Michelle Zink: This Wicked Game

Claire was at the front of the store, uploading a new batch of photographs while a pot of wax melted behind her, when the woman entered through the unmarked door.

It wasn’t unusual for customers to use the private entrance. Other than the staircase leading to the house, the door was the only way in, and there were plenty of people in New Orleans who had a key.

But Claire had never seen the woman before, and that was unusual, especially since she had been working in the store since before she was tall enough to see over the counter.

Claire turned down the temperature on the wax and closed her laptop as the woman approached the counter. She was startlingly beautiful, her milky skin contrasting with the red lipstick that shaped her full mouth. Her clothes were expertly tailored, the white button-down nipped in at the waist, the hem of her navy trousers just grazing the floor as she walked.

Claire wiped her hands on a towel. “Hello. May I help you?”

“Good afternoon.” The woman’s voice was low and gravelly. Claire figured her for a heavy smoker. Either that or a 1940s film star. “I have some things I’d like to purchase.”

“Sure.” Claire pulled out the yellow notepad they used for orders.

The woman opened her slim black handbag and pulled out a folded piece of paper. She pushed it across the counter with one neatly manicured hand.

Claire opened it, glancing at the long list of items. It was a big order, and Claire immediately started transferring the woman’s list to the notepad.

“This is your family’s establishment?” The woman asked the question with the certainty of someone who already knew the answer.

“Uh-huh.” Claire had to resist the urge to add “unfortunately” at the end of the sentence.

Frankincense, black cat oil, aniseed, aloeswood powder . . .

“It’s quite a store. It seems you have everything.”

“Just about,” Claire said. A strand of her long blond hair fell forward. She tucked it behind one ear and continued transcribing the woman’s list.

“And how long does it usually take to fill an order?” the woman asked.

“It depends on what you need. Let’s see . . .” Claire scanned the list. Everything on the front page was in stock. She turned the paper over to the back. “We should be able to do this while you . . .”

The words stopped as she came to the last item on the list.

Two (2) vials black Panthera pardus plasma.

She felt her face flush as she searched her memory.

“Is there a problem?” the woman asked.

Claire didn’t know if it was paranoia or something else, but she thought there was something new in the woman’s voice. As if she’d known all along that the Kincaids wouldn’t have the plasma and had enjoyed putting Claire through her paces.

Claire shook her head, resisting the urge to call out for her mother. Pilar Kincaid had little patience for Claire’s “lack of commitment” to the family business. Calling her would only highlight Claire’s inability to handle the store on her own. Besides, her knowledge of the craft wasn’t exactly encyclopedic. Maybe she was wrong, but as far as she knew, black panther blood was only used for one thing.

Killing people.

“Um . . . not a problem. But one of these items might take us a while to get in. I think it’s a special order.”

“And which item would that be?”

“The black panther plasma. We don’t keep it in stock.”

No one keeps it, Claire thought. As far as the Guild was concerned, there were some things you just didn’t mess around with, even if you were an experienced practitioner.

The woman tapped her manicured nails on the wood counter. “How long do you expect it will take to get it?”

“I’m not sure . . . Maybe a week?”

The woman didn’t hesitate. “Fine. I’ll take the rest of the items now.”

Claire nodded. Everything else on the list was in stock, and she busied herself filling vials with the powder and herbs and wrapping roots in brown paper. She could feel the woman’s eyes on her while she worked. It made the tiny hairs at the back of her neck stand on end and caused a prickling sensation behind her eyes.

Once the order was filled, she turned around, half expecting the woman to have transformed into some kind of monster.

But she was just the same, her gaze unflinching, her eyes so dark they were almost black.

“Here you go.” Claire pushed the package toward the woman and turned to the calculator, wishing for the millionth time that they could join the twenty-first century and get a computer system for the store. She consulted the notepad, her fingers flying over the keys. “That’ll be $357.42, without the panther plasma.”

She had a hard time even saying it. Questions were drumming through her mind. She needed to get upstairs to her mother. She would know what to do.

The woman nodded slowly, pulling a wallet from her handbag and removing four hundred-dollar bills.

Claire took the money and made change from the lockbox they kept under the counter. “Would you like us to call you when we find out about the special order item?”

“That won’t be necessary. I’ll see you one week from today.” She took her change and picked up the package. “Good-bye, Claire.”

The woman turned and left through the private entrance. Claire watched the door shut behind her, listening for the click of the automatic lock. For a minute, she was rooted to the floor, wondering if she’d imagined the whole thing. Then she looked down at the list of items.

Two (2) vials black Panthera pardus plasma.

She took the stairs two at a time.

The Kincaids’ living quarters were separated from the store by one floor and a two-level staircase. Just a few months ago, the door between the two spaces hadn’t even had a lock, but after a rash of break-ins, the Guild families who had stores on-site had taken measures to protect their private quarters from the customers who had access to the supply houses.

The world was changing, Claire’s mother had said as the locksmith installed a heavy dead bolt on the door that separated the store from the two floors above it. Once a secret, old-school voodoo society, the Guild of High Priests and Priestesses had become too large for them to know each and every member. Now, it was up to the regional leaders to vet and approve applicants based on lineage and practice.

Claire reached the top of the stairs and fumbled through her keys for the one that fit the new lock. When she found it, silver and strangely shiny compared to the old ones that were for the house and store, she unlocked the door and hurried into the main hall of the house. “Mom? Where are you?”

She checked the drawing room first. The floor to ceiling windows were open to the terrace, the sheer draperies moving slightly in the barely there July breeze. The room was empty.

There was only one other place her mother would be if she wasn’t in the drawing room, going over the accounts for the store or writing notes to Guild members who lived outside the city, and that was upstairs.

When Claire reached the second-floor landing, she continued down the hall, past her bedroom, her parents’ room, two guest rooms, and an extra bathroom.

She stopped at a closed door at the end of the hall, listening to the gentle murmur of her mother’s voice. The smell of burning incense drifted through the crack under the door.

Claire hesitated. She’d been about four years old when she’d first come upon her mother in this room. She had been wearing a white floor-length garment that Claire would later learn was standard ritual garb. The simple cotton tunic made her mother look taller and younger than she did in her everyday clothes. Her dark hair was long and loose around her shoulders as she kneeled in front of the altar, covered with burning white candles, wax figures, and dried herbs.