VenCo(100)

“Oh god, it’s so good to see you. You wouldn’t believe . . .” She tried to speak her relief into his chest.

“I know, I know. And look, I’m sorry for being an ass. I just—I just don’t want to lose you. And look what happened anyway? I lost you.” He sighed and held her tighter.

“I’m not lost. I just had to . . .” She tried to remember. She fought the fog and tried to find the memory of now. “I had to go get something. I’m looking for something . . .”

“You don’t need to keep looking. I’m right here.” He pulled her back just enough to kiss her. She was shocked by it. They had made out before when they were drunk enough and single enough, but this was not that. This was different.

She pulled away. “Oh! I’m in New Orleans!”

“Shhhh, you’re with me now.” He moved his hand to the back of her head and brought her face back to his, opening her lips with his.

A small voice inside the fog—Remember the spoon, Lucky. And the wood.

She broke the kiss again. “I am looking for a spoon. And I need to . . .”

But he had pulled her back again. This time the kiss was more insistent. And his hands were reaching down, were just under her ass, moving up the backs of her thighs, pulling the soft layers of her dress with them.

This is important! Get the spoon. Remember the wood. She recognized the small voice now—it was her’s.

“Malcolm, I need to go. I have to find the spoon.” But he dropped to his knees in front of her.

“Just stay, just for a little bit.” He had lifted her hem so that her legs were bare. He kissed each thigh, grazing his face along her skin so that she felt a rush of blood to those exact spots. “Just a little while longer.”

He lifted the fabric to her waist. She wasn’t wearing underwear and his breath from each word fell directly on her skin. Her eyes rolled back. Oh god. Her toes clenched the thick ground.

He leaned in closer; now his mouth was almost on her, so close even his breath felt like a touch. “Just . . . one . . . more . . . minute.”

It’s not Malcolm!

“Wait!” she called out suddenly, and he looked up. His eyes, they were the right shape, but the colour—so dark he didn’t seem to have irises. She jumped back, and her skirts tumbled down to her feet. She took a step away.

“You.”

“What’s wrong, Miss St. James?” It was still Malcolm’s voice, but his words, the way he enunciated them was . . . off. “I was led to believe this was what you wanted. This boy. This body.” He stood up, unfolding to Malcolm’s full height. “Is this not your preferred lover?”

“I don’t want a fucking boy. I want more, and I’m almost there.” She was angry. She felt violated. She turned on the slippery ground and ran.

“Where are you going?” he called after her.

She put distance between them while she collected her thoughts.

She was in New Orleans. She was after the spoon. Somewhere in the Garden District, she was tied to a bed beside the Benandanti, and this was their final battle.

Remember the wood.

“I will,” she answered, and she ran into the gnarled trees. She just needed to find a spot, somewhere to stop, and then she would get ready. She needed to cross out of his landscape and back into her own, even if he followed—especially if he followed.



It was nearly four in the morning, which meant it was three a.m. in New Orleans. Meena was struggling to stay awake at the table. Wendy was making a new pot of coffee, and Lettie was passed out on the floor pillows they kept stacked by the back window. Morticia and Freya were still at it, comparing Freya’s dream scribbles to the online map. They had eliminated every neighbourhood in the city of New Orleans and had moved outward to the surrounding parishes.

Meena sighed. Was she being a fool? It felt like mapping was the way to go, and what else could the image be? She picked up the piece of paper for the hundredth time and examined it, though she could have drawn it from memory at that point.

“Christ.” She slapped it facedown on the table. She didn’t want to look at it anymore. “What if we’re wrong?”

Freya and Morticia stared at her without a word, like children up past their bedtime. They weren’t used to hearing her vent.

“And why isn’t Lucky answering her phone?” She checked her phone, also for the hundredth time. Nothing. No missed calls, no texts, not a peep. She slammed it down on top of the page. And then something caught her eye.

“Freya, what’s this?”

Freya stood and walked over to Meena’s end of the table. “What’s what?”

Meena pointed to a small scribble on the back of the page.

“That’s something I started to draw, but then I lost it.”

“What do you mean, you lost it?”

“After I drew the map, I remembered this other image, so I flipped the page and started to draw, but it faded on me before I was done.” She leaned in to look at the curved lines. “I think it’s just bullshit.”

“Okay,” Meena said, her hand on Freya’s back. “That’s okay.”

Freya went back to the laptop to work, and Meena picked up the page and carried it into the kitchen. Wendy was pouring strong coffee from their French press into four mismatched teacups lined up on the counter. She looked up and frowned when she saw Meena’s face.