Demons of Desire (2 page)

“My friend, Jordan, works for the Department of Parks and Recreation. I conned her into giving you a tour of Audubon Park.”

Jordan was short with an athletic build, dark red spirals of hair and a café au lait complexion. She grinned and pumped my outstretched hand enthusiastically.

“Darci tells me you’re an environmental biology major? I graduated last year, and I’m working on my Masters down here. You’ve no idea how glad I am to meet you. Darci is bored to tears with my ramblings about trees and wetlands.”

“Just biology,” I corrected with an apologetic smile. “I haven’t decided on a specialty, but I’m leaning towards botany.”

“Kindred spirits,” Jordan exclaimed, raising both hands. “New Orleans is heaven to us plant lovers. Let me show you around Audubon Park.”

There was a serene majesty to the place that captivated me in an instant. Gray Spanish moss draped from the trees. Instead of mown, manicured lawns, the foliage was a mix of indigenous plants. Water flowed throughout the park — as it did all over New Orleans. Ducks and other waterfowl loudly pestered visitors for food, waddling along as they begged. I was enchanted.

“Audubon Park was once a plantation. In addition to the usual trails and play areas, it harbors a huge selection of indigenous birds. Named for the famous James Audubon… .”

Jordan’s voice faded away, and all I heard was the sound of the trees — a low, soothing hum. Huge oaks, some over six–hundred–years old, spread thick, moss–draped branches low to the ground. Lagoons wound their way through the park, a reminder of the city’s below–sea–level elevation. The ironwork bridges and fountains irritated me by their presence. This was a place for earth and water, not human–wrought embellishments. Reaching out, I placed a palm against the thick bark of an oak, feeling its song through my skin. Something inside me shifted, and I felt myself sing back to the tree, achieving that sense of peace and alignment that always came when I worked with plants.

You may be old, but I’ll outlive you,
I thought.
I’ll watch your seedlings rise and fall, watch the waters nurture countless generations of your saplings.

Jordan had fallen silent, and I looked up to see the woman watching me, a quizzical expression on her face. Darci was over by a fountain, texting into her phone.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” Jordan asked, walking close to put her palm on the bark alongside my hand. Her energy merged with the oak’s, strong and rich. “Wisdom and protection. The old gods whisper in their leaves.”

“Fertility and prosperity,” I replied, giving the tree one last caress. I had a few Wiccan friends in college and back home and recognized the reverent tone. Maybe Jordan was simply poetic in her passion for nature, but I got the sense her dedication delved into the spiritual.

“Do you practice?” she asked, confirming my suspicions.

“No, but I have an affinity for all things green.”

It was a weak explanation. What I felt wasn’t in the realm of religion or belief — it went into my very bones, into the blood that flowed through my veins. When I was in a forest, everything came together. I felt like I could lie upon the moss and melt into the earth itself. It was the one place where my crazy succubus side relaxed and stopped pestering me with her incessant needs. It was wonderful to know this place existed right here in New Orleans — a spot I could retreat to when I felt out of control and needed to center.

Jordan and I continued the tour while Darci lagged behind, still fiddling with her phone. I didn’t mind if she was playing Candy Crush or posting on Instagram. All this tree stuff wasn’t really her thing. It was a testament to our friendship that she was enduring this for me.

There was a parade of oaks, cypresses and other trees. I loved the Live Oaks the best — how their horizontal spread was nearly twice their height. They were the largest tree species east of the Rockies, from the red oak group of trees.

“Unfortunately, this one isn’t going to make it. We’re scheduled to take it down tomorrow, although there’s no real guarantee the disease won’t spread to the others.”

I felt it before I turned to look at the tree — a thick, sickeningly sweet aura. Black spots, like burns, dotted the bark of the Live Oak, and its leaves showed similar brown and black marks. It was as if someone had held a torch to the tree. I placed my hand on the bark — it confirmed what my eyes told me, and I jerked away in horror.

“Phytophthora ramorum.”

Sudden oak death. The plant pathogen was fungus–like in how it spread, covering the tree with cankers that bled thick sap. Under the bark would be discolored tissue and black lines. It was a death sentence, and the bane of every arborist. Removing the tree and surrounding soil was the typical response, but it often didn’t halt the spread. I worried for the old grove, but my greatest sorrow was for the sick oak.

