Copyright © 2024 V. V. Strange Chapter 1 “I’m telling you, she’s cursed. Like, big time.” Charles Saint-Aulaire interrupted the monotony of chopping carrots and celery for the dinner roast to glance up at his younger brother. “Give me a break.” “Bruh. Small dick energy, right there.” Louis pointed at him with an accusing stolen carrot. “Whatever she’s got, it’s bad crap.” A heavy sigh accompanied Charles as he dumped cubed vegetables and onions in the pressure cooker and contemplated the potatoes waiting to be diced. He would have liked cooking if everything was ready to, well, be cooked. But things being how they were, he was stuck on kitchen duty—chop and clean. “She wouldn’t be the first to be cursed, nor the last. And bad is a relative term.” Indignant, Louis arched an eyebrow and seemed to grow taller with outrage. “I may not have your full power, brother, but I can sense this shit. Grand-père is rolling in his grave.” “Did you talk to him? How’s he doing? God, I miss that man. He was almost as grumpy as you are right now.” If stares could kill, Charles wouldn’t have stood a chance. Eyes as blue as his stared him down. “You are a disappointment to the family name and to the city of New Orleans.” “Your words hurt, brother mine,” he said in a monotone, the ease of a man aware of what he did for the family name and the city of New Orleans on a daily basis–and had nothing to reprimand himself for. Charles added the potatoes into the pot, cleaned his hands with a kitchen rag, and set the timer muttering a curse. Because damn it, Louis was getting him intrigued, despite knowing better. So. Much. Better. Magic ran through him as it had run in his family for generations. Weak, powerful, white, black, and everything in between, he felt it, understood it. It touched him, whispered to him like the ghosts living with the Saint-Aulaires for hundreds of years. He knew how to reach to it, how to follow it on the other side and let it flow through his fingers in ribbons or streams, how to shape it. This power carried a responsibility, which he never ignored, but he’d also learned where to draw a line. Magic moved through Louis too, although on a smaller scale, and he’d never come to him asking, demanding, an intervention. He was doing just so, and it was enough to intrigue him. Louis folded his arms. “So? That’s it?” Charles rolled his eyes, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge as he accepted this was happening. He’d load the dishwasher after dinner, he decided, heading to the couch and saying over his shoulder, “Why are you pushing this so hard?” “Because I like her.” “Nope.” He shook his head while he got the remote. “Nuh-uh.” Louis sat on the armchair close by. “Not like that, you pervert. She’s young but, like, you young. Not me young.” “Remind me who she is again.” “Professor Hale. We both are part of the international student committee, and she was my biology teacher last semester. She’s good people. She backed John with coming out and all. You know how it can get ugly down here, and she was very cool, helped him deal with his family. They were not happy, and I’m downplaying the shit he went through. Miss Hale made a difference by doing what she didn’t have to do. Leaving her like that just seems wrong.” Louis looked at his hands as if they were a broken tool he couldn’t use, an upset frown pulling his brows together. “I can’t help her. I tried, but…” he shook his head. “It’s bigger than me. You, though, you can help her.” Aw, hell. “I don’t know man, I-” A tray fell from the counter and crashed on the kitchen floor. Only he and Louis were in the house; nobody was in the kitchen. Or anywhere else. “Great,” he muttered. “I see they have your back on this.” He was used to the shifts of energy, the touch of emotions that weren’t his own, and even the occasional sighting of the mansion’s former residents. But the ghosts rarely acted out, rarely interfered. When they did, there was a reason. One they never shared, of course. Charles was outnumbered, and besides, his brother wouldn’t come down on him this hard for some bullshit. All right, then. It was mid-July and low season, he could take some time off from the museum. “Okay, I’ll meet the woman. Everybody happy?” he asked to both the man standing in front of him smiling, and the ghosts he could feel so clearly. A light breeze that had no reason to be in the room carried the whisper of a cheerful yes. Louis raised his fists in victory. “Yes!” He clapped his hands. “What’s the plan?” Charles stared at his little brother. “I just agreed. I don’t have a plan.” “Make one.” “You want me to come up with a plan right this moment,” he said flatly. “If I leave it to you, she’ll be dead before you move.” “Highly offensive.” Louis nodded with solemnity. “As