The Babet & Prosper Collection I: One Less Warlock, Magrat's Dagger, A Different Undead, and Bad Juju (5 page)

Mom and Hennie got out to meet them. Mom
glanced at the box and said, “Not here.” She started walking at a
brisk pace. Morgana wrapped herself around Prosper’s shoulders, and
the three of them hustled to keep up. They passed the beautiful
flower beds at the park’s entrance, ignored the landscaped lawns,
and left the picnic areas behind them. Mom stalked through the
woods and doubled back toward the river. Babet knew where Mom was
going—to a desolated area near the shore. Nothing grew on the bank
there. No fish lingered for fishermen. Even snakes and alligators
avoided it.

When Mom reached its hardpacked dirt, she
stopped, hands on hips.

Out of breath, Babet joined her.

“Show me the box.” Mom’s voice was raw and
harsh.

Babet undid the silk and opened the lid. Mom
winced when she saw the hand. “Magrat died protecting River City.
She knew she would. She cast a spell so no one could take the
dagger from her fingers until it was needed again.”

“Again?” Babet didn’t like the sound of
that…whatever that was.

Mom didn’t answer. She took the box, held it
close, and walked through bedraggled brush toward a tall cypress
that looked out of place in its dead surroundings. A rectangle of
earth had recently been dug near it, the dirt tossed around the
edges that plummeted six feet to a pine coffin. A desecrated grave.
The wooden lid tipped at an angle, revealing an empty interior. No
body or remains. Mom carefully pushed the loose soil aside, feeling
for a small marker, and knelt to touch a finger to the weathered
stone. “We’ve missed you, old friend.”

Babet swallowed hard. What the hell was going
on? Where were they? And who was buried here? Magrat? She’d never
heard of her.

“Why is the grave empty?” Babet asked.

“We buried the box in the coffin,” Mom
explained. She motioned toward her own arm and hand. “That’s all
that was left of Magrat after the blast.”

“What blast?” Babet tried to piece the
information she’d heard together, but there were too many holes.
She shook her head, confused. “Who’d defile a witch’s grave?”

“Probably Cassandra. Yaya must have sent her
to find the box.”

“What happened the first time?” Prosper was
ready to get down to business, to find answers to their many
questions. The word again had caught his attention too.

Mom countered with another question. “How
well do you know River City’s history?”

He scratched his head. “How far back?”

“The very beginnings.”

“Not that much. It’s pretty sketchy.” He
glanced at Babet.

Five other markers caught her gaze—flat
stones whose carvings were nearly worn smooth. Was this a
graveyard? “People settled on this part of the river because there
weren’t any shoals or sandbars, right? It was safer for boats.”

Her mother nodded. “And where people settled,
Others followed, looking for easy prey.”

Babet spread her hands. “But we’re here,
right? People survived.”

Hennie took up the story. “The humans were
being decimated, so the town founder sent for Magrat—a powerful
witch—and hired her to protect them…which she did until the town
prospered and grew.”

“This is where the shoe drops, isn’t it? What
came for them?” Babet looked at the six graves. Tufts of grass
struggled to grow where the bodies must lie. She knew whatever put
these women here were none of the usuals—no vampires, Weres, or
warlocks.

Mom and Hennie exchanged glances. “This
story’s going to take a while.” Mom pointed to a fire pit someone
had dug on the beach. Upturned logs served as stools around it.
“Want to sit down?”

Babet wasn’t going to argue. She didn’t want
to linger in the shade of the cypress, staring at the six markers.
There was a strange energy that buzzed the area. Prosper hunched
his shoulders. He felt it too.

Her mother carried the box and waited for
each of them to take a seat before she began again. “Many
civilizations lived on these banks before we discovered them.
Settlements didn’t last long, though. The Others hunted and
destroyed them.”

Babet took a deep breath. She could smell old
blood that lingered in the dirt and river bottom, soaked into the
bones of the earth.

“This was a place for black magic. Many
rituals were performed here.” Hennie, as usual, took up where
Babet’s mother left off. “A voodoo priest used this spot to
sacrifice chickens, sometimes goats. When he tried to call the
energy of a dying enemy to him, the spells and bloods intermingled.
He summoned a demon instead. No ordinary demon either, one from the
bottom pits.”