I reached a hand toward the oak then hesitated. My supernatural green thumb had its limits — or did it? All I’d done so far was correct mineral imbalances in soil and adjust absorption rates. I’d never removed disease. I’d never cured. The oak was dying before my eyes, forgiving me my limitations. Noble. Accepting of its fate.

I couldn’t turn my back on this tree. My hand touched the damaged bark. A sensation of black sludge rocketed through me, twisting my stomach into a knot of pain. I pushed back, fighting my way through the haze of death, into the heart of the tree. The blight fought back, angrily defending its prey and stealing my breath with a smoky scent. A faint shout barely registered in my mind, along with the sensation of something on my arm. It felt strange, as though my body were coated in layers of wool, or as if I were buried deep inside another. Gold pushed back the black, expanding with a flash of light and heat.

“Amber!”

I was on my back, staring up at Darci’s dark brown eyes, her face framed by a cerulean sky. Jordan stood to the side with her hand covering her mouth. She wasn’t as concerned over my horizontal position as Darci was; she was too occupied staring at the Live Oak. Emphasis on “live”.

“Low blood sugar,” I told Darci as I tentatively sat up. Her eyebrows shot up, but she held her tongue. Jordan wasn’t so circumspect.

“You cured it! I’ve never seen a magical working have such a quick result. Wow, if you can do that for a tree, I can only imagine what you could do to help rebuild the swamp areas. Centuries of damage could be corrected in one day. You
must
meet my coven.”

“She
must
get a sandwich.” Darci’s voice was stern as she helped me to my feet.

“What kind of magic do you practice?” Jordan continued, undeterred.

“The low–blood–sugar kind.”

“Let’s get you some lunch,” Darci chimed in.

“But the tree… .”

“Yep. Looks like a tree to me.” Darci’s voice was cheerful as she waved a dismissive hand at the oak. “Exactly the same as all the other trees.”

“I know. It was sick — dying. Now it’s healed. She cured it.”

Darci pursed her lips, eyes giving the tree a quick sweep. “Huh. Looks exactly the same as it did before Amber fainted.”

Jordan turned toward me in mute appeal.

“It’s a lovely tree. Perhaps you were mistaken about the Phytophthora ramorum. It’s an easy mistake to make.” It wasn’t, but I’m not the greatest at thinking on my feet … or lying.

Darci grabbed my arm and hustled me to the car, away from Jordan and the inquisition that probably wouldn’t have ended until I’d confessed all. Low blood sugar. What a crappy excuse. I was feeling shaky and weak, but part of me realized it wasn’t from lack of food — at least the kind that went into my stomach. Healing the tree had drained every last bit of energy from me. The monster inside me, the succubus, crossed her arms in smug judgment.

I told you so. Now go find someone — anyone — and fuck their brains out.

3

W
e were tucked away in a dark booth at the rear of a busy French Quarter restaurant. Aromas of peppery spices and sizzling cooked meat filled the place, and my stomach growled in response. Under all the tempting food aromas was a faint air of age — like the heat and humidity of centuries had seeped into the very brick and beams of the building.

The Zydeco band was a perfect complement to the atmosphere. The drummer was inexplicably behind a wall of clear plastic, while the keyboard and guitar players stood just outside the enclosure. The man on the accordion danced close to the door to draw in passersby, but my eyes couldn’t stray from the woman front and center. She played a metal washboard that hung over her shoulders and across her chest. Her dark eyes flashed as she stomped her cowboy boots in a hopping, swirling, fast two–step that was so typical of Cajun dancing.

It was like I’d been transported to another world, where centuries melded together in the passionate embrace of scent and sound. The people, the buildings, the food and music — it was rich beyond words, larger than what I’d ever imagined. I knew immediately why Darci loved this city so, why she’d left the excitement of a different state and college to return here when that big scholarship had come in. It had hurt to lose my best friend to a city a thousand miles away, but now I understood her choice. It was about so much more than funds or a wise career move. This was a place that seduced your heart. I’d been here only a few hours, and I longed to make it my home too.

