Ritha proceeded to yell at me in front of everyone like I was a child, incapable of managing my own magic. “It’s not life-threatening, Désirée! Go take a rest before you deplete yourself completely!” But even if they’d saved her eye, without my help she’d have been left with a disfiguring scar.
My mouth went dry as I slid along the wall, the gold shimmery makeup on my shoulders smearing against the burgundy paint, and for the briefest of delusional seconds I wished Codi was here in case I lost time—or any of my coven members, I mentally corrected.
My knees wobbled.
No recoil. I need to check on Sébastien.
I launched myself off the wall and sauntered into Ritha’s library in a way that might have simply looked like I’d had a Zaka night buzz, but there’d been nothing typical about this year’s feeding of the spirits. Tonight, Ritha’s orange-colored library looked more like a supernatural ER. We’d run out of cots, so people were laid out on the floor tucked beneath blankets like caterpillars. I recognized a Pink Power Ranger sleeping bag—a Christmas present from my aunt when I was six—now wrapped around a blonde woman with a head bandage. I glanced at her arm. Mundane.
Sébastien was on the blue leather sofa on the other side of the room. Why is it so far? I could barely hear my own thoughts as I meandered through the caterpillar maze. A combination of injured witches and mundane folks. The latter, of course, didn’t understand why they were here, magically tied to beds and chairs, and they thought we were mental for holding mirrors up to their faces, searching for the souls of others. Dizziness netted my consciousness, a dark, wet blanket dragging me down.
A billow of nausea made me jolt up. Dammit. The nausea always came after the light.
My mother turned away from the drunk, sash-wearing bride-to-be she was helping and caught my eye.
This is bullshit. Isaac’s Spektral doesn’t kick his ass like this.
“Isaac’s so scared of his Spektral magic, he’s hardly scratched the surface of his abilities,” she said.
“Mom!” We had rules about my mother’s telepathy. And so what if Isaac never uses his Spektral magic? Adele and Codi don’t have recoil!
“You’re far ahead of those two in your practice. Who knows if they’ll have growing pains?”
“Mom! Get out of my head!”
The injured looked at us, dazed and confused, all heavily sedated with Ritha’s magic.
“Shield yourself properly if you want privacy.” My gran’s voice filled the room as she entered with a swift stride, Remi and Manon at her heels like her little pets.
Oh, okay, sorry I couldn’t shield from my mother’s Spektral while also trying not to pass out after bringing Sébastien back from the edge of his grave, not to mention healing the three moronic frat boys who kept touching my hair, the manager from Tropical Isle whose breath smelled like salami and cigars, and Suga and Pixie, two of Bourbon’s finest burlesque dancers!
My head swirled again, and I stumbled the last few feet to Sébastien, who was now sprawled beneath a mauve-colored afghan crocheted by my great-grandmother way before either of us were born. He shivered beneath the turquoise tassels. It was a miracle he was still alive. As long as I lived, I’d never forget the smell of his burnt flesh.
Actually, it wasn’t a miracle he was still alive; it was magical.
His current wardrobe added to the surrealness of the night. We’d had to strip off his chemical-soaked clothes, so now he wore my uncle’s old Reggie Bush jersey and some cut-off sweats. Very un-Sébastien. His broken glasses rested atop a jacket that could only be Nicco Medici’s.
The room tilted, and I quickly knelt beside him, sure his internal organs wouldn’t appreciate it if I crashed on top of him. His superficial wounds had healed, and I think I’d gotten all of the broken bones, but he still hadn’t really woken up. Maybe it was better that way. It was one thing using the memory powder on a stranger but totally weird to blow it at a friend.
Okay, he wasn’t exactly a friend, but I’d known him my entire life. French Quarter rats and all.
Pixie groaned from her pallet on the floor as Ritha tended to her back. She’d been trampled by partygoers chased out of a trance club by a cluster of souls. She was lucky to have escaped with only a back injury. I cringed at the thought of lying face down on a club floor and pulled the small bottle of homemade antiseptic from the pocket of my party dress and spritzed my hands with it until they glistened. The scent of juniper brought an instant calm.
“What did you find?” Ritha asked her pets.
“Charity Hospital looks like a war zone,” Remi reported, arms behind his back like a soldier. “If we set up there, folks would die of dysentery before we found a way to exorcise them. Plus, it’s outside of the lockdown spell.”
“But the Ursuline convent would be perfect,” Manon said. Her braids were swept up into two jumbo plaits, and her skin glistened like she’d been running.
“Lots of small rooms,” Remi added.
“How big is the kitchen?” my mother asked, putting up a magical shield between her and the douche-canoe SigEp frat boy she’d just finished examining. If he tried to touch her hair, Goddess help him.
Remi cracked his neck. “Big but not industrial.”
“But the property is a nexus for magic,” Manon said, and they both shot me stupid-little-cousin looks.
Whatever. How was I supposed to know about the Casquette Girls Coven’s antique sleeping spell?
“If the kitchen isn’t industrial-sized, it won’t work,” my mother said.
“Planning on hosting a dinner party in the middle of a supernatural siege?” I asked. The sarcasm was unnecessary, but I figured they’d ignore me the way they always did when discussing their “private coven business.”
Ritha and her minions did ignore me, but Sébastien stirred. I placed the back of my hand on his forehead—still warm.
My mom came over with a cool rag soaked in a holy basil tonic for his head. “We need to move people. We can’t handle the volume here. The Possessed are now five to a room; they need to be separated ASAP before they become a danger to one another.”
“Not to mention the wounded,” Ritha said. “We don’t have room for them all here, but they need to be monitored and powdered before they’re released out of the Quarter to the mundane hospitals.”
“Hospital,” I corrected. “Singular.” Only one had reopened since the Storm—an immensely sore subject with my father and one of his opponent’s favorite media talking points.
“Orleans,” Sébastien muttered.
Everyone turned his way.
“He’s awake!” I touched his shoulder. “Sébastien?”
“Orleans,” he muttered, again.
Manon crossed her arms. “I don’t think the fridge at Café Orléans is remotely suitable for our needs.”
Sébastien’s eyeballs rolled beneath his lids. I always knew I liked him. “Orleeeeeeeeans,” he mumbled, extra emphasis on the American vowels. Sébastien Michel spoke perfect French.
“The Bourbon Orleans!” I said. “Across the street from the café.”
“It’s been closed since the Storm,” my mother said. “But I don’t think it sustained any major damage, it’s close, and it’s got at least a hundred rooms and a restaurant. The kitchen must be large.”