A ripple of nervous energy circled among
them. Demons were hard to summon, harder to exorcise. Prosper’s
hands closed into fists. Morgana coiled closer to his neck. Babet
stared at Magrat’s mummified hand with the dagger. A ritualistic
weapon.

“Could Magrat send the demon back herself?”
Babet didn’t know any witches that strong.

“No, but she’d started a coven, women who’d
been stranded here and were struggling to make ends meet. My family
came here to farm. They all died of disease but me. Hennie’s
husband was a riverman. A storm caught him, and he drowned. We both
joined Magrat, were trained by her.”

“You had a full coven?” Babet glanced at the
cypress, knowing there were six graves there. “A strong coven could
take out a minor demon.”

“But this was an ancient, powerful one.” Mom
took a deep breath. “We wouldn’t have survived. We lost five of our
best, besides Magrat. The demon would be loose, and we’d have all
died if your father hadn’t joined us.”

Air rushed from Babet’s lungs. She reached
out a hand to steady herself, and Prosper’s arm shot out to brace
her. “My father helped you fight the demon? He is a demon, isn’t
he?”

“Yes. He’s an incubus, but just as there are
all sorts of witches, there are all kinds of demons. Your father’s
the gatekeeper to the Underworld.”

“Gatekeeper?” What the hell did that mean?
Babet took a second to think it through. “Like Saint Peter, but for
sinners?” When her father welcomed you to his world, what was
it?

“There are many degrees of sins, so many
levels of pits. Your father assigns each soul to its eternal home,
and then it’s his job to make sure the soul stays there.”

Prosper was nodding his head, beginning to
understand. “But a demon escaped, didn’t it?”

“Not on its own,” Mom said. “Warlocks who are
tainted enough and spill enough blood can summon them.”

“Like Emile?” Prosper asked.

Her mother nodded. “He was strong enough, and
evil enough.”

“But what about the voodoo priest?” Babet had
never heard of a priest summoning a demon.

“He was unfortunate enough to chant his spell
at the same time a warlock was calling on a minor demon.”

Prosper stared. “So they both got
surprised.”

“Surprised and eliminated. It was Jaleel’s
chance to make a break, and he had no intentions of following
anyone’s orders. The first thing he did was make sure he had no
masters.”

Babet’s gaze settled on the magic-inscribed
dagger. “You used the word again.”

“Jaleel’s a fire demon. He can breathe flames
fierce enough to light houses like matchsticks. He destroyed entire
neighborhoods. The city would have been nothing but ashes,
except….” Her mother’s voice caught. She swallowed hard and fought
for composure.

Hennie intervened. “Gazaar uses a fire whip.
Flames can engulf him with no harm. Their strengths met and matched
each other’s. He held Jaleel in check so that Magrat could plunge
the dagger into his skin and deflate his powers.”

Prosper frowned. “Like a balloon? Magrat
punctured Jaleel’s magic to let it leak out?”

“Very similar, but the heat was so intense…”
Mom’s voice cracked. “…it took Magrat and all five of the witches
with her to fight their way close enough for Magrat to stab
him.”

“While the rest of us shot magic at Jaleel to
distract him,” Hennie added.

Babet could picture the battle. Her father
stood before Jaleel, their powers locked between them, moving
neither closer nor farther from each other. Her mother and Hennie,
along with five other witches, engaged the demon on one side while
Magrat and her friends struggled close enough to stab Jaleel. “What
happened? It seems like a sound plan. Why didn’t Magrat
survive?”

“When the dagger split his skin, power rushed
out, blasting them before they could escape. Magrat was closest.
All that was left of her was what’s in the box. Her companions, we
buried.” Mom pushed off her log and walked toward the water—brown
and muddy. “In hindsight, we realized Magrat was aware that would
happen. She tried to warn the others back, but they wouldn’t leave
her.”

Babet was too restless to sit. She stood and
walked in the opposite direction of her mother, to the edge of the
clearing, stopping where the brush started, to stare at the cypress
and the graves at its base. “What happened to Jaleel?”

“He slumped to his knees, his magic depleted.
Your father restrained him and took him back to the pit where he
belonged.”

“Has Jaleel returned?” Prosper made no
attempt to mask the worry in his voice.

