Residue Page 3

  She wiggled her hand at me, insisting I take what she held out, which was a small piece of paper and a wad of cash. When I didn’t, she reached out and shoved them into my palm, a rushed sigh showing her frustration with me.

  That was when I caught sight of the room behind her. I couldn’t have been certain what it was that drew my attention but that didn’t stop the goose bumps rising on my arms. It may have been the miniature skulls hanging from the top of her windowsill, clicking as they knocked against one another in the breeze. Or it may have been the flicker of the myriad candles blazing across every possible surface of her furniture. Or maybe…it was simply my intuition telling me that something just wasn’t right.

  I drew in a quick breath, shocked, but she didn’t seem to notice.

  Instead, she grabbed hold of the door and shuffled backwards. “Jocelyn,” she stated in her most impolite tone yet. “Happy birthday.”

  With that, she stepped back into her room and slammed her door.

  Stunned at her utter disrespect, I dropped my gaze to her shopping list, seriously contemplating whether I should tear it into pieces and shove them under her door. But then I noticed the words on the piece of paper and all thoughts seized.

  Just below the directions, she’d written:

  Jocelyn’s school supplies

  Glancing back at where she’d been standing seconds ago, I was now bewildered.

  Maybe she was upset because she didn’t want to run the errand for me, someone she barely knew? I mused. While I considered this, my intuition told me the shopping excursion was something more. It was a feeling I paid attention to because it steered me right every time. It was the same feeling that told me when the headmistress was walking the halls while my friends and I were trying to sneak back to our dormitory room at night or when a teacher had switched out a test on us after I’d secured the answers in a covert mission the day before.

  In short, it was a feeling that left me uneasy.

  That feeling lingered as I entered my new room and laid down onto the plush comforter; my thoughts turning toward making a good attempt at falling asleep. As expected, I had no luck. My body tossed and turned until I sat up only a short while later. And there before me was a closet filled with clothes, a note pinned to the sleeve of one shirt. With my interest piqued, I crossed the room to find an unsigned message.

  Thought you might want something other than an academy uniform to wear.

  I laughed quietly to myself, recognizing the handwriting instantly. It was written by the same person as the shopping list. Miss Mabelle had a softness to her after all, I mused.

  Having left my small wardrobe at school, because I hadn’t been given any time to request my suitcases from storage, I was thankful for the thoughtfulness. She had even gotten the sizes correct.

  Realizing she’d gone to great lengths on my behalf collecting these clothes, the least I could do was her shopping, especially if the items were for me. So, after a quick inventory, I changed into black cotton pants, a white tank top, and a grey vest. To top it off, I settled my black top hat on my head and doused myself in a mixture of silver and gold bracelets and necklaces. It was the exact opposite of what was allowed by the academy’s conforming dress code.

  Only during midnight attempts to sneak out and on vacations with my mother was I ever given the chance to wear clothes outside the academy’s strict dress policy. I loved it and took full advantage of it. On my escapes from the academy grounds, I always wore flowing thigh-high dresses or fitted pants. On travels I was enticed to wear the clothes of the country I was visiting so I could better experience life through the eyes of the natives. Yet even then, I’d choose something that allowed me a sense of identity, a handmade necklace or a patterned scarf, and more color the better.

  These clothes, hanging before me, made me smile. They were bold, distinctive, and you wouldn’t find them on every street corner. They were perfect for me.

  A quick glance at the directions scribbled beneath the shopping list told me how to reach St. Charles Street but even as I approached the door, I hesitated.

  With my hand on the doorknob, a single thought ran through my mind: I’ve been told that I am in danger.

  My awareness drifted to the scar, now partially covered by my jewelry as I contemplated it. It was healing so rapidly it looked more like a thick purple line without any puckering and emitted far less heat.

  The uneasy feeling returned.

  While the prudent person would walk back upstairs and wait for Aunt Lizzy to emerge from her bedroom, that wasn’t me. I was the person with red stars on every year of her record at the academy, all for misconduct. I was the one at school who had suffered the customary punishment of assisting the gardeners with their landscaping so much that I knew them each by name. It was me who regularly convinced my friends to sneak out after hours, always with delinquent behavior in mind to glue the classroom doors shut, paint our rival school’s sign with our school colors, leave notes for the boys at their academy down the street, and steal the academy car for joy rides. In fact, I was the only one in the student body who had pre-scheduled meetings with the headmistress to review and repent for my digressions.

  At the end of my reminiscence, I found myself smiling, a soft giggle shaking my chest.

  No, I was not a prudent person. This was my new home and I wouldn’t be fearful in it.

  With that in mind, I left the house quietly, and after taking the St. Charles streetcar and walking 30 minutes I reached my destination.

