This Wicked Game

SIX

“We need to leave by twelve thirty today, Claire. Don’t be late. I don’t want to be rushed,” her mother said at breakfast the next morning. She poured coffee into one of the delicate floral cups without spilling a drop.

Claire finished chewing her toast before she answered. “Twelve thirty?”

Her mother’s expression turned to disbelief. “Hair and makeup? For the ball?”

“Oh, right.”

The Priestesses’ Ball was the highlight of the year for the Guild, a throwback to the past, when many members of New Orleans’s high society were also secret practitioners of voodoo. Everyone in the Guild spent weeks running all over town in preparation, and her mother was no exception.

“Don’t tell me you forgot!” her mother said. “After all that gown shopping?”

“Don’t remind me,” Claire groaned.

It had taken three weekends and eight different boutiques for Claire and her mother to agree on a dress. If she’d forgotten, it was only because of the order for panther blood and the receipt Claire had shoved into the top drawer of her desk after getting home from yoga yesterday. She was distracted, and who could blame her?

Her mother surveyed Claire with a mixture of sympathy and disappointment. “I thought shopping was fun. And besides, it was worth it. The gown is beautiful.”

Claire fought a twinge of guilt. Her mom couldn’t help who she was or how she’d been raised. And she was right; the dress was beautiful, just the right shade to bring out the green in Claire’s hazel eyes.

Claire smiled. “Thanks, Mom.”

“Did you give more thought to the headpiece?” her mother asked. “I can still pull some strings to come up with something simple.”

“I don’t need to give it more thought,” Claire said. “I’m not wearing one.”

The women of the Guild spent months planning elaborate headpieces to go with their gowns, often designing them to complement their family voodoo history. Claire hadn’t worn a headpiece since she was too young to object to the ones her mother had forced on her.

Her mother was silent, trying to decide whether or not to press the issue.

Claire was relieved when she didn’t say any more about it.

A few hours later, they made their way across town to Myrtle’s, the scent of jasmine wafting around them as they stepped through the doors. Pilar wouldn’t go anywhere else, even in an emergency, preferring instead to wrap her hair in a fashionable scarf and wait for an appointment. Claire would have liked to have tried one of the salons in the Quarter, but her mother wouldn’t hear of it. And Claire had to admit that her own hair catastrophes—including the time she’d tried to dye part of it blue only to have it turn a sickly and persistent shade of green—were always the result of experiments gone awry.

“Claire! And Pilar!” Myrtle was around the front desk even before they were all the way through the door. She put a hand on either side of Claire’s face, the wrinkles deepening around her blue eyes as she smiled. “My! Look how you’ve grown. You’ve become a lovely young woman. Although” —she leaned back, her gaze becoming more critical— “I do think your hair is overdue some attention.”

Claire just nodded and smiled. It was always easier that way.

Myrtle led them through the salon, chatting with Claire’s mother about people they knew in common. They stopped at a station near the back.

“I booked you with Toni,” Myrtle said. “As you know, she’s the best when it comes to updos.”

“I don’t want an updo,” Claire protested.

“Of course, you do.” Her mother’s voice was firm. “It’s a formal event.”

“So? Just because everyone else will have their hair piled on top of their head and plastered with two cans of hairspray doesn’t mean I have to.”

Her mother snapped her handbag closed with a tired sigh. “I wish you would be agreeable, Claire, just this once.”

Claire was prevented from issuing a sarcastic retort when Toni emerged from the velvet curtains at the back of the salon.

“Hey, you two! You ready to knock ’em dead?”

Toni Moran was the only stylist at Myrtle’s who was under thirty. She was gorgeous, with porcelain skin and short red hair. Nearly five foot ten inches tall, with small, pixie-like features, she looked like she belonged on a catwalk in New York, not an old-school salon in the Garden District.

After a little discussion, they decided Claire would go first. Toni listened patiently while Pilar described the elaborate topknot she had in mind for Claire.

When her mother finished, Toni turned to Claire. “Is that what you want?”

Claire rolled her eyes. “Not exactly.”

Toni cocked one hip, her mouth turning up at the corners. “Not exactly?”

“Okay,” Claire said. “Not at all.”

“Oh, Claire!” Her mother turned away in exasperation.

“How old are you now?” Toni asked.

“Seventeen.”

“You’re going to college next year, aren’t you?”

Claire nodded.

“Then it’s probably a good idea to start making these decisions yourself, wouldn’t you say, Mrs. Kincaid?” Toni gestured to her chair without waiting for Claire’s mom to answer. “Sit.”

Claire did, and they discussed the options for her hair. At first, her mother said nothing, but after a while, she couldn’t help herself. Finally, after a full-fledged negotiation, they agreed to meet in the middle and Toni went to work.

For the next forty-five minutes, Claire watched as Toni twisted pieces from the front, piling them onto her head bit by bit and pinning them in place. When she was done, Claire’s hair still hung down her back, but the pieces from the front added volume to her crown. The effect was only slightly formal with a loose, effortless feel that allowed Claire to look at least a little like herself.

