Page 12 of Death Card

6

Bright and earlyMonday morning, Orion and I set off for work. Gramps’s announcement still weighs heavy on my mind, but an opening shift should be enough to distract me for a few hours.

You can’t throw a stone anywhere in the French Quarter without hitting a magic, voodoo, or occult shop proclaiming itself to be the best in New Orleans. They’re a dime a dozen in this city, but in my opinion, Zeke’s is the best.

Gramps had the idea to open the shop while he was still working as a lawyer. According to Gran, he’s always had a problem sitting still. His mind is occupied by too many competing ideas for him to focus on only one.

Magic abounds in New Orleans. Along with a plethora of mortals claiming to have some affinity, there are a number of other covens and straggler witches living in the city. We’ve cornered the market on authentic magical items, so we’re able to cater to those who actually have magic pumping through their veinsandany mortal who desires it.

We have the bonus of a perfect location on Royal Street. In the afternoons, this portion of the block is shut down to trafficand the street performers descend, filling the air with upbeat music and a positive vibe.

When we turn the corner, I’m so deep in thought that I run straight into a warm body.

“Oh, I’m sorry!”

A man wearing an orange vest and a hard hat shakes his head. “Watch where you’re going, kid,” he mutters.

I pause to peer at the construction as Orion sighs. “Another one bites the dust.” He continues walking down the street toward the shop, but I stay a moment to let the view sink in.

This used to be a jewelry store, and not some soulless chain. Miss Louise ran this place, and she put her heart and soul into every piece she made. I run my finger over my pearl ring—a birthday gift from Gran and Gramps a few years ago.

Now Miss Louise’s shop is a shell of plaster and sawdust. A sign in the window proclaims that this will be the future home of the Sweet Dreams Bakery.

I grit my teeth and turn to stare at the Dupree Antiques & More storefront across the street. “They did it again,” I growl.

The Dupree family is old New Orleans money, and our families have been at each other’s throats for as long as I’ve been alive. The late Dupree patriarch was a racist, no-good prosecutor, according to Gramps. To make matters worse, his son, Mike Dupree, is running against Gramps for city council.

Mike Dupree has been steadily making a name for himself in the MAGA scene. I’ve had to listen to so many of Gramps’s bitter rants that I can spout off his biography by heart. Emboldened by the rise of the far right in Louisiana politics, he declaredhis candidacy around the same time Gramps did. He’s backed by the governor, and if elected, he’ll do all he can to destroy New Orleans’s infrastructure and deprive necessary social services to those in need.

Their awful family has taken a two-pronged approach to ruining this city by slowly buying up Black-operated stores in the Quarter and leasing them to white business owners. Miss Louise is the latest casualty.

The angry storm cloud over my head immediately lifts once I step over the threshold of Zeke’s. An overwhelming mixture of pride and love engulfs me every time I’m here. So many of my earliest memories live within these walls.

I took my first steps here while Gran and Gramps were working the store. I kissed my first (and so far only) boyfriend behind the register my sophomore year. This is also where I was when Gramps called me that fateful day and told me I needed to come to the hospital right away. It was one of the few days we closed early. Gran took her final breath later that same night.

I drag my hands over the glass shelves, taking in our stock of crystals, incense, and spell books. With a deep breath, I inhale the lavender essential oils we keep pumping through our diffuser. If I close my eyes and still my breathing, I can barely make out the sound of Gran’s laughter. The imprint of her spirit is powerful here. She had a hand in nearly everything, from the pattern of the curtains hanging over the windows to which types of rotating novelty items we’d stock.

I remember taking mental notes whenever she would place the orders. According to her, makeup and bath bombs were toomuch of a tourist trap, but jewelry and handmade soaps would be a major cash cow.

Gramps couldn’t have run this place without her, and now it’s fallen to me to step into her shoes, in more ways than one.

My gaze drifts toward the back of the shop where a nondescript white door stands with a small purple sign,Tarot Readings, written in cursive script.

Orion stumbles out of the supply room, nearly dropping a box of crystals. “Yo!” he calls. “Let’s get a move on! What are you doing?”

“I’m coming,” I grumble.

Orion and I perform our opening chores in silence. I quickly sweep the floor and dust the shelves while Orion balances the register. When the clock strikes nine, I flip theOpensign and unlock the door before taking a seat beside Orion at the counter to await our first customer.

A glance out of the corner of my eye reveals that my brother looks rough. Although, I guess these days this is becoming his standard look: glassy red eyes and dark circles. He nurses a Red Bull and absentmindedly swipes through his phone.

“So,” I begin. “Gramps and I saw you leave last night. Who was the guy?”

Orion shrugs. “None of your business.” He glances up when I sigh. “Sorry. He’s a friend. Did Gramps seem mad?”

“What do you think?”

He shakes his head and looks down at the counter. “I wish he would chill. I’m fine.”