the truth often is. I love you but man, you’re a sloth. If what I sensed is right, she doesn’t have that kind of time.” Louis slapped his leg with the back of his hand when he didn’t get a reaction. “I’m serious.” Confronted with a stare unusually steady for his hyper brother, Charles rolled his eyes again. “Do you have a plan, then, smart ass?” “Obviously.” Louis perched on the edge of the armchair. “We’ll be at the international students’ party this weekend, she confirmed her attendance this morning. You can casually come by to say hello to your little bro and meet her.” “Not bad. Let me check with the board-” “You’re good. I cleared it with the board already.” “I’m impressed.” Charles crushed the empty plastic bottle. “Just so we’re clear, I’m coming to meet her. Even if there is bad magic-” “There is,” Louis pointed out. “Then I need to get to know her before I can do anything. I can’t meet someone and tell them they’re cursed.” “I understand. This will be, like, the scouting part. See that I’m right, and we’ll take it from there.” “Sure.” He got up, and threw the bottle in the recycling bin. It would take thirty more minutes for the stew. He was starving. He should have gotten a pizza. “You’re in for dinner?” “Sure am. And thank you.” “I did nothing yet.” “But you will, like always. So, thanks.” ~*~ Rebecca sat, eyes on the empty mug, wishing for a drink and too beat to cross the room to get a bottle of water or something. The welcoming party at Tulane University was in full swing, the room thermostat set at a cool 72. And yet, her dry mouth and sweaty back and neck would have sworn she was outside in the brutal Louisiana heat. It was not because the AC system was broken. It was not because she didn’t drink enough, because she did. A lot. It was her. All her. Always parched. Nothing took away the thirst. Always hot. Nothing cooled her. Always tired. Sleep came fragmented and disturbed. Her scientific mind kept spinning, searching for explanations and illnesses, yet her doctor had ruled out most options. Burnout, he had thrown out there. Fuck burnout. Rebecca wiped an unsteady hand on her beaded forehead. She loved her job, where she could put together her passion for science and teaching. She hated messy and hot New Orleans, but her classes, her students, and her involvement in campus activities made up for it. Would she have chosen somewhere north, where it snowed, and summer didn’t try to kill you? Yes. Could the location alone lead to burnout? Oh, hell, no. She was miserable and depressed because of what ailed her, not for her life. Louis, one of her students from last year, moved closer, his usually upbeat face trying to hide his worry. “You okay, Miss Hale?” “Yes, just tired.” “Sure.” He hadn’t bought it, but he was always smart. He was impulsive and always on the move, which didn’t always work in his favor, he’d been the brightest among an exceptional group. “I’m okay. Really,” she repeated. “Sure. Let me go get you something to drink, all right?” “That would be splendid, thank you.” And as he walked away, in a day full of energy and hope, she wanted to lie down and cry. ~*~ Charles walked into the conference room where the welcoming party buzzed, closed his eyes briefly when he was hit by a wave of powerful, dark energy. Bad, ugly magic hummed in the air, a thick, heavy undercurrent slithering around unsuspecting people, happily sipping on sodas. Well, okay. She was cursed. And, to quote Louis, she was cursed big time. It was so strong it took him seconds to track the murky power to its source, to her. He saw his brother on his way to her and waved a hand to catch his attention. “So?” Louis asked when they met. “Spot on.” “Damn. I kinda wish I was wrong. Bad as I thought?” “Maybe.” “She’s messed up. I’m supposed to find her water.” “I have something that can help her.” He patted his backpack. “Come on, introduce me.” They made their way through foreign accents and hopeful faces as the dark tide of the curse became thicker. “Miss Hale,” Louis called out. She looked up. Charles saw heartbreaking beauty in the big eyes, brown like changing leaves. A snub nose on a generous mouth. He also noted hollow cheeks and dark circles under her unfocused eyes, the hurried breathing, and the sweat despite the AC. He was a witness to magic working in its worst possible way, and he hated it. But because he knew better than to be shocked or to let rushed anger take over, he exhaled and smiled. Her eyes took him in, darting from him to Louis as she acknowledged the striking resemblance. Standing up to her full 5 feet 5 or so with a composure Charles imagined must have cost her some, she surprised him with a firm voice. “You have got to be brothers.” “So, they keep telling us.” Louis dragged close a chair