  My path took me through a neighborhood adjacent to Aunt Lizzy’s, a place called the French Quarter, also known as the Vieux Carré. It holds the distinction of being the oldest neighborhood in the city. This not only meant that the rest of New Orleans sprawled out from the French Quarter, its center, but that many of the buildings dated back to the 1700s, built after The Great New Orleans Fire consumed most of the buildings. The Quarter, as the locals call it, boasted aged buildings crowding each other along narrow streets; lush, welcoming courtyards tucked away down narrow alleys and carriageways; and the smell of crawfish etouffee and jambalaya wafting from unseen kitchens. Adding to the neighborhood’s mystique, jazz musicians sat in the sheltered entrance of stores that had not yet opened to serenade those walking by. Street performers propped on boxes remained motionless, only launching in to their act once a bill was dropped in the nearby hat. Also along the way, elaborate wrought-iron and cast-iron balconies overhung the sidewalks, offering me shelter from the growing intensity of the sun. Even for September, this city proved it could deliver heat with a kick.

  Being such a far stretch away from the cool, pristine academy grounds, I couldn’t help feeling like I was on vacation, exploring a new city and culture, this time without my mother.

  The directions I followed, took me to a quiet side street lined with worn buildings, and more specifically, to an unmarked, weathered door along a row of doors looking remarkably the same.

  Without the typical store sign or even a window to peer in, I didn’t know whether I might walk into someone’s house. To be on the safe side, I knocked.

  The door rattled loosely against its frame and then settled. A few moments passed and no one came, so I knocked again. Again, there was no answer.

  Wondering if the directions were wrong, I tried the door handle. It was unlocked, which almost surprised me. Opening it a crack, I peered inside.

  While it was incredibly dim inside, lit only by candles held in wall sconces and open lanterns hanging from the ceiling, I could see that it was actually a store. Disheveled and poorly laid out with towering wooden bookshelves stuffed with merchandise, I couldn’t see all that far inside.

  “Hello?” I called out without receiving an answer back.

  Figuring they may be in the storage room, if one even existed, I stepped inside.

  “Hello?”

  No one responded so I moved farther down the aisle.

  This was no regular OfficeMax or OfficeDepot. It didn’t even
resemble a college bookstore. In the place of textbooks on biology, calculus, and the English dictionary there were witch almanacs, spell books for solitary witches, and tomes on spells and rituals for every purpose. Where pens and paper should have been, there were tarot card stacks and candles of every color, style, and size imaginable. Canisters of countless herbs, stones, and gems replaced impulse-purchase bins of calculators and keychain flashlights.

  What exactly am I supposed to buy in here? I wondered.

  Then, just as I reached the cash register, which looked like an antique ready for a museum, the store’s front door opened, allowing in a thin stretch of light down the side aisle. I listened as the store’s most recent patron strolled toward the back, where I now stood when the scratchy voice of an older woman drew my attention away.

  She hobbled out from the back room, hunched and bracing herself against the counter as she walked.

  “What you lookin’ for?” she asked.

  Hesitating, I didn’t know quite how to explain it and then settled on the most basic of answers. “My school supplies.”

  She lifted her chin in a brief gesture of acknowledgement and then shuffled down the long counter, stopping at nearly the end of it. From there, she withdrew a clothed bundle, tied with twine at the top. Rather than carrying it back to me, she dragged it, drawing up dust where it had settled. Leaving it before me, she then held out her hand for payment.

  “Eighty-five dollars.”

  I placed the cash in her palm and she dropped it in a canvas bag beneath the register, without bothering to count it.

  “You got the potent kind,” she stated.

  “The what?”

  “They’re dangerous,” she warned. “Watch yerself with them.”

  Interestingly, I wasn’t the least bit surprised that whatever the brisk woman sleeping across the hall from me had ordered on my behalf wasn’t safe.

  “All right,” I shrugged. I wasn’t quite sure what was in the bundle or how I should treat them to prevent inflicting harm.

  Then several things happened simultaneously. Just as I turned around to leave, the person waiting patiently in line behind me spoke. And just as he spoke, the room broke into chaos.

  The wall sconce candles flickered first. Next the tarot cards lifted from their spot on the shelves as if a brisk wind had picked up and carried them, disheveled, through the air. Then heavier things began to move. Candles darted off the shelves like projectiles, hitting the walls with enough force to leave wax marks. Books slid off and slammed to the floor or against the bookshelves opposite them. The ceiling lanterns swung fiercely from side to side, slamming against the whitewash to send down chunks of plaster. The glass canisters banged against each other threatening to break.

  That was when I felt arms around me, pulling me to the ground, and a body covering me, solid and secure. My top hat was gone and hands now covered my head with elbows pressed against my ears, dimming the sound of the destruction around us. With my face covered by my own hands and my body in a crouched position, only my legs were exposed.

  I had to give the person credit. Despite the devastation going on around us, nothing touched me.

  It raged for several seconds, prolonging the demolition of this elderly woman’s store. Then, just as quickly as it had begun, it came to a screeching halt.

  My protector’s hands freed my ears and the body stretched across my back moved away. That was when I heard the voice. It was comforting, concerned, and a little uncertain. I was instantly drawn to it, realizing a ridiculous urge to listen to it endlessly. I couldn’t help feeling foolish, especially since his question was so understandable given the circumstances.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked.

  I felt a hand, warm and firm, on my shoulder, coaxing me to react.

  Releasing the breath I’d been holding, I stood and blinked a few times, clearing the haziness in my head.

