Page 26 of Death Card

Usually, I prefer tarot when I need to seek answers, but scrying can be more direct. There’s no vision to interpret, just whatever appears to me on the surface.

I take the mirror and a stick of incense into my closet and plop down cross-legged on the carpet. The dim light of theflickering bulb and the musky aroma of the smoke make it easy to slip into a trance as I focus my attention on the mirror. I keep my mind clear of everything but the sensation of the swirling darkness inside Marian LeBlanc.

Gradually, a haze forms on the surface of the mirror. My breath stills as the image of what looks like a coat of arms forms within the smoke. A maroon shield is emblazoned with a large tree, its roots stretching toward the bottom. Two hawks perch at opposite sides of the tree. There appears to be a motto of some sort above the image, but the text is blurry and cast in shadow.

I commit as many details to memory as I can before blinking. When I open my eyes, the mirror is blank once more.

“Holy shit,” I whisper as I scramble to grab a sheet of paper. I draw a poor re-creation in my journal and write a description underneath.

If I can find out whose crest this is, then I’ll find the people responsible for the sickness.

I jump as my alarm goes off. Dammit. As much as I’d love to spend the day researching coats of arms, I have a shift at the shop today with Orion. It’ll have to wait.

As the streetcarrattles along the track, I take a long swig from the travel mug of black coffee I brewed this morning. Next to me, Orion slumps against the window with earbuds in. At my feet, my backpack is stuffed to the brim with coven history and spell books I grabbed from our collection at home. As long as the shop isn’t too busy this morning, I can steal some time to readthrough a couple. There’s a small chance that I’ll be able to find some information about this magical sickness in these books.

Honestly, I don’t blame the Elders for their skepticism about my magic-stealing theory. The idea of witches losing magic is unheard of. It’s such an integral part of our DNA that I don’t think we’d be the same people without it. Magic exists in our blood, our bones, and every fiber of our beings. Siphoning it and transferring it to another person would take an enormous amount of power. If the Hightowers already have a history of sacrificing animals, it’s in the realm of possibility that they’ve now moved on to people, but I need solid proof.

Covens don’t tend to intermingle with other covens by nature. Most witches congregate based on familial ties or similar magic styles. Despite that, there’s an online forum for witches around the world to share information. While I searched the site from top to bottom this morning while waiting for Orion, I couldn’t find a single post about a magic-stealing illness.

There’s no chance this is the very first time in history that magic has been stolen. If there’s anything I took away from school, it’s that history has a tendency of repeating itself. Hopefully, I’ll find something in the books.

Orion and I don’t speak during the walk to the shop, but that doesn’t mean there’s silence. There very rarely is when you’re walking the streets of the Quarter. The sounds of music and joyous laughter always fill the air. We pass by a man playing trumpet on a street corner, and I toss a few coins into his upturned hat. He tips his trumpet in my direction and plays an upbeat trill that brings the whisper of a smile to my face.

Inside the shop, I slip into the back storeroom and leave Orionto open. There’s an arts festival happening today on the opposite side of the Quarter, so it should be slower than usual as all the tourists flock to view the local artists.

Thanks to Gran and Gramps, we have endless shelves of spell books and magical history books scattered around the house. I unzip my bag and unpack the stack I took from the bookcase in the living room. The oldest books are handwritten by coven historians. When I crack the first one open, a cloud of dust flies into the air and sends me into a coughing fit.

“Jesus,” I mutter. And by the looks of it, this book could’ve been written during biblical times. The script is tiny but neat, and the brittle pages are worn at the edges and yellowed. Gran must have cast a spell to preserve it because otherwise, I’m sure it would crumble to pieces with the lightest touch. I settle into a rickety folding chair in the corner of the room and flip through, reading firsthand accounts of Annie Christmas, Aunt Julia Brown, and other voodoo figures of Louisiana history. Which is all well and good if I were writing a history paper, but I’m on a mission.

I toss that book aside and open the next one, which is significantly less dusty. My eyes bulge open at the name of the author: Rosetta Cormier Hill. My great-grandmother and the Witch Queen before Gran.

My grandmother spoke so fondly of her mother. At times, I felt as if I knew her myself. The older witches in the coven carry a deep reverence for the Witch Queen of their childhoods. According to everyone I speak to, she was a kind and soft-spoken soul.

Rose’s father had been a newcomer to the coven. He’d moved to New Orleans from Charleston and charmed Rose’s motherwith his wit and humor. It didn’t hurt that he was a wealthy man—unheard of for most Black men of that time. He gifted his daughter the skill of divination, a magical trait that wasn’t all that common in our coven before Rose. And she passed it down to Gran, who in turn passed it to me.

As I read through Rose’s account of her time as Witch Queen, a cold sweat breaks out across my body. An undercurrent of quiet confidence runs through her words. Even the stroke of her pen was bold, with tall, looping flourishes. Rose knew her worth, and she assumed her calling with grace.

Rose’s ascension was a far cry from my own. I’d give anything to speak to her and receive needed guidance. Gran was the only Witch Queen I’ve ever known, and she was taught by the best. Maybe her mother can help me become even a fraction of the queen she was.

Orion hasn’t asked for help yet, so there’s still time to hide away back here. I press my hand to the page and close my eyes. “Grandma Rose,” I whisper. “Could you send me a little bit of your confidence? I don’t know what I’m doing. Please help me.”

An unnatural stillness settles over the room before a gentle caress on my cheek sends every hair on my arms flying to attention. A feminine whisper tickles my ear.“You’re strong enough all on your own, child.”

My eyes snap open as I suck in a gasp. A soft breeze rustles the pages of the book, but as I scramble to my feet to peek behind every box, I realize I’m alone.

That had to have been my imagination playing a trick on me. The stress of everything has cracked my brain in two. That’s allit could’ve been. I’ve never once been able to speak to my ancestors. I’m officially losing it.

When I return to the book, it’s open to a new page titled “Visions.” Interesting, and creepy as hell.

Visions

Tarot is new to the coven but it ain’t new to New Orleans. If I had to count the number of tarot readers in this city, I’d run out of fingers. Most of ’em ain’t the real deal. Just crooks stealing folks’ money and giving ’em a lousy fortune. Daddy says I could make some serious money by opening a business, but I’ve got no interest in it. I want my visions to help my people, and so far, that’s what they’ve done. Mama always told me that this power ain’t in the blood of the coven. She was always envious of what I could see. As long as I’m living, I’ll keep watch over this coven. It’s the task she left in my hands and I take it seriously.

Bernice came to me the other day and I read the cards for her. Her belly was so big, she looked like she was liable to have that baby right there on my floor. Soon as I drew her card, an awful vision overtook me. The baby was fine, wrapped up in her husband’s arms, but Bernice was bleeding worse than a spigot. I warned her to have a doctor nearby when the baby comes. I only pray she’ll listen.

I shut the book, too afraid to keep reading for fear of what happens next. Having this ability isn’t always pretty. You see things, awful things, without any preparation. Gran warned me when I first started reading tarot that the visions wouldn’t always be positive. And sure, I’ve seen a wide variety of visionswhile reading at the shop, but before reading Joelle’s cards, I had never seen someone die.

The worst part is that someone was me.