nearby and perched on its back. “Charles, this is Miss Hale. Miss Hale, this is my brother Charles.” “It’s very nice meeting you, Miss Hale.” “Oh please, I keep telling everyone to call me Rebecca. And the pleasure is all mine.” “I was sidetracked and got no water,” Louis explained, “but he can help. She’s thirsty.” Subtle. Charles considered slapping his brother’s head, decided to do it later. Because Louis’ inability to do anything in a subtle way might, in this case, be for the best. At least now he had an opening. “Here.” He grabbed a plastic cup from the refreshment station and filled it with what he had brought. “Try this.” She eyed him, then the glass. “It’s herbal tea, the Saint-Aulaire recipe against the heat.” She raised an eyebrow. “Tried and true for generations.” ~*~ Why would her favorite student’s brother try to poison her? Rebecca wondered, eyeing the cup. Besides, a dash of poison might end this torment, so hey, all good. She smelled the brew, finding the aroma sweet and interesting. After looking at Louis, then at his brother, who gave a reassuring nod, she raised the glass to her lips. Even her confused mind noticed their eagerness for her to drink. They must feel very strongly about this family tradition. Southerners were funny that way, she’d learned. She sipped, tasted sage and something else, something sweet and... happy. Smiling felt foreign–she hadn’t smiled in so long. She was doing it now, though. Sluggishness drifted, the headache eased, and the heat she knew was not in the room lifted. She sighed with pleasure, the taste of pure relief on her lips. “Refill?” Louis’ brother asked. “Please.” She downed another glass and felt stronger than she had in weeks. “Better?” “Yes, actually. Thank you. I guess the heat got me more than I thought, but this thing worked like magic.” Louis’ brother cleared his throat. “Well, our family has dealt with heat and magic for generations now. We know what to do with both.” She smiled at him and…. okay, her brain must have been seriously foggy because he did look a lot like Louis but, wow. There was none of Louis’ fun and his surfer’s ‘tude. Forget also the tall, dark, and dangerous, the imposing figure and all that. This guy was the ultimate man-next-door, if that was a thing. He had nothing striking about him, but oh, how perfect normality worked on him. Brown hair neatly trimmed and sun-kissed, the shadow of a looked-after beard, piercing blue eyes. A straight nose tipped at the end and a gentle mouth. His voice was quietly firm. He carried himself with subtle authority, everything about him exuded warm purpose. He could be the poster child for easy charm and downplayed elegance, like some jeans-clad aristocrat from the old world. “I’m sorry,” she blubbered. “I missed your name earlier.” “Let’s redo the introduction. I’m Charles. It’s nice meeting you, Rebecca.” A pleasantly shallow conversation filled the next few minutes, until he glanced at his watch, sighing a little. “I’m afraid I must leave. But I’d love for you to come visit the museum.” What was she expected to say? They had just met. It felt a bit weird asking her to visit a museum. And then, what museum? Such an odd invitation delivered with such homey affection. He read her hesitation right and looked at her sheepishly. “I’m sorry. It was out of the blue. We own a private, small museum, the Slavery History Museum. It’s been in the family since the 1800s and we’re proud of it enough to show it off any chance we get. You’ve been in New Orleans for a year, Louis tells me?” “Yes, I have.” “Did you get the chance to know about it or visit?” “I’m afraid not, but.. yeah, Louis told me about it actually,” she added, trying to ease the guilt of her laziness. Stupid of her not to put two and two together. She had even researched it after Louis told her, and the reviews were great, but her slothful butt never acted on those. “I’d love to come for a visit.” “Then it’s settled. When you’re free, come to the entrance and ask them to call me.” His smell hung a bit longer, and she had nothing to complain about it. He smelled great, subtle and sweet, with a kick of spice somewhere. “I’ll make sure to have more,” he said, shaking the now empty bottle. “I’ll see you soon, then.” He slapped his brother’s flat belly. “See you home, yes?” He was gone, and she was left with the feeling she had been set up. What for, she was going to find out. Chapter 2 Rebecca swayed on the sidewalk, caught between the scorching heat of a mid-morning summer and the fire burning inside her. The trees in Jackson Square should have helped. Yet, she barely registered the difference. Only a little longer, she chanted. The museum was one block away. They must store water, right? A bottle or a fountain. She would gladly chug