  “Never been better,” I muttered and when he handed my top hat back I heard him chuckle.

  A quick look around told me that the elderly woman had survived unharmed but her store had not. Every piece of merchandise now lay broken, littering the floor.

  Without any warning whatsoever, she launched in to a tirade, speaking rapidly and in French, a language I hadn’t learned well enough yet. Then she stopped suddenly, to my surprise, with a chuckle, wide eyed and beaming.

  I chalked it up to delirium at seeing her store destroyed at some unknown phenomenon until her other patron standing beside me spoke.

  “Huh…” he mumbled.

  “What?” I asked, still battling the surreal state I was in, watching as the woman shrugged and disappeared into the back room still chuckling.

  Then he chuckled to himself, surprised. “She said she’s never seen this before. Apparently she’s read about it and been told of it but hadn’t witnessed it herself.”

  “Witnessed what?” I asked, taking my sack of school supplies.

  He laughed again, farther down in his chest. “Well…” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “She thinks she just saw the introduction of two fated lovers.”

  “Really? Who?” I asked, my head swiveling back and forth now, profoundly intrigued and looking for the people they were referring to, the two whom they believed to be the cause of this mess.

  He hesitated and then spoke deep, firm, and with certainty. “She meant us.”

  3 REVEALED

  Us?

  The word lingered in my consciousness attempting to connect to a clear, concise thought.

  Fated lovers…

  She meant us…

  They simply wouldn’t unite.

  As I processed the meaning of what this stranger was telling me, I absentmindedly looked up at him and then my awareness changed entirely.

  Gazing at me less than a foot away, were breathtakingly beautiful clear green eyes that told me that he was more curious than disturbed by the idea. In fact, he looked like he was evaluating me to determine whether it could be a possibility. The unadulterated intensity of his stare should have made me uncomfortable but it didn’t. I felt excited as if a fire had been kindled in my stomach.

  He shook his head, seeming to clear his thoughts and I wondered if my evaluation of him might have been correct. Then he opened his mouth to speak but was distracted by the storekeeper who waddled in from the back room carrying a broom and dust pan.

  His attention then seemed to be solely on her. “Can I help you?” he offered.

  “Pfff,” she replied, with a forced exhale. “Out of my store.”

  Evidently, she was no longer enthralled with us. Instead, she circled the counter and with one hand on each of us, pushed us down the aisle and out the door.

  “Come back soon,” she added before closing and locking the door behind us.

  The entire time I had not looked back at him, instead focusing on leaving the store without tripping over the destruction. Yet, the impact was made, his face burned in my memory. With a single glance, I could have gone a decade and still recognized him on the street.

  His sandy blonde hair hung over his forehead, still a little tousled from the store’s eruption. His jaw and chin were strong and defined. And he’d been grinning which accentuated the curve of his lips and boasted perfectly-straight, stark-white teeth. His crystal clear green eyes, so innocent, had drawn me in before I even knew it had happened, captivating me. Even his one flaw seemed perfect. A faint scar just above his lip made him ruggedly seductive and real. His white, short-sleeved shirt fit snuggly against the contours of his muscular arms and molded against his chiseled abdomen. The three buttons down the front were left unfastened to a point that exposed his rippled chest muscles. His jeans hung loosely from legs that stretched as tall as mine. All together, he was unassumingly alluring.

  Then he said something that, while meaning to be innocent, altered my focus entirely.

  “I guess I’ll have to come back for my own school supplies,” he laughed quietly, shaking his head at the close
d shop door.

  “School supplies?” I blurted. “You were here for those, too?” My heart leapt at the hope of meeting someone from my class.

  “That’s right.” He nodded.

  Ever since I’d stepped foot inside that store one question ran through my subconscious and it had now bubbled to the top of it. I took a brief moment to formulate it and then decided to risk any ridicule my question might bring before asking, “Exactly what type of school are these supplies for?”

  His eyebrows shot up then. “You don’t know?”

  “I wouldn’t be asking if I did,” I said a little abruptly.

  Again, he laughed to himself. “Good point.” He drew in a breath, determining the best way to answer. “Why don’t you look in your sack? It might give you a hint.”

  Suspicious, I pulled the string at its opening just enough to peer inside and my confusion grew. Piled in a heap at the bottom were clear bags of what appeared to be herbs, a jar of broken glass, and a cross.

  “I think I need a stronger hint,” I replied.

  He swung his head from side to side, checking the street to make sure no one else was within earshot. Even while we were alone, he still lowered his voice. “Well, based on the fact that you’re here outside this specific shop, having bought a bag of those specific items, I’d say that you’ve enrolled in the school to practice the supernatural arts.”

  “What…” I started before having to swallow the lump in my throat. “Excuse me. What arts?”

  He shrugged and then replied as if it were widely known; something that took me only a second to realize was probably the case within the circles that he spent his time. “Witchcraft and voodoo mostly but the professors will bring up other subjects to keep it interesting.”

  My gaze quickly fell from his eyes to the cobblestone street as I absorbed this information. If I’d heard him right – and I was fairly certain given the solitude on the side street where we stood, that I had – I was enrolled in a school to practice mystical forms of magic.