Blood of Cain

56

When Courtney Burke pushed open the wrought iron gate, it made a groaning sound, and the sun went behind a dark cloud, the light sucked out of the air, shadows escaped. Ivy clung to the face of the aged brick in the archway entrance. She walked inside and followed a slate path bordered by bougainvillea dipping in purple blooms. The sound of her shoes against the stone mixed with the throb of bees in the flowers. A blackbird perched on a low-hanging branch of a mimosa tree and cocked its head, one yellow eye watching Courtney walk down the path.

She entered a small courtyard surrounded by bamboo and banana trees, the smell of hibiscus in the motionless air. A wrought iron table with two chairs was positioned in deep shade near the foliage. In the center of the enclosure was a three-tiered fountain with a winged angel perched at the top, water bubbling from its open mouth and cascading down the discolored concrete layers of the fountain.

An antique two-story brick building with vaulted doors and windows, black shutters, and ivy creeping up to the second floor, stood in the speckled light like a leftover from a bygone chapter in New Orleans. The faded brass numbers tacked over the door read: 41. And above the address was a hand-painted sign: House of Cards — Voodoo. A small blue neon sign in the lower part of one window glowed with a single word: Readings.

Courtney walked through the open door. The smell of burning incense greeted her at the threshold. She stepped inside the small shop lit by candles and dimmed lights attached to the base of a slow turning paddle fan hanging from a ceiling painted black. The walls were lined with shelves that displayed hand-labeled bottles, carved bone jewelry, peacock feathers, crystals, voodoo dolls, plastic skulls, beads, imitation shrunken heads, African masks, a freeze-dried tarantula, tarot cards, and dozens of charms, statues and potions.

A curtain of multi-colored beads hang from an arched doorway in the rear of the store. Next to it a red candle burned from a two-inch sized hole drilled through the top of a skull, hot wax dripping into the vacant eye sockets.

A large black cat came in the shop from outside. Courtney turned around when the cat jumped up onto a frayed chair in one corner next to a small table with a blue tablecloth spread across it, fragments of bones on the tablecloth.

“Welcome.”

Courtney spun back around as a woman walked through the curtain of beads hanging from the rear doorway. She was a head shorter that Courtney, dressed in African attire, face furrowed and the color of dark tea. She wore a mauve bandana covering her hair, a single gold hoop earring in her left ear, and a green-print dress resembling a robe. “Welcome to our little corner of the universe. Can I help you find something?” The old woman’s eyes explored Courtney’s face. Her voice had a Cajun dialect with a Caribbean inflection, and she spoke just above a whisper.

Courtney smiled. “I’m really not here to buy anything.”

“You are here for a reading then. I can tell. My name is Mambo Eve. You have many troubles on your mind, baby. Your eyes are not like any I’ve looked into before. They are captivating and powerful, but deeply troubled.”

“I guess it doesn’t take much of a reading to see that. I feel like I’m wearing my emotions outside my clothes.” Courtney smiled.

Mambo Eve nodded. “I sense something else about you. You have a gift as well. Are you a witch?”

Courtney’s eyebrows rose, and she smiled. “A witch? Oh, no. I’m not a witch, but I’m not an angel either. I’m here because I’m looking for someone.”

“Someone or something?”

“Both, really. I was told that Mariah Danford was at this address. Does she work here?”

“Yes. I couldn’t do it without her. Readings, at least for me, require so much energy. At my age, they’re becoming more tiring. Mariah manages the front of the shop for me.” Mambo Eve angled her head, looking to the right of Courtney, through the open door. “She’s back from lunch.”

A woman, mid-forties, entered and removed her sunglasses. She was tall and thin, face narrow, dark wavy hair pulled back into a ponytail. She wore no makeup. Her white blouse clung loosely below her long neck, revealing a sprinkling of freckles on her shoulders. “Hello,” she said, dropping her straw purse behind a counter with an old cash register in the center. “You looking for anything in particular?”

“Are you Mariah Danford?”

“Who wants to know?”