“Octavia, it means so much to me to hear you say that!” Amelia was genuinely touched and tearful.
Thank goodness Louis and Octavia got up then. Though I liked and respected the older witch, she had
provided a series of speed bumps in the smooth running of the household Amelia and I had formed.
I actually found myself breathing a profound sigh of relief when the front door shut on her and her
partner. We’d all said good-bye to one another over and over, and Octavia had thanked both of us for
various things repeatedly, and she’d also found ways to remind us of all sorts of mysterious things she’d
done for us that we were having a hard time recalling.
“Heavens be praised,” said Amelia, collapsing on the stairs. Amelia was not a religious woman, or at
least she wasn’t a conventional Christian religious woman, so this was a quite a demonstration from her.
I sat on the edge of the couch. “I hope they’re very happy,” I said.
“You don’t think we should have checked up on him somehow?”
“A witch as strong as Octavia can’t take care of herself?”
“Good point. But did you see those tattoos?”
“They were something, weren’t they? I guess he’s some kind of sorcerer.”
Amelia nodded. “Yeah, I’m sure he practices some form of African magic,” she said. “I don’t think we
need to worry about the high crime rate in New Orleans affecting Octavia and Louis. I don’t think
anyone’s going to be mugging them.”
“What was the present we gave her?”
“I called my dad, and he faxed me a gift certificate to his home supplies store.”
“Hey, good idea. What do I owe you?”
“Not a dime. He insisted it be on him.”
At least this happy incident took the edge off my generalized anger. I felt more companionable with
Amelia, too, now that I no longer harbored a vague resentment for her bringing Octavia into my house.
We sat in the kitchen and chatted for about an hour before I turned in, though I was too exhausted to try
to explain the saga of what had been happening lately. We went to bed better friends than we’d been in
weeks.
As I was getting ready for bed, I was thinking about our practical gift to Octavia, and that reminded me
of the card Bobby Burnham had handed me. I got it out of my purse and slit the envelope with my nail
file. I pulled out the card inside. Enclosed in it was a picture I’d never seen, clearly taken during Eric’s
photo shoot for the calendar you could buy in the gift shop at Fangtasia. In the calendar shot, Eric (Mr.
January) stood by a huge bed made up all in white. The background was gray, with glittering snowflakes
hanging down all around. Eric had one foot on the floor, the other knee bent and resting on the bed. He
was holding a white fur robe in a strategic position. In the picture Eric had given me today, he was in
somewhat the same pose, but he was holding a hand out to the camera as if he was inviting the viewer to
come join him on the bed. And the white fur wasn’t covering quite everything. “I wait for the night you
join me,” he’d written on the otherwise blank card in his crabbed handwriting.
Faintly cheesy? Yes. Gulp inducing? Oh, you betcha. I could practically feel my blood heat up. I was
sorry I’d opened it right before I climbed in the bed. It definitely took me a long time to drift off to sleep.
It felt funny not to hear Octavia buzzing around the house when I woke up the next morning. She’d
vanished from my life as quickly as she’d entered it. I hoped that in some of their time together, Octavia
and Amelia had discussed Amelia’s status with what remained of her New Orleans coven. It was hard to
believe Amelia could turn a young man into a cat (during the course of some very adventurous sex), I
thought, as I watched my roommate hurry out the back door to get to the insurance office. Amelia,
dressed in navy pants and a tan and navy sweater, looked like she was ready to sell Girl Scout cookies.
When the door slammed behind her, I drew a long breath. I was alone in the house for the first morning
in ages.
The solitude didn’t last long. I was drinking a second cup of coffee and eating a toasted biscuit when
Andy Bellefleur and Special Agent Lattesta came to the front door. I hastily pulled on some jeans and a
T-shirt to answer the door.
“Andy, Special Agent Lattesta,” I said. “Come on in.” I led the way back to the kitchen. I wasn’t going