Claire looked at her mother in the mirror. Just because she’d agreed didn’t mean she was going to be nice about it.

For a minute, no one said anything. Even Toni seemed to hold her breath until Pilar nodded, her lips curving into a smile. “You look beautiful, Claire. It suits you.”

She returned her mother’s smile in the mirror. “Thanks, Mom.”

Easing herself out of the chair, she stepped aside as Toni wiped it down for Claire’s mother.

“Let me just have Myrtle get someone for makeup . . .” Her mother turned toward the front desk.

“No makeup.”

“Claire” —her mother tipped her head— “you can’t go to the ball without makeup. It’s a special occasion.”

“I didn’t mean I won’t wear it,” Claire protested. “I just don’t want someone else to do it. I want to look like myself.” She glanced over at Toni. “No offense.”

Toni grinned. “None taken.”

Her mother sighed deeply. “I suppose you’re old enough to make your own decision about that, too.” She favored Toni with a meaningful glare.

Claire smiled at the hairdresser in silent thanks.

Now that she was finished, Claire was itching to get out of the salon. It would take Toni at least an hour to touch up her mother’s color. Add to that another forty-five minutes for the updo Claire knew her mom would want, and that left plenty of time for a walk and a few pictures. It took ten minutes of negotiating and a promise not to mess up her hair before her mother finally agreed.

Claire started up Jackson, her camera heavy in the bag hanging from her shoulder. She stopped at a neighborhood market for an apple and a candy bar, and hung a left on Coliseum Street.

She munched on the apple as she walked. The neighborhood had an ebb and flow, and she passed a few restored historical houses before crossing into a more run-down portion of the street.

Soon, the familiar white wall of the cemetery came into view. She walked alongside it, hanging a left on Washington. A couple of minutes later she came to the iron gates, LAFAYETTE CEMETERY emblazoned across the archway that marked its entrance.

Even as she stepped into the graveyard, she wasn’t entirely sure why she was there. It had never been one of her favorite places, even when she wanted to take pictures. With its elaborate tombs of the city’s most famous historical residents, it was too in-your-face, too obvious. The fact that a lot of the attention was due to its fame as the resting place for her great-great-grandmother just made it weirder.

Claire made her way through the aisles, marble tombs rising on either side. She could hear trumpets and trombones playing faintly in the distance. Other than that, it was unusually quiet.

She made her way past a tall white tomb, a red rosebush growing incongruously out of the tiny swath of grass in its shadow, and continued past the McClellan plot.

Eventually she came to the place she’d been heading for all along. For once, no one else was in front of the site, though there was the usual assortment of offerings left by strangers. Wilted flowers, half-burned candles, strings of beads, and a powdery residue whose composition Claire could only guess.

She lowered herself to the ground, leaning against the tomb, the marble cold against her back. She didn’t know why she’d come. She’d decided long ago that her great-great-grandmother, like most legends, hadn’t even resembled the portrait painted of her by history. At best, she was probably some half-baked, wannabe psychic.

At worst, a fake.

Claire thought absently of her camera and realized she had no desire to take pictures today. She took it out anyway and took a few shots of the tomb next to Marie’s. A cheap plastic Virgin Mary figurine had tipped over on its side, and a half-crushed energy drink can lay crumpled on the ground in front of the marker. The composition was interesting, but Claire’s heart wasn’t in it. She put her camera away and pulled out the candy bar. Tearing it open and taking a bite, she thought about everything that had happened.

She and Xander hadn’t talked about what to do next, but she knew he would want her to fork over the receipt with Eugenia’s address to the Guild. After that, they would take care of the woman and whatever plan she had for the panther blood, and Xander wouldn’t dream about her being in danger again.

So why did Claire feel like something still had to be done? Like all at once, there was a ticking time bomb under her life that she couldn’t ignore?

Polishing off the candy bar and stuffing the wrapper into her bag, she shook her head. She needed to get a grip, that’s all.

When she stood up and checked her phone, she was relieved to see that it had only been an hour since she’d left Myrtle’s. She was slipping it back into the pocket of her shorts when the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood up.

Claire looked around. No one was there, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching her. She resisted the urge to break into a run and started walking.

She tried to hurry without seeming like she was afraid. She reached the entrance to the cemetery and hurried along the sidewalks, past the grand old homes, wanting nothing more than to get back to Jackson Street.

Ten minutes later, she did. She continued on toward Myrtle’s, looking around one last time as she reached the door.

Her gaze was drawn to a man crossing the street. She knew who it was right away. It was more than his fitted slacks and the tight T-shirt, an almost-exact replica of what he’d been wearing yesterday when he’d left the house on Dauphine. It was the bend of his neck and the way she could tell, even behind the reflective lenses of his sunglasses, that he was watching her.

His head was turned in her direction, but he didn’t seem concerned that she had seen him. It was unnerving, and as she pulled open the door to Myrtle’s, she wondered if this was the first time she’d been followed.