Page 3 of Death Card

“You’re welcome,” I say, clutching my head as the room spins. I have to grip the couch to remain upright. That burst of magic took everything I have.

Gramps takes my elbow and leads me to Gran’s worn armchair. “Breathe,” he instructs. “Take deep breaths.”

Even after all the effort we both had to exert, his face only looks slightly more weathered than usual, and his legs aren’t shaking like mine. The effort of saving Marian’s life didn’t fully deplete him like it did me.

“What was that?” I ask between breaths. “Have you ever seen anything like it?”

“No, not in all my years.” He crosses the room to kneel next to Marian, who’s sitting up now, looking around in awe. Shetakes in the family portraits lining the walls and the small trinkets arranged inside the glass cabinet.

“Little one,” Gramps says, “let me feel your forehead.”

She looks to her mother first for permission before nodding. “Okay,” she says in her tiny voice.

Gramps rests his palm against Marian’s forehead for what feels like an eternity before beckoning me over. My legs don’t feel like jelly anymore, so I walk over to join him.

“Touch her skin and tell me what you notice,” he instructs solemnly.

I do as he says, giving Marian a big smile before taking her hand. This time when I touch her skin, there’s no shock. No pulse of electricity present at all. I close my eyes and let my senses take over.

Yes, there’s Gramps’s aura, strong as ever, and Theresa’s behind me. But that’s it.

“Her magic!” I exclaim. “It’s gone.”

“What?!” Theresa shrieks. “That’s not possible!” She collapses onto the couch, crushing her daughter to her chest.

The trace of magic I sensed within Marian before has completely disappeared along with the darkness that sickened her. But that doesn’t make any sense. Gramps and I don’t have the ability to take away someone’s magic. So, where did it go?

Magic simmers within me. It makes up every fiber of my being, from the marrow of my bones to the blood flowing through my veins. Thanks to the generations of witches who came before me, I’m forever bound to it. Once you’re born with magic, you can never escape the slight feeling of heaviness in your middle. It’s always churning inside, like the sea on a stormy day.

I can’t imagine losing such an integral piece of myself.

“Theresa,” Gramps begins. “Is her father a witch?”

Theresa shakes her head, tears streaming down her face. “He’s mortal.”

When I look at Gramps, his forehead is creased with concern. Gramps has lived a long life and seen a lot in his time. If even he has never seen something like this, then I’m right to be worried.

And my senses are now telling me: The energy shift I felt earlier isn’t resolved. Something bigger is coming.

2

For many tourists,a cemetery tour is smack-dab in the middle of a New Orleans itinerary. There are plenty of guided tours that will take you through the most historic cemeteries in the city. People have a morbid fascination with how we lay our dead to rest—aboveground, to protect them from the ever-present wrath of nature.

I can’t deny the beauty in these quasi palaces we’ve erected for the dead. That’s what the tombs have always reminded me of. In our cemeteries, we surround our dead with breathtaking art—intricate stone crosses and elaborate statues of the historical figures and saints who built this city.

I stopped seeing the beauty in the cemeteries the day they placed Gran’s ashes in the mausoleum. On a day like today, the sight of tourists bumbling around the cemetery with their tacky shirts and massive cameras fills me with unbridled rage. To me, this place isn’t a photo opportunity or a tourist attraction. This consecrated ground is my grandmother’s final resting place.

My anger turns to grief as the sounds of the world fade once we enter the mausoleum. This place is massive. While some of the graves in the cemetery date back to 1852, this community mausoleum is newly built. From the outside, it’s a hulkingmonstrosity of granite and glass. Inside, after passing the front desk, we’re bathed in reverent silence as the names of the dead stare down at us from floor-to-ceiling niches. Gramps and Orion walk side by side before me. The sound of our steps bounces off the walls.

It’s been exactly one year since we lost her. Safe to say I still miss her as much as I did the day she died. Maybe even more. Surrounded by all this death, my blood pressure plummets and my head spins. Grief wraps itself around my neck like a noose and squeezes tight.

I pause, gripping the wall to catch my breath. Orion appears at my side, takes my hand in his, and stares at me behind dark sunglasses that cover nearly half his face.

“Are you gon’ make it?”

The scent of alcohol on his breath tickles my nostrils. I can’t help but curl my lip in disgust. “Seriously?” I ask under my breath. “Day drinking at the cemetery?”

He releases me. “Fine. Pass out if you want.”