The waitress plopped two pints and several dishes in front of us. The glasses wept drops of condensation, but the significant appeal of the icy beer was outweighed by the bowl of red beans and rice in front of me. The thick, savory red was filled with shredded pork and chunks of beans. Garlic and cayenne gave what would have been bland food a bite of flavor and mild heat. I closed my eyes and murmured my appreciation at the first mouthful. This was the kind of food I could happily eat every single day.

“Okay, spill it. What the heck was that all about?”

I’d barely taken two bites when Darci launched into an interrogation. She’d been squirming across from me in the booth, casting me impatient looks as we ordered and waited for our food. The time had come to tell her everything I’d held back over the last few months. Still, I hesitated, worried that what I was about to confess would cost me my best friend.

“I healed that tree, but it took too much out of me and I passed out.”

Darci’s eyes bored into mine. “I’ve seen you bring back a wilted gardenia with some water and TLC, but I’ve never seen you do that before. There was light everywhere, then the tree just turned green, and all the black spots went away. Seriously, Amber — what the heck was that all about?”

I swallowed hard. “I’m part elf. I have this thing with plants — a kind of magic.”

“Elf?”

I nodded, and Darci let out a whoosh of breath, shaking her head toward the ceiling. “You’re joking me, right? People aren’t elves, they’re … people. How long have you been an elf? Did this occur after some sort of head trauma? Have you suddenly taken to hallucinogenic drugs since I came back south?”

“Elf. I was born this way. And no, I haven’t turned into a druggie or suffered a concussion.”

Darci stared at me, her expressive face disbelieving as she tried to make sense of what sounded ridiculously impossible. “So where are the pointy ears and the toy–making skills? You’re not the Keebler kind of elf, are you? Last time I checked, you were struggling to boil water.”

“No cookies. No toys. No pointy ears.” I did have the pointy ears, but my demon half worked to ensure I blended in with the human world. I’d been told it was some kind of self–preservation genetic thingie.

“This sounds like total bullshit, but I can’t think of any rational explanation for what I saw you do to that tree.” She still looked like she didn’t believe me.

“I swear I’m telling you the truth.”

Darci drained her pint in one long pull then slammed the empty glass onto the table. “Plants are it then? You’re not going to surprise me with any rings of invisibility that an evil sorcerer misplaced? You’re not escorting any hobbits and dwarves on a quest?”

“Plants.” I squirmed on the hard wooden bench, hoping the waitress would hurry with more drinks. “But I’m only half elf. The other half is demon.”

“Demon.” There wasn’t even a questioning note at the end of the word. “So, should I be researching exorcists? This
is
New Orleans. We could probably find someone to help you with the demon possession. I don’t know about the elf thing, though.”

I wish someone could help me with the demon thing. The elf, I was okay with.

“It’s not a possession; it’s just part of who I am. One of my parents was an elf, and the other was a demon.”

Darci looked about the room. “Where is that woman with more drinks? I need another drink. I really need another drink.”

“Me too,” I muttered.

We sat in uncomfortable silence, Darci refusing to meet my eyes. I was on the verge of tears. She was my best friend. If she couldn’t accept who I was, then no one could. I saw a lonely future before me, one full of lies and shallow friendships. My succubus self would forever deny me the joy of love, but the loss of hope for any sort of friendship hurt even worse. Was this life really worth living?

“Why does your supposedly best friend not know these things?” She finally burst out, her voice full of hurt and anger. “I
lived
with you for a year. I know that you pick out all the orange jelly beans, that your first boyfriend was Jeff Henrick in Kindergarten, and you got in trouble for kissing him in the coatroom. I know that you spent most of your childhood in therapy after your father died before your eyes when you were five, that you were convinced you’d killed him.”

I
had
killed him. No one believed me. Five–year–old children don’t get angry and shoot a lethal stream of electricity into their father. At least, five–year–old human children didn’t. I’d begun to think I’d imagined it, that the therapists were right, until the skill returned this past spring.

Darci took a deep breath. “I know all these things, and more, yet I don’t know that my best friend, the one I tell
everything
to, is a half–elf/ half–demon.”