ONECRISTINA
PRESENT DAY
It’s been nearly nine months since the people who thought they could play chess with my family’s lives fucked around and found out, and I’m still angry about it.
I was in a completely different place at the start of last summer than I am now. I’d broken things off with magic because I thought the Scales of Justice, a spell I conjured from my great-grandmother’s old spell book, killed my dad. Not only that, but over the years, I’d begun to believe the rumors about my grandmother, Cristine Dupart, former Queen of the Generational Magic Council of New Orleans, that she’d murdered the mayor’s daughter in a magic ritual in the Council Chamber hidden in the basement of St. John’s Cathedral—where the police had found the woman’s body the next day.
However, by the end of last summer, I found out my grandmother had been falsely accused of the crime that conjured the mob that lynched her and my grandfather on their own front lawn, in sight of their five young children—my mother and her sisters. Through some clever sleuthing and with help from my twin brother, Clem, and a new friend, Aurora Vincent, I uncovered proof that my grandmother’s best friend had orchestrated the whole ordeal.
Thirty years ago, Lenora Savant wove a blanket of lies she then used to smother my grandmother’s legacy and ascend her throne. And when my dad got too close to the truth, Lenora had her goons murder him. That old crone took our dad from us, and because of her, I carried that guilt, thinking it was my fault for over a year.
So, on the thirtieth anniversary of her grand deception, I, along with my family and with the blessing of Papa Eshu, called in the egregious blood debt Lenora Savant owed us.
We took her life. And her head.
Her husband, Felix, is dead too. We let him keep his head though.
And we snatched back our throne, which should’ve never left our family in the first place. An unexpected gift of that whole hellacious journey is that I reconnected with magic, an old friend I incorrectly thought had turned on me.
Now Mama’s Queen of the Gen Council, and I’m next in line.
I should be happy and at peace, but I haven’t been for months. Instead, I’m still angry and … unsatisfied. No matter what attempt I make at pushing forward, unresolved anger’s always buzzing around my thoughts like an annoying housefly that suddenly resurrects every time I think it’s finally died. I’ve wondered if I should ask Mama about restarting therapy sessions with Dr. Omar, but I’m still not ready to swallow the concept of accepting things I “can’t” change. Maybe because that’s not completely true; there are some things I have the power to change, if I’m willing to use it—my power, that is.
Since the night on the Montaigne Majestic when we ended Lenora Savant’s reign of terror, I’ve run my fingers along her web of deceit many times, lingering on the names attached to each thread and tracing them back to the rage chained up inside me, bucking to break free. So many people had their hands in betraying my family—betraying me.
And they all got away with everything.
That will never sit right with me.
Dr. Gregory Thomas. The quack physician who upheld the farce that Mama was deathly ill, while Lenora magically poisoned her with a hex doll that’d been planted by my snake of an ex.
Eveline Beaumont. A silent partner in Lenora’s treachery. I don’t have solid proof of her part in what went down three decades ago, but I’ve learned that where one rat can be found, there are typically more. And besides, if God themself descended from the spiritual realm and tapped that woman on the shoulder, I still would not trust her.
Xavier Vincent. Another of Lenora’s tools—and an actual tool—who magically incapacitated his younger sister and stuck her in an asylum, which I freed her from.
Oswald “Oz” Strayer. The aforementioned snake of an ex, who’d been conjuring love spells on me until I exposed him last summer.
I’ve thought long and hard about adding two more names to that list. Starting with Lenora Savant’s daughter-in-law, Gabriela Savant. But when I really thought about it, I realized her only crime was allowing herself to be a royal pawn. As far as I know, she’s still missing, which is fine by me. Her weakness is her penance.
And then there’s Lenora’s granddaughter, Valentina Savant (ex-heiress of the Gen Council), who also happens to be my ex-bestie. Yeah, fate has a real jacked-up sense of humor. Valentina and I will never be friends again, but I’d be a monster to not acknowledge the grief she must be feeling after what we did to her grandparents. It’s probably similar to how I felt when her granny murdered my dad. Valentina’s navigating her own personal hell right now, and I’m good with leaving her to it.
She’s not the one I’m angriest with right now.
Nor is she the one whose house I’m sitting outside, attempting to talk myself out of doing what I know damn well should’ve been done a long time ago.
Oz Strayer needs to be put down.
* * *
Oz’s mom has been posting pictures to her Instagram since she and her husband took off for Vegas early this morning. Every year, Oz’s parents spend their anniversary there, where they eloped many years ago, which, mind you, enraged his grandmother, who was the Cardinal of the white mages at the time. She preferred her daughter be with a warlock. After his grandmother passed, his mom’s older sister, Madeline DeLacorte, became Cardinal but never married or had kids of her own, which means she has no one to name as her successor. But I’m not concerned with white people’s problems today.
Oz’s older brother, Benji, never wastes an opportunity to frolic during this guaranteed free weekend every year, so he hit the streets hours ago, while the Sun was still out.
A past version of me would’ve cherished an entire weekend of private time with Oz. But that girl was under a spell. And she’s gone now because all the jerks who took advantage of and abused her eventually burned her at the stake like a white mage. Unfortunately, for them, I rose from those ashes, a gen queen who stands proud atop a legacy built by a long line of extraordinary Black people, especially Black women.