from a rusty spout at this point. And AC. Not that it made the difference, but hope was nice, and she needed a lot of nice right now. She should have stayed home. Curiosity had won, though, and she was making her way to the Slavery History Museum. More like stumbling her way there. She’d heard about it, Louis had mentioned, but she’d never taken the chance to visit, no matter how interesting it was. The museum was the place to go if you wanted an unadulterated, brutally honest account of what slavery had meant. She had researched it more after meeting Charles, and it wasn’t only what the museum and its owners stood for that touched her. It was all the work outside it, all the activities and studies, all the endless effort to uncover and dismantle every ripple slavery still caused today. The website stated, “It’s the Saint-Aulaire family’s responsibility to show the ugliest face of slavery, so we can build a better, and more equitable, future for everyone.” Almost like a mission to expiate the family’s past, as the Saint-Aulaire had been, at some point, one of the biggest slave owners in Louisiana. Rebecca wiped at a drop of sweat dripping from her forehead. It had been easier looking forward to the visit when she had felt better. The chance to see Charles again in a non-work-related environment played some role. Okay, a big role. Now, though, after three days of little sleep and her inexplicable crap back at full force, she wished she’d stayed home. But what could she possibly do, after all? Lock herself in the house, braving the exhaustion only for her job? No way. Screw this stupid… whatever it was. She’d taken a shower and headed to the museum. Rebecca almost wept with relief when it finally came into vision. Standing proud at two stories tall, the building embodied history and tradition with its cast-iron balconies and intricate railings, a striking contrast with the deep red brickwork. The door opened on a small hall for the ticket stand. Decorated in different shades of blue, it was uncluttered and felt a lot bigger than it was. The woman sitting at the stand smiled. “Good morning. How can I help you?” Water and a bed, please???? Of course, Rebecca kept it together. “I, well, Charles- Mr. Saint-Aulaire said to come over and, um, ask for him? I’m Doctor Rebecca Hale.” Unfazed, or maybe simply used to things like this, the woman nodded. “Not a problem. Give me just one second. You can take a seat. There’s cool water over there. It’s hot today.” Today, yesterday, and the day before, Rebecca grumbled in her tired mind as she sat, thankful for the chill drink. Summer in New Orleans was stupidly hot from start to finish, and freaking endless. She rested her head back on the wall and closed her eyes for a moment, wishing she could sleep like she used to. And, in what had become an annoying routine, a question popped up: what the hell was happening to her? Why couldn’t a doctor find anything wrong, even though everything was? “Rebecca.” His voice cut through the fog cushioning her brain. The way he came to her, hands extended to take hers, that gentle smile, made her curse her health even more than usual. He was perfect, damn it, while she was a pile of sweaty thrash. “What a pleasure having you here,” he said, helping her stand. She staggered, held on his hands to regain her balance, and points to him for not saying anything about her obvious state of weak messiness, but politely hooking her hand to his arm. “Thank you. I couldn’t wait to come.” Fuck, her voice sounded so weird to her, like if she had cotton in her ears. “Then, let’s go.” He smiled and, yeah, it got to her. Like, the smile reached her, past the cotton, past the exhaustion, past everything. He guided her, room after room, telling her stories of realities light years removed from her life, stories her brain could appreciate and understand only as much as the mysterious sickness allowed. Which was not a lot. No matter how she would have loved to truly see all the canvas on the bare walls, and read some of the terrifying stories written on tables beside each picture. Simply put, she didn’t have the energy for it. “We can’t change what our family did,” he told her when they left the last room, his voice stained with regret that quickly changed color, taking the steely shine of assertion. “But we can definitely work hard to make sure it won’t touch the present. It’s sad how our work doesn’t get any easier.” She wanted nothing more than to talk to him about the topic, but only followed. Like a thoughtless idiot. He led her to a table at the tiny coffee area and as he sat, his voice changed again, getting deeper, and tinged with worry. “How are you, Rebecca?” Lying crossed her mind, but she couldn’t muster the energy for it. “Like shit.” He nodded