Eli took more side streets. The storm worsened, the wipers not much help against the deluge. The SUV created a bow wave, and I remembered the truck from this morning doing the same thing. Lightning hit-hit-hit, blasting the entire world in flashing lights. Making my body spark and the time-bubbling reaction quake on and off. It also sent shocks of something different through me and I thought maybe the lightning might be exciting my new pentagram magic. Things fluttered inside me.
“Annnd the power is out,” Alex said.
Eli said nothing, his hands steady on the wheel as he took us far away from our house, trying to stay free of the snarled cars, circling slowly around to come in on the downtown side of our street. A half-hour drive across the French Quarter took over an hour and when we got home, there was no parking. Oddly enough parking on our little one-way street wasn’t usually difficult to find but, with the storm, today was different. Cars had pulled off the roadway and taken all the available spaces: people sitting inside, fogging up the windows, checking e-mail and talking on the phone.
Eli found a space one block over, which meant that we ducked and ran, getting soaked again by the time we got to the porch. We were met on the front stoop by Brute, growling, guarding the entrance, not letting us in.
With the storm getting stronger again, I had a feeling what the problem was. Lightning slammed down two blocks over, and my suspicions were confirmed. My bedroom windows, to the left of the door, flashed. Le breloque was still sparking and it was brighter than ever. It was still soaking up power.
Brute stood, blocking the door with his impressive body. “You have to let us in,” I said. He snapped at the air inches from my hip, and I belted him right in the nose. Hard. Brute yelped and leaped into the rain. Eli keyed open the door, and we dripped all over the foyer getting gear in. Alex tossed us dry towels and began replacing the sponges. We had power, which was a blessing. Eli trotted up the stairs, cell phone in hand, probably calling Sylvia. Brute walked in, shook his heavy white coat all over the walls, climbed on the sofa, and licked his nose and jowls and other body parts. I headed for my room so I didn’t have to watch.
I would never hit a dog, but werewolves were not dogs. They had human thought patterns and they were contagious, hence the blow to his nose and his pride. Werewolves were dangerous, and since Pea—the grindylow who acted as were-creature law enforcement, judge, jury, and executioner in New Orleans—clearly wasn’t here at the moment, I had to protect my team.
In the closet, the wreath was no longer sparking. I reached up and deactivated my BFF’s hedge of thorns witch-working that kept it safe and touched the metal. It was neither hot nor cool and it didn’t zap me with some kind of spell, so I lifted it down. It looked the same. It looked fine.
I carried le breloque to the small table beside the unused reading chair in my bedroom and shoved the pile of clothing onto the floor. The wreath went on top of the table in what looked like room décor for a nerd or geek. The crown of the orcs or something. In an old gobag I found an even older MP3 player and plugged it in to charge. While it was charging, I set it to play some of Ricky-Bo’s music, the anti-moon spells created (by my BFF’s husband) to keep him from going insane when the full moon tried to force him into his black wereleopard form. Rick was an old boyfriend. And a werecat stuck in human form. Maybe the same music that kept his were-magics under control might keep the wreath magics from blowing up. Maybe not. Maybe I should have left it under the ward. Magic was dangerous when handled wrong, but until the lightning struck again I wouldn’t know if I had been smart or stupid.
I started to turn away when the air sizzled, the lights flickered, and thunder boomed, all in a half second. My body shimmered. Le breloque sort of glowed but without the sparking light of before. “Go me,” I said. I texted Molly and Evan—the creators of the spells I used—and sent them pics of the wreath and the MP3, with detailed description. They were, by now, on vacation down in a gorge somewhere in the Appalachian Mountains camping, so it would be a long time, maybe days, before they replied, but I had done my best.
I hung up my wet clothes to drip and took the hottest shower I could stand, soaped up, and scrubbed with a sponge that was meant for the kitchen sink but worked well for dermabrasion and restoring circulation. But the moment I was all soaped up, the lightning decided to hit again. Of freaking course. The Gray Between opened and time bubbled. My shower water stopped falling. I said a slow string of words I’d have had my mouth washed out for as a child in the Christian children’s home.
This had happened before, and when it did, I saw visions of the future and its trail into the past in the drops. I had decided not that long ago that I had no business trying to save the future or fix the past, and I tried not to look at the possibilities that lay within each drop, no matter how tempting. Instead, I danced around in the small space, letting the droplets I touched enter the Gray Between with me, but there wasn’t enough to rinse. I needed to keep a gallon bottle of water in here to rinse with. Hindsight and all that. For now, I was covered in drying soap. I opened the stall door, not an easy process, but I made it without breaking the glass, and peeked into the bedroom. Le breloque looked fine. Kinda glowy, and with sparks going off above it, but nothing that looked like it might catch fire. I got back in the shower to wait.
Shortly, the Gray Between flickered off and I was able to rinse away the soap that had tried to dry on my skin. If this was going to keep happening, I needed to plan better. I shut off the shower and dried, standing in the steam. Slathered on some scent-free moisturizer and sprayed some cleanser on the tile walls. The house was cleaned once a week by someone from Katie’s Ladies, but that wasn’t often enough to prevent black mold from growing in damp corners. New Orleans weather meant a whole ’nother way of living compared to living in the Appalachian Mountains.
Within minutes I was dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and a sweatshirt, warm slippers on my feet. But I made a decision not to go armed. Metal blades and metal firearms seemed like a stupid idea in the middle of a lightning strike, though the weather cell had moved off. Mother Nature probably had a belly laugh at me in the shower, dancing around like a monkey in a barrel. I towel-dried my hair and put it into a tail. The weather was too wet to braid it and I wasn’t interested in using the hair dryer in this storm. The house had old electrical wiring and I worried about being electrocuted. I worried about lots of things that had never bothered me before.
Back in the bedroom I pulled the covers over me on the bed, checked e-mail, and watched the wreath for a while. Just in case. It seemed fine now that the lightning was gone. Once I was satisfied about safety, I followed the smells into the kitchen. Bacon. Eggs. Grits with butter. Hot tea and coffee. Eli, who had showered with his usual Speedy Gonzalez efficiency, was busy with the fry pan and the protein, and Alex was making pancakes. That was still a surprise. Alex being a real and contributing part of the household team was stunning. The Kid was growing up.
I took a seat at the table and sipped the chai that was already poured into a huge red soup-sized mug that said NO SUCH THING AS TOO MUCH TEA in a whirly font. Inside, at the bottom of the mug were the words, in a tiny block font, you’ve just been poisoned. We had started buying funny mugs not long ago and now had a nice—or rude, depending on the mug—selection. I had bought this one myself because it was funny. And if Leo ever took tea here, this was so going to be his mug.
I contemplated the scene and realized that something felt different. Beyond the stove’s exhaust fan and the banging of the occasional pot or pan, it was weirdly silent in the house. No tinny TV in the background, no quiet video game going on the speakers, no music on the Kid’s headphones. I hadn’t been aware of the low-level noise of two other people living with me, one a teenager who lived twenty-four-seven with earbuds and music playing. The noise level had built up slowly, and now it was gone. Alex had no electronics on. At all. I sat back and sipped and watched them.
They were dipping food onto plates, working together as if they were two sides of one whole, when I said, “You wanna talk about it?”
Eli turned off the fan, which only increased the silence. They loaded up the table with food, sat, and looked at me. Alex said, “I had to puke. And shi—”