However, present me is still happy to find Oz home alone tonight, confirmed by his car out front. I grab my bag of conjuring supplies and get out of my car, which I parked on the street at the edge of the driveway. The chill in the nighttime air nips at the exposed skin of my neck, so I throw up the hood of my hoodie. I take a step and stop, narrowing my eyes at the old beat-up white pickup parked farther down the street on the opposite side. Something about it feels out of place, but maybe I’m just being paranoid.
The spare house key is in the same spot: inside the outlet cover by the front door. Oz’s parents had to start leaving an extra outside because he couldn’t quit losing his. There are probably a dozen keys to his family’s home scattered throughout New Orleans like Dragon Balls. Also, last winter, Oz’s dad removed the doorbell camera because Oz’s mom wouldn’t stop spying on her family’s comings and goings with it like the NSA.
I grin with gratitude for this family’s dysfunction, which makes it so freaking easy to do what I came here to do tonight. I unlock the door and step into the dark foyer.
The bottom floor is dark and quiet. I stop at the bottom of the staircase and listen for several moments. Nothing. Oz must be upstairs in his room. I check the time. Only a little after midnight. He adores being up at this hour because then he can be a creep without worrying about judgment from woke people.
I sneak up the stairs, sticking to the far sides to prevent them from creaking. At the top, I release the breath I held the whole climb and inch toward the dim light glowing from underneath Oz’s bedroom door midway down the hall.
I swallow the paranoid lump in my throat that’s telling me this is a mistake and to turn around and go back home. But that’s just propaganda pushed by the spirit of the old me, who thought it was wrong to stand up for herself like this, to swing back at the people who swung at her first.
So … I step back, take a deep breath, and kick the door open.
Oz, sitting in bed, yelps and yanks the blanket up to his waist, leaving his familiar naked torso exposed and as blanched with surprise as his face. He stares at me through terrified wide eyes.
“Cris?” He blinks and shakes his head. “What are you doing here? How’d you get in my house?”
I step inside his room, ignoring his questions, and push the door closed behind me.
His phone is in his hand, the screen dark, locked. His other hand’s hidden beneath the blanket. I approach his bedside, close enough to notice his slight tremble. I can almost smell the tangy, acidic scent of fear on him. Mmm. Nature’s cologne. It’s like a pheromone.
I rip the blanket away, and his face burns bright red as we both stare down at his shame. At least he’s wearing shorts.
Between his legs lies a group of hex dolls he must’ve been fastidiously sewing shut. I tilt my head and flick my eyes to his.
“I-It’s not what you think,” he stammers.
I scoff under my breath and double back to his desk across the room, near the door. He doesn’t move an inch.
“Cris, please say something,” he begs. “You’re really weirding me out.”
I sweep one arm across his desk to clear the surface for my work, sending all his belongings crashing to the floor. He jumps with a start and swings his legs over the edge of the bed, but I turn and hold up two fingers at him. He stops at once.
“Sit your ass back down.” When he doesn’t move, I raise my voice. “Now!”
He scrambles back onto the bed and hugs his knees to his chest, his long legs bent double. “What are you doing?” he asks. “Can we just talk? Please?”
“Sure,” I say.
He relaxes and releases a shuddering breath. But he tenses again once I set my bag on the desk and begin unpacking the conjuring items I brought with me.
A mirror chamber, made from a thrifted old wooden jewelry box, inside of which I glued mirrors to each wall.
A plain hex doll.
A large sewing needle.
A string of hemp dyed purple.
A bit of snakeskin.
A small container of liquid fire, a concoction of various oils, peppers, and spices that probably tastes like molten lava. One sniff of this stuff could clear someone’s sinuses for a week.
And, last, a lavender-colored candle.
I set the candle on the desk and light it with the matches I also brought.
“I need this to burn a bit for the wax,” I explain. “In the meantime, I’m going to talk, and you’re going to shut the fuck up and listen. Do you understand?”
“Cris. What is this?”
“So, you don’t understand?”
His Adam’s apple dips as he swallows hard. “Are you going to kill me?”
I stalk over and grab him by his skinny throat. He’s stronger than me, so he easily yanks my hand away, but not before I snatch a few strands of his ginger hair.
He curses and holds his head, scuttling out of my reach.
“You have no shortage of faults, Oz,” I tell him, “but you were right about one thing. I shouldn’t have ever turned my back on magic. When my mama became Queen, I gained access to a part of my world I never imagined I’d get to see. And over the past nine months, I’ve finally come to understand how fortunate I am to be gen.”
Oz’s face twists into an ugly grimace.
“And one of the benefits of being heiress to the Gen Council is that I get access to the extensive Council Library.” I raise an eyebrow at him. “I’ve learned a lot of really cool shit in just that short amount of time.”
His muscles tense, and his eyes flit to the door and back to me.
I shake my head at him. “That would be a waste of time.”
I don’t really know what I’ll do if he does try to flee. He only needs to believe I do.
“I won’t bore you with the details of everything I’ve learned, but there is something very intriguing I discovered and want to share—because it pertains to our situation.” I stuff Oz’s hair into the hex doll via an opening in its side, thread the needle with the purple hemp string, and stitch the doll closed while I talk.
“Way, waaay back in the day, there used to be a full-on god of justice. He was around even before Papa Eshu. His name was Oberun, and there’s not a lot on record about him, but what little I found was clear about one thing: He never agreed with turning the other cheek. In fact, he believed that when someone fucked with you, you fucked with them harder. And when they messed with your family … well … you see where this is headed. He was also first to coin the term ‘blood justice.’
Copyright © 2024 by Terry J. Benton-Walker