like he knew. No. Like he’d expected her answer. “Come with me?” “Where?” “My family lives here. The other wing of the building is private. You can take a breather, drink some water. My parents are not home, but Louis is studying in the library if it makes you feel safer. You okay with it?” “Yeah. Yes.” She followed him through doors and hallways that made her head hurt, which she was sure was an overblown reaction due to her fucking illness, until he got to what it looked like a bigger, thicker door. He opened it, invited her in with an elegant move of his hand. They reached and passed a living room, then got into a kitchen. She knew both rooms were refined in a comfortable way, but didn’t have it in her to comment on his damn house. She just wanted to close her eyes and disappear. She sat on the leather-covered stool and dropped her purse on the island, considered crying, then realized it would be too much effort and gave up. “My parents are in France, they wait out summers there. To quote my dad, New Orleans in summer is merde,” he said conversationally as he took a bottle from the fridge, poured something into a glass, and gave it to her. “Drink. It’ll make you feel better.” “Same thing you gave me last week?” she mumbled. “It is.” Fuck this thing, she thought as relief swept through her when she drank. It works. She gulped it all, closing her eyes against tears of pure relief. “I need you to give me the recipe for whatever this is, because it’s a miracle. And as a scientist, I absolutely abhor the term. But damn, man.” His smile really was something different entirely, she thought as he refilled her glass. Another miracle, almost. He circled the island and sat on the stool close to her. He took a long breath and doodled with his fingertips on the countertop, eyes averted as if he was looking for the best way to give her not-altogether-good news. “Something’s on your mind,” she pushed. “Just tell me if I’m wrong, okay?” “Okay. I guess.” Another pause. “All right,” he started. “You sleep, but in name only. No rest comes from it, and you wake up more tired than the night before. Nightmares you can’t quite describe, but you feel nonetheless, ruin what little you get. Yes?” Spot on. “Yes,” she said tentatively. “You see, or just perceive, things that are not really there. Nothing major, but sometimes you look over your shoulder because you sense someone’s stare. And it makes you wonder if you’re losing it.” Her throat closed. How did he know? She nodded as her hands gripped the glass she held. “You’re always hot despite the AC. Never really hungry, even though you barely eat.” She pressed a hand on her mouth as his eyes pinned her to a reality he had no way of knowing. And delivered the final blow. “No doctor can find what’s wrong.” “They say I’m burned out,” she whispered. “But you’re not.” “I’m not. How - how do you know these things?” He cleared his throat. “We, the Saint-Aulaires, were one of the biggest slave owners in the state of Louisiana. We were not kind. One of my ancestors struck a little boy, no older than three, and he–” Charles took a breath, then wiped a hand on his mouth. “He killed him. The boy’s mother was a high priestess of the old religion.” “Voodoo?” He nodded. “Okay. But what does it have to do with me?” “My family was cursed.” She would not have understood that even if she was still dumbed down by her health. “Come again now?” “The child’s mother cursed my family. Grief is powerful. Blood is too, and she used the most powerful magic she knew to curse all the males in my family. Firstborns seem to have it worse, but we boys all have a special something.” She chuckled. Then laughed. He did look too perfect with his manners, his looks, there had to be a catch, something wrong. He was nuts. What a shame. Standing on her now stable feet, she leaned in. “Look, man, I don’t know what you’re trying to pull here, but I’m not desperate enough to buy that crap. And even if I did buy it, which I’m not, what would that have to do with me?” If her speech touched him, Charles didn’t show it. He simply answered her question. “Because, amongst other things, I can sense magic. The good and the bad. As in curses. And you, ma chérie, scored a big one.” “All right.” She picked up her purse. “Thank you for the drink and the tour. Have a great day, Charles. I’ll see myself out.” As if he would have expected that too, he nodded. “You know where I am, if you need me.” ~*~ Lila turned away from the man sitting with her, smiling at the waiter as he placed the lemonade order on the table. Bourbon Street was never deserted. Tourists now cruised through it in the late afternoon heat, with temperatures over a hundred degrees and drenched in humidity. Her companion didn’t even acknowledge the young