Page 76 of Fallen Court

“I love you,” he murmured.

“You better.”

His soft laugh whispered across my shoulder, and I gave in to that need tugging me toward him. Turning in his arms, I offered him my lips, and when he captured them, the kiss was as fragile and unbreakable as the bond between us.

…

I’d never been to this part of the city—I’d never even heard of it. And if it weren’t for the careful directions Lach had detailed to me this morning, I doubt I would have found the Quartier Enchanté. The phone he’d given me had only gotten me as far as Jackson Square. From there, I’d been forced to park his Mercedes and continue on foot.

Lach had promised to explain later, as he was running late to meet with Roark to discuss how to handle the murder—a conversation I was relieved to be left out of. I would hear plenty about it later, since his tardiness was due to our inability to keep our clothes on. It seemed there was truth to that part of the mating bond. There was horny and then there was this, and whatever this was combined with his fae stamina made it rather hard to pass up when he got a certain hungry look in his eyes.

It was nearly noon when I found La Belle Dame Teahouse tucked into a row of squat, single-story shops in a quiet pocket of the French Quarter. I studied the shop’s weathered facade from the safety of the cobblestone sidewalk. The sun-faded shutters hinted at having once been a vibrant royal blue, but their age matched the leaded glass windows that obscured any peek at what lay within. A sign on the door dangled on its side, reading neither open nor closed, as if it couldn’t decide itself. The only indication of life was the chaotic masses of tulips blooming in the window boxes. I checked the address Romy had given me one more time. It matched the one on the door.

A bell jingled softly as I stepped into a cramped tea shop, and the faint hip-hop playing from somewhere in the back cut off. But no one appeared as I continued inside. Dust wafted through the air along with the rich aroma of cloves and cinnamon and Ceylon tea. A half dozen tables clad in mismatched linens peppered the space, each of their chairs empty. I nearly tripped on a basket filled with small handmade dolls, managing to catch myself by grabbing the back of a nearby chair before I tumbled into a display of incense. Wooden shelves crammed with glass jars lined one wall, antique cabinets the other. I walked slowly, reading their labels as I moved deeper into the shop. Or I tried to. They were all written in French. I reached for one and unscrewed the lid.

A voice stopped me as I leaned to smell its contents. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

I nearly dropped the jar as a woman dressed in leopard-print satin pajamas emerged from behind the glass-bead curtain that separated the back of the house. Platinum-blond stripes streaked her blunt black bob like rivers of moonlight, and her shrewd eyes assessed me swiftly. It had to be Willow Broussard.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.” The melodic hint of an accent clung to her words, but I couldn’t place its origin as she wove through the clustered tables with a practiced ease.

I placed the jar back on the shelf quickly. “Is what’s inside dangerous?”

“Dangerous?” Laughter burst out of her, the sound so full of life after the last harrowing week that I found myself smiling. “Not exactly. It’s black pepper.”

“Oh.” I cringed, imagining what would have happened if I’d inhaled. “Thanks for the warning.”

“Of course.” Willow tapped her pursed lips, and I caught sight of a tattoo on the back of her wrist—the triple moon the other devout witches bore. “But I’m guessing that you didn’t come here for ingredients.”

Something held me back from telling her why I’d sought her out. “Ingredients?”

“To make tea.” She gestured to the china cabinets overflowing with porcelain teacups. “So, are you here for a reading or a gris-gris?”

I blinked, wishing I’d taken French in school. “A gris-gris?”

“Spell. Enchantment. I have effigies for blessings and protection.” She grabbed a tiny doll, like the ones I’d nearly tripped over, from a basket on the counter and held it up. “But I don’t do curses. If you’re looking to hex an ex, there’s a shop a few blocks away. Go down to Bourbon and—”

“No,” I stopped her. “I’m here for a reading, I guess. Romy told me that you might be able to help.”

This piqued her interest. “How do you know Romy?”

“I’m…dating Lachlan Gage.”

Willow’s thin eyebrow arched. “So, you’re the one everyone is talking about.”

I managed a tight smile. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Secrecy was paramount. We couldn’t risk people finding out about the ring, not until we knew more. “On second thought…”

“Look, I hear what everyone’s saying, but that doesn’t mean I talk,” she said, displaying an uncanny knack for knowing what I was thinking. “Whatever your reading reveals stays between us.”

It was the right thing to say, but could I trust her? “You’re Willow, then?” I waited until she confirmed, bobbing her head. “Romy said you were sisters.”

Her smile widened. “Don’t see the resemblance?” She fluffed her bob with her palm. “About the only thing Romy and I share—other than following the Belle Mère—is that we’re pretty much personae non gratae as far as First Parish is concerned.”

“Oh?”

“Dad was from Hong Kong. My mother hailed from one of the oldest families in France,” she explained. “Let’s just say that First Parish is suspicious of eastern magic. The coven wanted him to denounce his ancestral magic, but he refused.” There was pride in her voice that made me smile. “The local coven basically banished my mother for marrying him.”

“But you live here?” I asked. Now I understood what she meant by having something in common with Romy.