Witch's Wrath (Blood And Magick #3)(37)

Eyes from the neighborhood’s inhabitants followed the Uber as it circled the area. To say my hackles rose would not give enough credit to the vice-like grip fear’s hand had upon my throat. I shouldn’t have come here on my own, but I was committed to it now. I couldn’t turn around and go back home.

Doing so would mean ruining any chance of forming a truce with Tamara.

I was dropped off in front of a lone, tiny house on a long street of nothing. Power lines hung overhead, and even from inside the car I could almost hear them hum with electricity from the transformers, but besides them and the odd streetlight, there was little else to see out here except for that house.

The house itself was orange, or possibly a long-ago faded red, and years of neglect showed by the paint chipping in multiple places. But from the house itself, I sensed a great power pulsating out onto the street, its radiance lapping at my feet like a slowly rising shore of dark water.

Tamara was inside, and she was waiting for me.

I unbuckled my seatbelt and stepped out into the night, shaking the apprehension off and strolling up to the front door like I had a purpose. I knocked hard, three times, and waited, but nothing happened. Then I knocked again, and the door seemed to unlock and open a crack, croaking as it went and leaving my knuckles trying to tap the air.

“Hello?” I asked, as I pushed open the door.

The interior of the house was cold. I watched my breath manifest in little puffs before my lips. By the time the door had shut behind me with a whisper of a click, I became almost hyper-aware my surroundings. Not only was I in the Ninth Ward, a dangerous place where wolves roamed wild and hungry, but I was in Tamara’s house—the very jaws of the bitch herself.

Walking through the stub of a hallway to the living room, I came across a door leading into the kitchen. The shades were drawn, but even in the dark I could see the kitchen was empty and dusty, almost as if no one had used it. I kept going, heading toward the living room. There, standing in the dimly lit room where thick, black curtains were drawn, was Tamara—half cast in light, half in darkness.

First, she turned her head, then the rest of her body followed. In one delicate hand, she held a long cigarette; in the other, she held the neck of a wine glass, half empty or half full—take your pick. “Welcome, child,” she said. “Please, make yourself at home.”

“Thank you,” I said, though I chose to stand instead of sitting down on the arm chair in front of the bookshelf, or the mangled, dusty sofa directly across from the inert fireplace. It didn’t look like anyone actually lived here.

The truth was, she made my skin crawl. Not because I found her disgusting as a person, though her morals were questionable. It also wasn’t her impossibly thin frame, or the almost constant sneer on her face. It was her presence that made the hairs on my arms stand on end, like being too close to a high-voltage transformer with a big DANGER sign slapped on the front.

She drew the cigarette above an ashtray and flicked the ash into the bowl. “I would like to thank you for coming all the way out here,” she said, “I understand the Ninth Ward can be somewhat intimidating to those who aren’t from here.”

“You can’t honestly think that I’d believe you’re staying here.”

“I’m not. I’m actually staying at the Wyndham in the French Quarter. But this used to be my home. I was raised in this house and lived here until I met Remy.”

She was using the fact of her being a local to her advantage, just like Jean Luc said she would.

“Well, I want to thank you for your invite,” I said, “I’m glad we can talk, witch to witch”

A slight smile appeared across her face, deepening the crows’ feet at the corners of her eyes. “Witch to witch. I like that.” She walked over to a drinks table where a tray had been set down. On it sat a bottle of wine and another glass. “Would you care for a drink?”

My eyes fell upon the bottle, cork gone, half-empty, and I hesitated.

“Oh no,” she said, “I’m offering you a drink to facilitate our conversation. If it were that easy to poison you, you would not have the reputation you possess.”

She had a point. I nodded, and Tamara filled a glass as I approached the table, allowing me to pick it up of my own volition. I pressed the rim of the glass to my lip, tipped the wine toward my mouth, but kept my lips shut and didn’t drink. Just in case.

“It’s delicious,” I said.

“I made it myself,” Tamara said.

“You made this?”

“Oh yes, but not with magick. No. This was grown in one of my vineyards in Italy.”

“Impressive,” I said, though without any real meaning.

“That isn’t impressive, my dear. Anyone can grow an old wine. What’s impressive is you.”

“Me?”

Tamara walked over to the fireplace again and took a long drag of her cigarette, then exhaled. “I must admit I underestimated you when we first met, and then when we met again. But your resolve, your dedication, your power. Rarely do I get the chance to meet a high-witch of such talent and renown.”

“I… thank—”

“Thanks are not necessary, dear,” she said, turning around to face me again. “What is necessary is that we talk.”

Her annoying habit of interrupting me was starting to pinch my nerves, but I had to keep it together. If not for my sake, then for the sake of the truce. I didn’t want any more blood to be spilled, whether that blood belonged to a witch, a vampire, or one of the many humans already caught in the crossfire.