threshold, I glance at the blood again.
I cleanse my home weekly. And I’m not talking about scrubbing the toilets and mopping the floor—although I do that, too. I recharge the crystals I put in all four cardinal corners, use sage, and reinforce the spell of protection that keeps out anything intent on doing me harm.
I’ve been much more routine about it since the Horace fiasco last year.
Over the past week, I’ve noticed there’s been fresh blood on my door.
I don’t know for sure where it’s coming from or why it’s there. It could be that a bird keeps hitting the door.
Suicidal bird. Poor thing.
It could be a protection spell from one of my friends.
Or, it could be Horace, trying to get inside.
I’ve decided not to freak out about it because I know that nothing is inside the house, and that’s the most important thing.
“Okay, make yourself at home,” I say as I open the cat carrier. I set up her litter box, food, and water dishes, and grin when I see her curled up in a happy, sunny spot on my couch. “Get some sleep for both of us, okay?”
“Why are the Brussels sprouts always so dang good here?” Brielle asks as she pops another one into her mouth.
Brielle, Daphne, and I decided we needed a sister night out, and we love no restaurant in the Quarter more than Café Amalie. We’ve been coming here for years, specifically for the Brussels sprouts, with balsamic glaze and bacon.
They should be illegal, honestly.
“I don’t know, and I don’t want it to stop,” Daphne says. “Okay, what’s going on with you two?”
“Just work,” I reply. “And it’s going well. The book space in the back is a huge hit. I’m even reading tarot and runes and tea leaves back there. It’s a lot of fun.”
“That’s awesome, Mill,” Brielle says. “I’ve also been working a lot. It seems there will never be a time that people don’t want to know about the dead haunting the New Orleans.”
Brielle is a tour guide on a ghost tour here in the Quarter. It helps that she can actually see the shadows of the spirits that still reside here.
“And how is Cash?” I ask.
“My husband is just fine, thank you for asking.”
“Do you notice that she always refers to him as her husband, and not by his actual given name?” Daphne asks.
“It’s still new,” Brielle says. “And I like calling him my husband.”
“How does he like working for the NOLA PD? It has to be a huge change from the FBI,” I say.
“So far, so good,” she answers. “He’s relieved that he doesn’t have to travel as often. It wasn’t a big deal when he was single, but now—”
“Now, he wants to be with you,” Daphne finishes for her. “I think it’s sweet. A little disgusting, but sweet.”
“And how are you?” I ask Daphne.
“I’m fine. Business is busy for me, too, so I don’t have a lot of time for anything else.”
“Well, we need to do this more often,” I say. “I’ve missed you guys. And just because I have to ask, after everything we went through last year, neither of you has started to feel anything…off, have you?”
They both frown at me. “I’m not seeing any apparitions,” Brielle says. “And thank the goddess because that was the worst thing ever.”
“I haven’t felt anything,” Daphne adds, and before I can stop her, she reaches out and touches my arm. Her eyes widen. “Oh, honey.”
“What?” Brielle demands. “What is it?”
“Nothing—”
“Dreams,” Daphne replies, earning a glare from me. “You need to call us when the dreams get bad like this, Mill.”
“They’ve come and gone my whole damn life,” I remind them. “They’re not new.”
“Lucien dropping into your shop isn’t usual,” Daphne replies, and I glare harder.
“You know, looking into my head is a violation, Daph.”
She just smiles and takes a sip of her drink.
“Lucien came by?” Brielle asks as she swirls a sprout in the sauce on the plate, then pops it into her mouth. “Spill it. Now.”
“He just wanted coffee, and to talk about shit stirring up. But nothing is stirred up, you guys. He’s just paranoid. He needs to stay in his lab and look at DNA samples.”
“Cash got to work with Lucien on a case a few months ago,” Brielle says. “He was very impressed with Lucien’s work. His analysis helped the department solve the case.”
“Yeah, he’s brilliant,” I mutter and frown down at my plate. “Let’s talk about something else.”
“Why is that crowd forming?” Daphne asks, pointing out to the street. We’re sitting outside in the restaurant’s courtyard, and she’s right, a small crowd is gathering around something in the street.
Suddenly, someone lets out a blood-curdling scream.
“Don’t look, Millie,” Brielle says, but she’s too late. I’ve already reached out with my mind.
I look at them both and shake my head. “We need to go see this.”
We hurry over and push our way through the crowd. In the middle of the street lies a body. A man, probably in his mid to late thirties with brown hair. He’s been cut—all over his body.
“Some of these wounds are scabbed over,” Daphne points out.
And some are fresh.
But there’s no denying that he’s dead. The gaping wound at his throat is a definite giveaway.
“I’m calling Cash,” Brielle says.
Someone else is already talking to a 911 operator.
“Oh my goodness, what’s happened?”
I turn and see my friend, Dahlia. She owns the flower shop, Black Dahlia, across the street from my café. She’s also a member of my coven.