VenCo(81)

The young Miss St. James had proven surprising. He didn’t think she’d realized he was lying, but there was a cautiousness about her, borne of an intuition that usually came with age. He wondered who her parents were and made a mental note to dig when he got the chance. Maybe she was hereditary after all. There was something about her that intrigued him, made him almost happy he hadn’t had the chance to kill her, not yet anyway.

That sneeze trick wasn’t something he was proud of, but it was a superstition from this land. Magic that takes root and grows in a particular place ends up being part of that land. All he had to do was suspend his disbelief in it, and, because it had been planted and nurtured here for so long, it came forth. It was basic physics, really. He was surprised the same people who went about their daily lives not believing in anything could also be the same people who spoke about déjà vu or hunches with a straight face. Why did they think those things happened to them?

The land. The land held magic like a giant sponge. It could hold it for centuries, and in isolation if need be.





26

Wrestling an Alligator




The witches took turns staring into the bowl for hours at time, focusing and refocusing, falling asleep sometimes, minds wandering to TV shows and long-ago love affairs. It was Lettie who found the final spoon . . . sort of.

She’d dragged herself down the stairs, having almost fallen asleep putting Everett down for a nap. A small yellow bird watched from the chandelier, head tilted, eyes focused on Freya, who was sitting on the bottom step stretching wearily. Plunking down beside her, Lettie said, “The Giving Tree three times through is two times too many. I am ready for some adult communication.”

“Well you’re in for some kind of communication, adult or otherwise, because it’s your turn at the bowl.” Freya dropped her head into her hands. “I’m done.”

“Any luck?”

“Well, I’m pretty sure I now know the meaning of life and the exact location of God’s summer house. But a little enchanted spoon somewhere in the USA? Nope.” She yawned and put her head on Lettie’s shoulder. “Maybe you’ll figure it out.”

“Alright, baby, you head up for a nap. I’ll read you to sleep if you want.” They both giggled.

“No, thanks. The kind of trash I read? No one should be subjected to that.” She whistled. “You would never look at me the same.”

“Vampires?”

“Oh yeah.” She kissed Lettie on the cheek and stood. “But only super-gay vampires. And lots of them.” She climbed the stairs.

Lettie glanced at the yellow bird and hauled herself upright, using the newel-post. “Okay then, let’s see what we can see.”

The dining room candles had half melted into fragrant puddles of thick beeswax. There were signs of the others’ vigils: a cast-off sweater, an empty bottle of wine, an ashtray, since no one was allowed outside yet to smoke lest they be carried away by ancient hunters.

Lettie pulled a dining room chair over and sat, placing her elbows on either side of the copper bowl. She exhaled so deeply her breath rippled the surface. Through a slice in the drawn drapes, she could see that the sky was overcast, like velvet folded over itself, soft enough to fall into. That was where she tried to go, into the dark sky inside the bowl.

She focused and unfocused her eyes, trying to clear her mind. An hour went by before she could let go of the tension in her shoulders. Another hour flew through the room while she thought of where she would go if this coven thing didn’t work out. Would she end up back at the house she’d rented when she first fled? Or would she wake up one day in her mama’s house? It was only in the third hour, when the darkness was heaviest, settling around her like a sleepy cat, that the alligator arrived.

First she saw the long, scaly tail swooshing along the bottom of the copper vessel. Her impulse was to lean closer. But she caught herself. If her current focus or lack thereof was the one that brought up the image, then she should maintain it, as if she were watching a movie out of the corner of her eye.

That tail slid along the rounded bottom and curved around the silver stone placed there. Twice, a bubble rose to the surface and popped, each time forcing Lettie to blink, making her tired, making her want to keep her eyes shut. After a while, that was what she did—closed her eyes—and immediately she began to dream, chin propped on hands held up by elbows.

In her dream, the alligator was silver, then black, then finally green—a deep jewel green, like jade. It was long and sleek with yellow eyes and bright white teeth peeking out of the sides of its massive snout. One of its eyes was focused on her, and she stayed as motionless as she could, her breath small and circular in her chest. The gator picked up speed, turning in tighter circles so that soon its tail was grazing its mouth. Then, as if a swipe of an eraser had taken them away, it folded its legs and lay on its belly, completely motionless, with one eye still hooked into hers.

Though she had no body in the dream, she moved closer. There was no floor to walk across, no walls around them, only a shadowy void. But then she heard fat, hard-shelled crickets chirping. And there was a smell—still water and a pungent floral rot. A bell ringing somewhere, coming closer and then zooming away. She knew that bell, and the rhythmic clack of wood and metal that accompanied it. A streetcar! An old streetcar like the one on St. Charles Avenue. She took that streetcar with her grand-mère when they went school shopping in New Orleans every year.