A trickle of warm sweat rolled between my shoulder blades as we browsed the voodoo shop ten minutes before the tour was to start. Deciding it wasn’t necessary to impress anyone that night, I dressed properly for the occasion in deep-pocketed walking shorts and a casual tank top. I still had my makeup—Alice promised this brand was perspiration-proof—and my hair down rather than in a tail. I wasn’t ready to reveal an entirely authentic Mary to even this small group.
The gumbo had been extraordinary—the perfect blend of spice and heat with a flavor so savory I could have sworn it had been brewing in a big, iron kettle in the kitchen for days. I also had a catfish filet smothered in shrimp creole over rice that was to die for. Glancing at the wares inside the eerie mercantile made me wonder if that was exactly the fate New Orleans had in store for me.
“Isn’t this great?” Elaine exclaimed as she swung a voodoo doll in front of me. “Here’s a book of spells and a box of basic potions,” she continued, piling them into my arms. “And this all-inclusive volume is a must!”
“Ooof!” I wheezed when she hoisted a sixteen-inch long hardcover thicker thanWar and PeaceandA Game of Thronesput together on top. “Who’s going to carry these for you while we’re on the tour?” Because it wasn’t going to be me.
Elaine’s lustrous smile never wavered. “Beth said they can ride in the storage compartment of her wheelchair.”
“That’s right,” Beth confirmed as she glided in beside us. She had pulled her hair back in a band, making me wish I had. “The store will be closed by the time the tour is over, and this is all I’m getting.”
Beth dangled a pair of antique-looking earrings with an idiosyncratic design. “I’m sure they didn’treallyonce belong to Marie Laveau, but I can still pretend they did.”
“They’ll make a great conversation starter,” I replied, returning her smile.
Beth had a premium chair built for comfort and versatility. The plush, royal blue padded seat and back were attractive against the black frame, and the all-terrain wheels made riding over the fractured sidewalks and bumpy streets of the Quarter a breeze. One folding arm held a 360-degree, high-tech joystick, and the other sported a cupholder. Hanging around the back was a convenient wire basket to hold shopping bags. Naturally, the astute, older woman clutched her purse in her lap.
A plus-sized, dark-skinned black woman wearing a vibrant African-styled muumuu with a red scarf knotted around her head announced, “If you’re on the tour, please make your final purchases and head out to the courtyard with your tickets. It’s leaving in five minutes, with or without you.” Her accent sounded Jamaican to my unsophisticated ears.
I carried Elaine’s stack of goodies to the register and waited for Beth to pay for her earrings. Taking a glance out the door, I spied Winter peering in, nibbling her lip and twirling her fingers while Tammy’s physique towered over her like a lumberjack’s. They had changed into shorts and sneakers too. Winter’s tee had a spaceship on it, and Tammy’s short-sleeved button-up sported blue and white checks.
When we all gathered with the tour group in the courtyard, I approached Winter, my hands free of burdensome purchases. “Did you even go inside?”
With a fearful expression, she shook her head and glanced at her toes. “Those places give me the creeps, all those scary things and tarot cards and stuff.” She hugged herself despite the sticky air.
I had to laugh. “You write about gross space aliens oozing green blood and digesting people like amoebas and you’re terrified of a tourist shop?”
“That’s different,” she countered. “Oozy space monsters are completely fictitious; witchcraft and voodoo are real.”
I threw an arm around her from the side and gave her a slight squeeze. “I’ll protect you from evil spells and nasty-smelling chicken feet.”
It was the first time I’d touched Winter and hadn’t expected it would feel so nice. A part of me wanted to indulge my senses and the other part to run away as fast as I could. She was undeniably adorable, but it was astonishing that the waiter at the bar last night didn’t bother to check her ID. She had to be, what—twenty-one, twenty-two years old? Well, this was New Orleans. If you looked older than twelve, they’d sell you a drink.
Her arm immediately latched onto my waist, and she rested her head against mine. She was a little shorter and a lot skinnier than me, and the idea of being her protector gave me tingles.
“Thanks, Aspen.”
“It’s the least I could do after the way you stood up for me today.”
“This way, everyone,” called the tour guide, a tall, tan fellow with a long nose and scraggly hair who reminded me of a scarecrow. “The French Quarter is one of the most haunted places in America, and tonight we’ll visit the sites of historic hauntings and hear their histories. Keep your cameras ready, as people regularly get snapshots of orbs hanging over and around the LaLaurie Mansion, the Andrew Jackson Hotel, and the Old Ursuline Convent. We’ll be stopping at these and other ghoulish attractions so keep your eyes and ears open. You never know what you’ll discover lurking in the shadows.”
Oohs and giggles rippled through the group of around twenty as we struck out of the courtyard onto Royal Street. Pinks,purples, and deep blues streaked the evening sky, and the picturesque streetlights glowed in the twilight. Three young women bounded into view—well, two bounded and one slunk with her hands jammed stubbornly into her pockets. I let go of Winter to receive their devoted attention.
“Ms. Wolfe!” exclaimed the one who’d bought a hundred dollars worth of my books this morning. “Imagine seeing you here.”
“Indeed,” concurred Mardis Gras hair—Nan, I think. And the exuberant one is Demi—right?
The lurker stared at me from three yards away in a manner I found unnerving, but I had fans to placate.
“Are y’all coming on the tour?” I asked. Winter fell in beside me as I walked to keep up with the group, and the fans danced around to my other side.
“Why come to the Quarter and not take the tour?” Nan answered my obvious question with a rhetorical one.
“I can’t believe I’m going to spend the night walking around the French Quarter with Aspen Wolfe!” Demi bubbled.
“Hey, I’m not the only sapphic author here. This is Winter Bliss, an extremely talented young woman who writes spectacular sci-fi, and, up there, the tall, built one is Tammy Fairfield, an award-winning historical fiction writer. On her other side, with the honey-blonde hair, is Elaine Parker, author of magic stories about young adults.”
“Oh, I have several of her books!” Demi chimed as she bounded by my side. “They’re fun.”