Hennie stretched her legs before her, still
balancing on her log. “Yaya Tallow died in a fire, didn’t she?”

Prosper ran a hand through his dark hair.
Mussed, the Wear looked even better. “But that’s one fire, a single
house.”

“Jaleel learned from his mistakes.” Mom
cradled the box in her arms. “This time, he searched for the dagger
before he began his battle.”

Babet shook her head. “But how did he get
here? Someone had to summon him, right? Yaya was strong, but not
powerful enough for that.”

Mom locked gazes with Hennie. “Who is
powerful enough now that Emile’s gone? Not many. No white witch
would call him.”

Hennie squirmed. “I know what you’re
thinking. She wouldn’t do it.”

“Maybe not on purpose….” Mom let the words
hang.

Hennie cocked her head to consider that. “She
is fairly new to power.”

With those words, Babet knew whom they were
talking about. “Evangeline?”

“The girl got a double dose of power she’s
never worked with before. That’s a dangerous combination,” Mom
said.

Hennie finally rose to her feet too.
“Evangeline’s mother told us that she wasn’t interested in training
with them, didn’t take voodoo seriously until her father betrayed
her.”

“So she’s a newbie with more power than she
knows what to do with.” Prosper sighed. “We’re halfway to their
settlement. We might as well find out.”

“Will she tell us?” Mom asked.

Hennie nodded. “Evangeline and her mother
have no more desire to fight a demon alone than we do.”

“Which is good,” Mom said, “because they
wouldn’t survive.”

Wordlessly, Babet turned to start back to
their cars, but her mother shook her head. “Not yet. We have one
more matter to decide.”

Hennie fidgeted. Not like her. She usually
exuded serenity and confidence. “Do we have to? Now?”

“There’s no point in waiting.” Her mother
walked to a log and placed the box on top of it. She looked at
Babet. “Do you remember when you were a little girl and I read you
the story The Sword in the Stone?”

Babet nodded. “I had a crush on Wart and
loved the Disney movie they made about it.”

“Magrat’s dagger is like the sword. She
magicked it so that when the time came, only the Chosen One could
remove it from her hand. I was her second in all things. If I’m the
one who must wield the dagger, and if I don’t survive this battle,
you and Hennie will have to secure and hide the dagger when I’m
gone.”

Babet’s head was shaking back and forth, a
definite no, before her mother could reach for the blade. “There
has to be another way this time. If we all work together, the
voodoo community and every witch who’ll join us, we can use magic
to drive Jaleel back home.”

“Let’s hope so, but if we have to use the
weapon, we need to bond it to one of us.” Her mother didn’t give
Babet time to argue. She reached for the handle and pulled.

Nothing happened.

Eyes wide, she pulled harder, but no matter
how she tried, the dagger wouldn’t budge.

Hennie tried next. When she failed, both
women turned troubled gazes on Babet. Hennie blurted, “It must be
one of the other witches from the old coven.”

But Babet could almost hear the dagger call
to her. She grimaced. She looked at Magrat’s mummified fingers
curled around the handle, and goose flesh prickled her arms. She
reached for the tip of it to give it a wiggle, trying to move it a
little farther from the shriveled flesh, and the dagger practically
jumped into her hand.

Color drained from her mother’s face. Hennie
put a hand to her heart.

“No.” Her mother reached to take it away from
her.

Prosper stepped between them. “The dagger
chose Babet, but that doesn’t mean she has to use it. Let’s put it
back in the box.”

Babet glared at the three of them. “Would any
of you put it back, or would you use it?”

No one answered.

“That’s what I thought. It’s done. The
dagger’s mine. Let’s get on with this.”

Mom squared her shoulders. “The stronger we
are, the safer you’ll be. Let’s visit Evangeline and find out what
happened.”

“And we’ll ask them to help us.” Hennie
hustled toward the car. Her mother followed.

Prosper took Babet’s arm and leaned close to
say, “You don’t have to play the hero, you know. Our department
uses you enough, I don’t want to have to look for a new witch.”

She smiled. “That’s as sappy as you’ve ever
been, but I don’t have any martyr complex. I want to kill this
bastard, get rid of the dagger, and get on with my life.”

He grinned. “That’s the spirit. Let’s do
this.”