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Nadia
Cemeteries shouldn’t be easy to sneak into, but they are. The stone walls aren’t exactly meant to keep things out after all. Layered with Wicca, witchcraft, Voodoo and every other kind of magic in existence, they were there to make sure the dead things stayed dead.
NOLA PD wasn’t paid to worry about any of that though. All they cared about when I came places like Lafayette Cemetery was how many kids were getting drunk and tagging the crypts. Their time was better spent monitoring the drunks on Bourbon Street.
For me, all it took to get inside was a glance to my right, a glance to my left, and one good hop to hoist myself up over the wall. Dropping down inside the city of the dead with a gentle thud, my boots sank into the dirt, and a cold wind whipped between the mausoleums.
It wasn’t the first time I’d made the jump. Life as a PI is never easy. In three years, it had led me to all sorts of strange places. A cemetery on the whole was pretty average. Though, smelling the copper tang of fresh blood in a place where people weren’t supposed to bleed was new, even for me.
Straightening in the shadows, I tugged my cellphone from my pocket and turned the flashlight on the mausoleums closest to me. I could see no source for the smell. Everything looked normal, or as normal as a cemetery in New Orleans could be. Every grave as far as the eye could see stood like a literal house for the dead. Stepping out of the shadows, I could feel them around me: thousands of bodies, all left on shelves to decompose, and a thousand more that had been reduced to ash and pushed into an undercroft to make room for the newly dead.
The further I walked, the stronger the scent of blood became. I could taste it on my tongue. Passing the line where the human crypts gave way to the supernatural community, I stopped for a second, inhaling another smell–marigolds. Not uncommon in a cemetery, but to give off that powerful a scent…
Marigolds were used by Spanish witches to draw the spirits back from the grave, and in the wrong hands a tool like that could be used in the darkest of magics.
Flexing my fingers instinctively, I called fresh magic up from the core of my soul, tugging and pulling until it buzzed like an electric current beneath my skin. My spellcasting abilities weren’t exactly stellar, but in a pinch I could still sling enough telekinetic energy to get myself out of almost anything.
Walking forward again, I slowed my breathing to as quiet an inhale and exhale as I could manage. My gut told me where I’d find the blood or whatever it was causing the stench. There was only one place the person I’d come to meet would’ve waited for me. Only one place that made sense. My family was infamous among the witches after all.
Turning down another aisle, I searched for names I recognized. I’d been in the cemetery many times. I’d memorized the layout of the supernatural section by the age of ten. All I needed was a name to orient myself. When I finally found one, it only took a few more steps to locate the one I was aiming for.
Rounding the corner, I came face to face with the largest crypt on the line. My family name burned bright with preternatural fire above the door: Devereaux. My name, my curse.
I turned away from the building, to face the meeting square that sat opposite, and there she was, laid out in the center of the ceremonial square, quiet and still as if she were only sleeping. The marigolds were spread around her head like a wreath on the ground, and every inch of the stone around her was covered in splashes of blood.
I sighed. “Dammit, Nadia. You weren’t supposed to go out like this. What did you do?”
Picking my way to Nadia's side, stepping only on the slivers of untouched stone between the blood stains, I tried not to disturb the scene. The cops would eventually have to go over everything with a fine-toothed comb. Leaving unnecessary fingerprints would only complicate things.
Two days had passed since Nadia Lenkova stepped into my office asking for help. She’d thought someone was trying to kill her, but I couldn’t see it. I touched her three times and it wasn’t there. I should know; death is my superpower. When I touch someone’s skin, I can see exactly what’s out to kill them. It usually changes with every decision they make, but when someone is planning to murder you, they’re all I can see until you’re dead or they change their mind.
I’d tried to explain this to Nadia. I tried to tell her she was fated to die as an old woman in her bed at home, but she didn’t want to hear it. She was adamant that something or someone was out to get her. When it became obvious that I didn’t believe her, she begged me to at least teach her some way to protect herself. I suggested a local self-defense class taught by a friend of mine. He’d helped a couple of my clients in the past. She said no, demanding I teach her blood magic instead.
Had she asked for defensive spells, I would have agreed to help her. Defensive spells are easy and every witch deserves the right to defend herself. But she asked for the one thing I’d never give.
Blood magic is as dark as the craft gets and highly illegal. Even implying that I could show her how to use it could mean death for me and my family. So, I kicked her out of my office. I told her to find someone else willing to break the law for her.
But now she was dead.
Crouching over her body, I reached to check her pulse, but two dark figures darted out from the mausoleums and I froze. Their flashlights clicked on, and for a second, I was blind.
“NOLA PD, hands in the air,” a male voice shouted from behind one of the giant white spots burning my eyes.
I looked down at Nadia and thanked the gods that I’d remember to wear my gloves when I left the house. I hadn’t touched her body, or anything else. They wouldn’t even find my fingerprints on the wall I’d jumped over.
“Get on your knees,” said a woman from behind the flashlight glare. “Interlock your fingers behind your head.”
I recognized that voice. Squinting, I smiled. “Natalie Davis, is that you? I thought you’d gotten yourself transferred to another Parish.”
“Hands in the air,” the man repeated. His voice shook. I could almost hear him puffing up his chest, trying to look tough.
I rolled my eyes, and stood up slowly, hands raised high above my head. “Easy, I’m a friend. My name is Rebekah Devereaux. I’m a private investigator and I consult for the Aegis Task Force.”
“Keep your hands in the air,” Natalie said, turning off her flashlight. I blinked the spots from my eyes as I heard the sound of clicking handcuffs and boots on the platform. “Walk towards me.”
“Oh, come on.” I met her at the edge of the square, suppressing the urge to groan. “You know me, you know I’m not a killer.”
