The Quarter Queen

Chapter One

Ree

One thing was true as far as Marie Laveau the Second was concerned: if there were rules, you could be sure she would break them. Ree smiled and looked down over the room full of blacks and whites dancing naked under the smoky low light, a sensual melody vibrating in the air from the string band in the corner. Tonight, she was breaking more than a few.

Only a few hours had passed since her mother’s ritual in Congo Square, but already she’d begun to sober up. She couldn’t quite remember all that had occurred—a flash of Marie’s white eyes, the steady rhythm of the drums, whispers among the crowd—but her mother had remained suspiciously tight-lipped about the whole ordeal and had retired early to their shared home on St. Ann Street without another word.

Now Ree watched from her observation balcony, where she had a generous view of Maison des Fleurs’s latest stock of courtesans. Marcel rolled dice with Fabrice and Ory at her table. Whiskey-eyed and honey-tongued, Marcel was her second. Fabrice and Ory were cousins, sharply dressed Georgia boys who used their connection to the water loa to run spirits down the bayou. They belonged to her mother’s Voodoo circle but, unlike the other members, didn’t mind taking orders from Ree if mischief might be found. There were many pleasure houses in the French Quarter, though none like Madame Monet’s House of Flowers. As she so often said, she had a flower for every occasion.

Loyal patrons liked to call this room le théâtre—a favorite for those who liked to watch others take their pleasures. A swirl of sweet incense and smoke slowly rose up into the gallery. Through the haze, Ree caught a glimpse of the festivities below: a throng of glistening bodies intertwined in the most curious positions along the floors and lush cushions, naked flesh writhing in unison, some moving in a hurried frenzy.

“Ree, must you always so shamelessly entertain yourself?”

Ree turned to find Anabelle beside their table, a teasing smile tugging at her lips. Although Anabelle Dupont was always beautiful, Ree had to admit that she looked especially lovely tonight. Scarlet satin, deliciously sheer, draped over the courtesan’s sinuous curves, her dark skin glowing like hot coals aflame.

“Too much? I thought so too.” Ree waved a hand, and the wild lovemaking and music suddenly stopped, the crowd frozen in place under her thrall. She held them in a trance. The Voodoos at the table paid no mind to Ree’s magic. Her magic was not really hers, but the work of Simbi Makaya, the magician god, whose cunning could be called upon for the work of divination and illusion. He enjoyed the shift of things, could bend the fabric of the seen to his will. The game of it all. Ree liked games too. So, Simbi Makaya gladly worked through her to satisfy his own whims.

Anabelle took the empty seat beside Ree, casting her eyes toward the naked men and women frozen into precarious positions, no different from puppets on strings. “You know there are rules to these sorts of things.”

“Yes, and what of them?” Ree mused.

A girl bearing Madame Monet’s mark of the red rose about her neck and a scarlet-petaled headdress brought out a tray of sweets, hot chestnuts, golden cuts of cheeses, arranged fruits dusted in sugar and toffee. She eyed the frozen crowd dubiously as she poured more sparkling wine from a porcelain carafe into their emptied cups.

“The queen has gone to great lengths to see these rules set to stone,” said Anabelle. “And I’m convinced that you’re hell-bent on breaking every single one of them.”

“Quite possibly,” Ree agreed with a wicked smile. But even she had to concede that there were limits to her magic and to her mother’s ever-thinning patience. Ree had been foolish enough to strike a bargain with Marie Laveau, a deal some might say was worse than dealing with the devil. After Ree’s latest stunt at the Pint & Pea on Canal Street for all to see, where she’d hexed a group of drunken sailors to strip down to their underclothes as punishment for heckling her, Marie had expressly forbidden her from breaking any more rules publicly. But her mother hadn’t said a word about privately, had she?

Ree plucked a strawberry from the platter, shimmering and round like a fat ruby, and bit slowly into its sweetness, well aware that Anabelle was watching her. Anabelle tugged at the rose pendant about her neck, the one that all but declared her status as one of the madame’s prettiest courtesans. She was without clients tonight, and whatever pleasure she might find in Ree’s bed would be of her own choice.

