A thought popped into my mind then, one I gave fleeting attention. Could he have been teasing me about the channeling? He seemed to pull off his joking with such grace that I could have missed his playful undertones. Something, intuition maybe, told me no. He had been sincere when describing his gift.
Regardless, I didn’t know what to think and sighed in agitation at his playfulness.
“
Come on.” He grinned, turning toward the next item on our list. Along the way he grabbed two gris gris bags, keeping one for himself and handing me the other one.
A bold red one.
Stifling a grin and enjoying his unspoken flirtation, I met him at the table where he stopped next.
“
Voodoo dolls,” he stated.
“
They seem so innocent and safe,” I noted, evaluating them.
“
Until you know what they can do.”
“
Which is…?” They looked like a normal doll to me.
His chest expanded with a deep inhale as if preparing for a lengthy explanation, but he summed it up a simple, candid remark. “Just about anything you want.”
He shook then, as if a chill had run through him, swept up the nearest doll from the table, and moved on.
“
Last item on our list,” he announced, examining the display of candles on the shelves in front of him.
Recalling having seen one elaborately designed somewhere toward the back wall, I spun around and sought it out. There, between an elk horn and a skull, sat a white candle sparkling despite the dim store light. Encrusted with jewels and intricate carvings deep in its wax cylinder, it took my breath away.
Jameson came closer then. “It’s perfect for you.”
I reached down and picked it up, lifting it overhead to better examine its radiance, paying no attention whatsoever to the bracelets that had slid down my arm to expose the metal one that my mother had given me.
“
It’s stunning, isn’t it?” I breathed.
But he didn’t answer and that was when I felt the tension grow around us.
Rotating my head toward him, I noted that his eyes weren’t on the candle. They were lower, settled directly on my wrist.
For a moment, I faltered, wondering if he’d caught sight of my scar and how I was going to explain it to him.
But it was my other wrist he’d locked his focus on, the one with my white metal bracelet.
From his position, he could clearly see the stone embedded in it.
Casually, I dropped my arms and placed the candle on the table, noticing that he didn’t blink or take his eyes off my bracelet once. It was as if he’d found danger lurking in the darkness and refused to turn from it.
“
It’s a gift from my mother,” I said, twisting my arm so that he could see it clearly, using my right arm to keep the bangles from sliding down over it again. “The stone is a-”
“
Crystal quartz,” he finished.
“
That’s right,” I replied as steady as I could, a little unnerved that he still hadn’t blinked or taken his focus off the stone. “Do you know it?”
His eyes, which now focused on me like a laser, were filled with questions, and most of all apprehension. “What’s your last name, Jocelyn?” he asked stiffly, his relaxed manner completely erased now.
“
Weatherford.”
His stare did not break for several seconds as he remained motionless, his breathing undetectable. He was working something out in his mind. I could see it in his eyes.
“
All right,” he said slowly, as if the words were a struggle to release. It seemed he was still in the midst of evaluating whatever it was that had caught him off guard.
“
Is everything-”
“
Yes, everything’s fine,” he said, gradually relaxing by the time he reached the front desk register.
“
That really is the right candle for you, Jocelyn.” He gave me a wavering smile before adding, “It’s beautiful.”
“
Thanks,” I replied, still on edge. Whatever it was about my bracelet had clearly unnerved him and I wasn’t about to let it go. “Is there something wrong with my bracelet?” I stepped up beside him, close enough that he stiffened back up again.
“
No,” he replied quietly. Then, as if it were an afterthought, he added, “Not with your bracelet.” Before I could ask exactly what the problem was – which I was certain he knew would come next – he ended the opportunity by calling toward the backroom door, “Mrs. DeVille? We’re ready.”
She wobbled out to the front desk, once again as if she’d been propped directly on the opposite side of the door the entire time. I snuck a peek at Jameson and found he was smiling warmly at her, despite the sneer in her expression.
“
Thank you, Mrs. DeVille,” he said cordially after his transaction was complete and stepped aside for me. I noted the warmth had returned to his eyes and his lips were curled up in a soft smile, both directed at me. His welcoming attitude had returned, thankfully.
Mrs. DeVille, on the other hand, addressed me entirely different.
Her gaze darted to my head and then she grimaced. “Nice hat. Sixty-three dollars.”
I ignored her and counted the money in my hand. Then I heard Jameson’s voice whisper near my ear. “It is a nice hat.”
Jameson was back to his flattery, something that, despite having just met, I actually enjoyed. My time to bask in it, however, was short lived.
“
I was being facetious,” Mrs. DeVille muttered under her breath.
“
Mrs. DeVille,” Jameson retorted firmly. “I’ve known you for several years and I have no doubt that flattery is only found by accident in your irony.”
She blinked at him, having found herself twisted by his use of words. In the quiet pause that followed, I took a moment to respond.
“
Thank you,” I said to him.
“
You’re welcome.” He grinned back. “Ready?”
“
Absolutely.” I slapped the cash on the counter and slid it toward her before turning, my head held high, and strolling out the door with Jameson directly behind me.
Together we left the courtyard, sharing an exchange of expressions that meant we’d been slightly offended by Mrs. DeVille’s attitude but still managed to find the humor in it.
“
Mr. Thibodeaux is next. He’s nicer,” Jameson said understatedly, bringing on another bout of laughter.
That was when I realized that I was actually enjoying myself, something I couldn’t possibly have expected having just arrived in a new city without any truly solid acquaintances.
As if reading my thoughts, Jameson asked, after a brief glance at my metal bracelet, “So, Jocelyn Weatherford, when did you arrive in New Orleans?”
“
This morning,” I said expecting a reaction from him.
I didn’t get one. He continued his slow stroll, nodding casually in thought.