man. Although needing and liking a person didn’t always align, she had to steel herself and finish what she had started. He leaned back on his wicker chair, the brim of his light Panama hat shading his eyes. “What’s wrong, ma belle?” The nickname disgusted her, as did the whiff of sour garbage reaching her nostrils, but she schooled her face into a natural smile. “She met with Saint-Aulaire. The eldest.” He didn’t miss a beat. “And?” “You know what they say about him. About all of them.” He traced the shape of his black mustache with elegant fingertips. “Oh, I heard.” “Should I be worried?” “You don’t trust me?” He tzek-tzeked her, his slow smile anything but sweet. “You hurt my feelings.” She cleared her throat, trying to push her frustration down. He was a dangerous man, and she must never forget it. “I’m betting my entire career on this thing. I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t trust you.” “That’s wise.” He crunched a peanut shell, then one more, and pushed the crumbles together with slow strokes, never eating the nut inside. “She’ll get lost in a place only a few can reach. Charles Saint-Aulaire is not one of those people. I’m too strong for him.” She nodded, feeling better, if not happier. Professor Rebecca Hale’s time at Tulane was coming to an end. After two decades of work, Lila would finally get what she deserved. ~*~ Rebecca tossed the sheets aside. Sweat rendered the t-shirt she slept in unbearable and disgusting. Three days. Since she’d met Charles and heard the most ludicrous story ever. Since he gave her a drink that always made her feel better, at least for a while. How can she possibly entertain the idea his words were nothing but deranged? Yet. How could he know exactly how she was? She was a scientist, for fuck’s sake. She even had a cup saying, ‘science is like magic, only real’. Magic, and curses, were not real. Come on, they were absolutely not. Humanity moved past that kind of shit after the Middle Ages for a reason, didn’t it? And yet. Doctors weren’t exactly lining up with solutions, and she was edging into madness. She closed her eyes in the dark, hating the heat panted on her skin and beneath it, like her head were a boiling teapot sending hot vapor through her veins. She palmed the bed until she touched the cell phone. It was 2:26 AM on a Thursday night. Desperate people texted their asshat ex-boyfriends at this time. She might as well hop on the misery train and text a man who said his family had been cursed for generations and she was, too. She was desperate, after all. After a long sigh, she surrendered to insanity and typed. It’s not like he was going to reply, anyway. U up? The buzz came after a few minutes. Well, shit, he replied. I am. R u full of bull No She scoffed. How I told you. That defines bull Not here in New Orleans, nor for my family. That’s a normal weeknight for us. She had to chuckle before his next text gave her pause for its thoughtfulness. How are you feeling? She tried to come up with something that wouldn’t tell him she was miserable, but her brain was sluggish and thinking took a while. His reply beat her. I mean, I know you’re struggling. It’s been days since I gave you the tea, but asking seemed less intrusive. What’s in that thing? I can make it Sage, rompe saraguey, wormwood, nettle, and other things you don’t have. Maybe I do No. No, you don’t. She yawned. Now I’m curious Listen, you live close to Tulane? Yes I can be there in 20 minutes with the tea. Are you comfortable with that? I guess. I’m texting my friend to tell her a wizard is coming to my place with a potion. If I die, she’ll know. I’ll send you the address I’m not a wizard. I’ll be there soon. ~*~ Charles suppressed another yawn and rubbed his eyes, then closed them and didn’t move for a minute, contemplating how comfortable the mattress was. Fighting a wave of sleep, he mentally listed what he was about to do. Get out of bed. Put clothes on. Yes. Clothes were important. Grab a bottle of the herbal tea he made for this exact moment, because he’d known she was going to call him again. A curse like that must be pure mystery. Laced with doctors’ cluelessness? He expected the call. Not at nearly three in the morning, but okay. Let’s go with two bottles to be on the safe side, he decided. Then get the car and drive the twenty minutes to her place. He could do it. And he did, despite sleep clinging to him like a tailor-made jacket. Suspense, paranormal, and fantasy author.
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About the Author:S. K. Gregory is an author, editor and blogger. She currently resides in Northern Ireland. “Description begins in the writer’s imagination, but should finish in the reader’s.” Archives
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