“Careful, princess. Someone might accuse you of sabotage.”

“I’ve been accused of all sorts of indecencies. That would hardly be the first.” Ree licked the juices from her teeth. “Nor the last.”

Ree leaned in, pressing her mouth against Anabelle’s in a coy brush. When they parted, Anabelle bit her lower lip, an improper twinkle in her eye.

“Like in Congo Square?” Anabelle said, a shiver of excitement in her voice. “They said you interrupted your mother’s ritual with your own magic.”

“Interrupted?” Ree’s brow furrowed. She did not remember performing any magic during the ritual. But she’d been coming down from all the bourbon and pipe smoke earlier, and who could be sure what mischief she’d caused?

“They said you spoke with the voice of a demon,” said Fabrice. A little younger than Ree, he normally spoke with a monotone indifference, but not now. She could hear the edge of dark excitement in his words. “I didn’t know you kept such company, Ree. And to break the queen’s rules so . . . publicly? How terribly indecent of you.”

“The demon spoke of the return of Jon the Conjurer,” Marcel whispered.

Before her mother had left, she had made no mention of a demon, much less High Jon. And between the copious amounts of whiskey, Ree hadn’t thought to ask why she had felt exhausted after the ritual. It hadn’t been anything more liquor couldn’t fix. Anabelle and Marcel exchanged a glance, and Ree’s confusion deepened. Yet more secrets her mother kept from her.

“You should know one thing: my mother’s rules are not my own,” said Ree finally, brushing the matter aside. “And as far as I’m concerned, she has too many of them. She’s a ceaseless prude.”

This drew a chuckle all around.

Ory snorted, pink-cheeked from his steadily emptying flask. “And a f***ing tyrant, if you ask me. You want to know what I think? I think the whole thing was a sham. Another spectacle. Another bit of useless magic. I know you think you’re better than the rest of us, princess, but Marie Laveau used you like another puppet on her string, and she made you dance all the same. Just like the rest of us.”

Ree stilled, and her circle grew quiet. Another puppet on her string. The words buzzed in her mind. She cocked her head to the side, eyes narrowing. Ory faltered. For he knew that imperious look, the one that so clearly said Careful, now. The one she’d learned from her mother.

Ree rose from her seat. Behind her, she heard Anabelle choke a little on her wine. Marcel busied himself with pouring more. Fabrice paled considerably, drawing in a drag from the golden cigarette that shook in his hand. Ory shrank into the wall behind him, as far as the vined drapery would permit. He cast a helpless look at his cousin, but Fabrice kept his eyes low.

“I apologize, Monsieur,” Ree began in a cold whisper, “if I gave you the false impression that anything less than absolute reverence for my mother would be tolerated. If anyone is to mock the queen, you’d better be damn sure it will be me. Anything else would be, well . . .” Ree’s lips twisted cruelly. “. . . treason.”

Ree felt the heat of her magic swell behind her eyes, the familiar rush of danger and power mingled into one glorious feeling. She knew her eyes had gone completely white. Ory gulped but couldn’t look away. But Ory wasn’t seeing her, not really. It was her mother whom he truly feared. Ory was right. Like every other poor soul in the Quarter, Ree was a vessel for Marie Laveau’s power. Her mother, the great Quarter Queen. Marie Laveau, people whispered at her back. The woman with the heart of stone.

“Let him go, Ree,” Marcel said quietly, pulling gently at her arm. “You’re better than this.”

Deep down, she knew. She was making a mockery of her magic, of Voodoo itself. Marcel always kept her little games from going too far. Her heart twisted in her chest. Once, alongside Marcel, Henryk had kept her honest too, their friendship the unlikeliest of possibilities. But that was old history, and it had been before Henryk had left. No, a dark voice reminded her. Before he left you. Before you abandoned him. Ree let the magic behind her eyes die down, a flame abruptly snuffed.

“I apologize, princess. Profusely! I—I meant no offense,” said Ory.