“
Well, I knew it was recent,” he admitted.
“
Really? How?” Now I was more surprised than him.
“
We would have crossed paths earlier.”
“
It’s one of the largest port cities in the United States,” I chuckled. “How could you be so sure?”
“
Oh…” He smiled to himself, harboring a joke he clearly wasn’t going to share with me. “I’m fairly certain of it.”
I was just about to pester him to be included on his inside joke when suddenly, and with deep intrigue, he launched into a series of questions, all focusing on me. From that point forward, until we reached Mr. Thibodeaux’s door, I felt as if I were rattling off answers to questions so rapidly I couldn’t recall the one I’d answered directly before. What I did recall, or rather what struck me, about his list of questions was that he didn’t ask a single one about my family. Nothing about siblings or who I lived with in New Orleans; nothing about my mother or father. He did listen intently, though, seeming to memorize every answer and showing little emotion to any of them.
I’d never been self-conscious before. It simply wasn’t in my nature. At an academy assembly, I’d demonstrated my self-defense skills in front of two hundred girls and the entire faculty without breaking a sweat. I’d delivered a thank you address during Parent’s Weekend to several hundred attendees and didn’t stutter or stumble once. When my skirt unraveled in front of the boys at their academy during a school-sanctioned dance, I simply slid it back over my hips, zipped up, and continued moving to the music.
Yet, I felt self-conscious now. This passed quickly enough though when he came to a stop.
“
We’re here,” he announced because again there was no way to tell there was a store within.
“
Do any of these places have a sign?” I asked; searching for one in case I’d missed it.
“
No, you’ll never see one,” he replied flatly. “We keep our world fairly well hidden.”
Our world, I mused. I still had little understanding of the world he was referring to and wasn’t entirely certain I wanted to be a part of it. It still seemed like a dream-state, a childhood nursery story, something unreal and untouchable. Yet, by birthright alone, I was clearly invited in.
He pulled at a set of wide, wooden doors, opening them to reveal the entrance to what was once a carriageway. The secluded cobblestone entrance was encircled on three sides with faded peach stucco walls, windows opened to the fresh afternoon air, and vines clinging to the clay roof.
“
The Thibodeaux family runs one of the oldest shops in the city…at least for the items we’re looking for,” explained Jameson as we approached a small, inconspicuous door. “They are well respected and have an enormous amount of influence - in our world.”
There were those words again. They hung in the air between us, mystical to me, common to him.
Jameson knocked lightly on the door and then stepped back several steps, which seemed odd to me until a few moments later.
The door slowly crept open, outward and directly over where Jameson had been standing. Now I understood why he’d given it clearance. What wasn’t obvious to me was how the door could open without anyone touching it.
No one had answered Jameson’s knock, at least not in person.
I approached the entrance as Jameson entered, a little suspicious of what I’d find inside.
From the light of flickering candles, an elderly man sat at a weathered table, his legs extending out and crossed at the ankles, his hands clasped across his round belly. While there were no visible signs of an air conditioning unit or even a fan, the air inside was cool and dry. The humidity seemed to halt at the doorway.
Jameson was already speaking with the man in a hushed voice when I reached the table.
“…
and Mr. Thibodeaux, I would like to introduce Jocelyn Weatherford,” Jameson stated solidly while ushering me closer.
In hearing my name, the man’s eyes lit up and then moved, questioningly, between Jameson and myself several times before he even uttered a sound.
Finally, he stood and extended a hand to me. “Ms. Weatherford…” he said with an accent that could only come from living in the south for most of one’s life.
“
Pleased to meet you, Mr. Thibodeaux,” I replied, shaking his hand, noting its softness despite the man’s age.
“
As it is for me,” he replied with a curious smile hovering beneath the surface as he again glanced in Jameson’s direction. “Now, you’ve come for school supplies?”
“
We have,” said Jameson.
“
Excellent, I’ll get them for you.”
As Mr. Thibodeaux opened the only item on his desk, an aged ledger, and perused the pages, Jameson explained how the Thibodeaux’s worked.
“
They sell only the best, and rarest, tools - some dating back to the fourth century. Because they are housed in select and highly-secure warehouses, whatever is ordered needs to be bought well ahead of time. Basically if you need something powerful, special, or unique, you come here and then you wait for it to arrive.”
“
I see,” I replied, though I didn’t. Not entirely. “So, if these items need to be pre-ordered, how did mine arrive so quickly?”
Jameson, caught unexpectedly by the question, gave me a puzzled stare, which quickly fell to Mr. Thibodeaux.
Without lifting his head from the ledger, he replied, “Your purchase, Jocelyn Weatherford, was made on the day of your birth…exactly sixteen years ago.”
Jameson blinked in surprise. “Today is your birthday?”
“
Yes,” I said hastily before readdressing Mr. Thibodeaux. “But, why was mine ordered so long ago?”
“
Most likely to secure the purchase,” he muttered, flipping a page. “It’s one-of-a-kind.”
Mr. Thibodeaux had apparently found what he was looking for because he thumped his finger against the page and stood up to shuffle to a small door a few feet away. Briefly disappearing inside, he returned with a square object wrapped in brown paper and twine and set it in front of Jameson.
Without delay, he then pulled open a drawer in the table between us to withdraw a metal box and slid it across the table, keeping his hand on the lid.
Jameson, who’d been distracted from his own purchase, a book of casts, stepped closer to mine, settling on the more extravagant of the two items Mr. Thibodeaux had brought out.
“
Jocelyn, this item has been sought after since it went missing back in the fourth century,” said Mr. Thibodeaux. “It is incredibly valuable. The Sevens recently resorted to confiscating my inventory in search of it. Half of my goods are now gone.”