Before more could be said, Lucy cut everyone off. "I'm glad. That means this show will be quite a success with the dignity and aristocratic bearing you all will want to display on it."
Both sides seemed appeased, and they tried to outdo each other in their noble silence.
Lucy breathed a sigh of thankful relief. Today's show was going to be fine. There would be no problems, no chairs breaking, no egg on her face, no ghost sliming goo all over her Diordi pantsuit, nobody's pot of gold stolen, and no leprechaun curses flowing over her head. And most important of all, no reason for her boss to fire her tonight.
And things went fine for a bit. The show was dandy until one of the cauldron witches remarked that sometimes a wand was only a wand, and then only as good as the hand that held it, but that a cauldron was a cauldron.
The warlocks both shouted, "Mon Dieu! Isn't that just like the pot to call the kettle black?"
And the show went rapidly downhill from there, black magic, white magic and every other color flashing as well. Spells and stinky odors filled the air, and Lucy was hard-pressed to tell which witch had done what.
After thirty minutes of that, Lucy found a frog in her hair as the warlocks sent the things raining down on the cauldron-conjuring witches. The witches, not to be outdone, decided to conjure up cats, all manner of shapes and sizes, like a berserk Cat in the Hat book, felines appearing everywhere.
Lucy sighed in resignation. Yes, it was raining cats and frogs. Mr. Moody was going to be hopping mad about tonight's janitor bill. It seemed everybody wanted to rain on her parade.
Still, she had a lead to a better story.
Chapter Six
Marvin's Voodoo Room
The sun, a bright orange ball, was sinking slowly into the horizon as Lucy parked her car on Potion Ninety-nine Street, an ancient road settled directly in the center of the voodoo triangle, where most of the traiteurs, priests, and priestesses lived along with several witch covens. It was the day after the shower of frogs and cats, courtesy of those overly sensitive witches and warlocks.
Getting out of her car two houses down from Marvin Laveau's house, Lucy breathed deep, noting the air was heavy with the smell of wisteria and honeysuckle, along with the crisp odor of burnt milk—the scent of magic. Locking her car, she went back over her conservation with Serena Stevens.
Two hours earlier, she had convinced Serena to speak with her. It hadn't been easy. Serena hadn't wanted to see anybody, much less talk to anyone about her ordeal. But Serena had eventually shown Lucy a photograph taken four months earlier.
Lucy had been shocked, trying valiantly to hide her amazed revulsion. Serena had been a beautiful thirty-three-year-old witch, the picture of health and vitality. Now she was an old woman with liver spots everywhere, and all the wrinkle cream in the world couldn't help her now. Serena had aged forty years overnight. Or, to be more precise, Serena had aged after a kiss at the hands of a supernatural predator, a heinous creature who was apparently on the loose in the Big Easy, a monster who had to be stopped.
Serena had told Lucy that she and her warlock husband had been having some problems in their marriage, and that she had been going out bar-hopping with her friends for several weeks now. On her first girls night out, Serena had met a very handsome man with deep violet eyes and dark black hair he wore in a waist-length braid. He called himself DeLeon, and had a scar on his cheek that began under his left eye. Instead of taking away from his massive sex appeal, the mark only seemed to add to it.
At first Serena had thought the gorgeous male was a vampire, and since vampires and witches generally got along like a pot on boil, she had flirted mercilessly with him at the Overbite Bar. But the next night she'd had too much to drink, and she'd gone into the alleyway to share a passionate kiss with him.
The kiss had quickly swirled out of control. Serena had tried to break away, but DeLeon had held her fast. He had ripped off her panties and begun assaulting her, and she'd felt her heart beating so hard that she'd thought it was going to burst out of her chest. Her skin had started to burn, and the very essence of herself had started to fade into nothingness.
Fortunately, some college students had wandered into the alleyway to release some of the beer they'd downed, and the timely interruption had saved Serena's life. Unfortunately, the three drunks hadn't arrived in time to save her youth.
Lucy sighed. Pushing open Laveau's wrought-iron fence, she saw a few raindrops splatter on the crumbling sidewalk in front of her. She quickly stepped over a crack in the sidewalk where a large root had pushed its way through the cement. She didn't know what the new monster was that had attacked Serena, but she intended to find out. If Marvin didn't know what kind of monster could steal people's youth, then no one did.
Marvin Laveau had actually just been on her show about "Voodoo priests who fall in love with their dolls." The man might be crazy in love with his life-size doll, and he might be just plain crazy, but he was one of the world's oldest voodoo masters. He knew more in his little fingers about bad scary things than most people could dream up in their nightmares.
Walking up the steps to the large veranda, Lucy used the pentagram knocker. The door was answered on the second knock, and Lucy was led inside a large room and told to wait.
The room's windows had dangling glass beads and bones hanging in the place of curtains. Old books and sheafs of papers were nestled among the floor-length shelves, and the jars that covered every surface were filled with wiggly inhabitants or dried herbs. One jar appeared to be staring at her.
Lucy looked closer, and she gasped. Eyeballs filled the jar. Reading the label, she hit her forehead with her hand. "Of course! Eyes of newt." Picking it up, she studied it closer. "So that's what it looks like."
"Mais oui," Marvin Laveau said as he entered.
Lucy turned, pasting a smile on her face. "Thanks for seeing me on such short notice," she said.
Marvin was over eighty, with hair long silvered with age and eyes a startling emerald green. His skin was the color of burnt molasses, and his long life was reflected in the many lines of his austere face.
"Ma petite, you said it was important." Then, seating himself in a chair behind his rather impressive oak desk, he motioned for her to sit as well.
Lucy nodded her thanks, and reclined in a chair covered with a lace cloth directly in front of his desk.
"Ouch." Jumping back up, she reached under the heavy lace and pulled out a rubber chicken. She stared mutely at the rubber hen, a dumbstruck expression on her face. Then: "I thought you used real chickens in your ceremonies. Although… I do see how plastic ones would be better. No blood and no stink," she guessed.
Marvin's laughter filled the room, and he leaned back in his chair. The sound boomed everywhere.
Lucy frowned, putting the plastic chicken on his desk. Once again, she felt the butt of a joke.
"It's ma 'tite fille—my little girl. My granddaughter. It is her idea of a joke."
"I see," Lucy replied. She grinned. "I bet she's a handful."
"Oui." Still chuckling, Marvin added, "Ah, youth. It so often wasted on the young."
Which was a perfect opening, Lucy thought, and she began her tale about the young witch who was now old. She explained concisely and precisely the events that had led up to and followed Serena's rapid aging. Marvin listened quietly, his dark eyes going from warm laughter to grim concern. "Bon Dieu avoir pitie!" he said at last. The confusion must have shown on Lucy's face, because his next words translated, "Good God have mercy."