“What’s that supposed to mean?” I press my palms to the table and lean toward him. “That guy is out of our lives for good. How can he possibly be manipulating my mom?” I hope he rots in that jail cell of his.
John’s talking about my mom’s ex-boyfriend, and the night he tried to turn my family to cinders by locking us in his burning house. Anyone with an ounce of self-preservation would have tried to do the same as we did—get clear of the fire. And we did. We got out. We didn’t die. Miri might be the most powerful of the group, but she wasn’t the only one interfering with Caleb’s curse. Our combined magick broke through his spell holding us hostage. And our common sense helped us get free of the fire.
If Caleb takes issue with Miri, then he needs to take issue with Mom and me, as well.
John glances around the restaurant and shifts closer. Presses his arms to the table’s surface. James does the same.
“Caleb likely bound your mom with his magick before he was taken into custody,” he says in a low tone. “I’m guessing some sort of control spell. And given the fact you say your mom has been suffering some nasty mood swings, I’m also guessing he has her programmed to read or recite some list of commands or something on a timed cycle. Sort of a trigger or recharge.”
“That’s black magick!” I press deeper into the table.
“That it is. And that is exactly the kind of magick Caleb is known to dabble in.” John sits straight and takes another bite of his sandwich.
“If what you say is true, what do I need to do to break her free?” I ask.
“Hard to say.” He scratches his forehead. “Word is your sister managed to break the binding your mom placed on her. Maybe your family can help.”
“You think so?” James interjects. “Aren’t we talking about different potencies of magick here? One was put in place by a mediocre witch, at best, and the other, the one we are currently discussing, cast by a man who was close to a bokor level?”
“A bokor? Seriously?” I’d never taken Caleb as the voodoo priest type. Boy, did he have me fooled.
“True.” John sits back in his seat and nods. Presses his lips together and appears to mull over the situation. All the while, his gaze drifts over me, scrutinizes me. I sense my potential magickal ability is being measured. The front door announces the arrival of a new customer, and John’s eyes pop wide, his face washes of color, and his body stiffens.
I glance at James, then direct my gaze to the front door. A tall, bald man approaches the register. He’s easily distinguished by the inconstant pigment of his skin. Patches of light splatter his otherwise darker tone.
Two men, looking every bit the man’s lackies, follow close at his heels. He takes in the establishment in one sweeping gaze, pausing on John. His lips barely register an upward tick, but his brows arch with what I take as deep curiosity. He doesn’t approach our table, nor does he say a word to any of us or the men at his back, but he makes direct, prolonged eye contact with John, and then me. Clearly our presence together hits some sort of nerve. What kind of nerve, I’m not sure.
The man steps up to the register, turning his back on us to place his order.
“This has been fun, but I gotta go.” John pushes his chair away from the table and stands. “Who is that guy?” James and I ask in unison, lowering our voices and leaning into the table.
“He is the bokor.” John reaches out his hand and curls his fingers inward, twice. “Change.” He chances a fleeting glance at the guy. The bokor still has his back to us. James shoves his hand into his jeans pocket and produces the change from the lunch money. He drops the bills and coins into John’s waiting hand. “Thanks, kid.”
“Wait.” James reaches across the table and grabs his brother’s hand before he can retract. “Is that the bokor Caleb was studying under?”
“One and the same.” John yanks his arm free and shoves the money into his pocket. “See you around, bro.” His attention shifts to me. “You might live longer if you stay out of the Quarter.”
“So I’ve heard,” I mumble.
John turns away from us and approaches the man at the register. Slaps him on the back. “Hey, man.”
They exchange words, most of which I can’t hear. I only manage to pick up "brother, silly kid trouble, and break. Possibly, break over. Their conversation is short and within moments, John is heading out the door, tossing us one last glance before he disappears.
“You done?” James asks about my meal.
“Yeah. I kind of lost my appetite.” I shove my sandwich toward the tray at the table’s center.
“We should probably go, then.” James shoves a fry in his mouth and piles all the unfinished meal bits onto the tray. On our way toward the door, he dumps the trash and deposits the tray in the return zone. Steals a glance at the bokor.
Outside Mother’s restaurant, we head toward the river and the ferry. James has his hand shoved deep into his pockets, and his face is tight with thought. We walk in silence for the first few blocks. When we are in line, waiting to board our ride across the waterway, back to Algiers, James leans over me, dropping his lips to my ear.
“Sorry we didn’t get you answers with regards to your mom,” he whispers and presses his lips together.
“Don’t be sorry.” I pat his hand resting on my shoulder. “I have information I didn’t have before. Now I can start looking for a better suited
