Yakaree is on the cusp of Central City and the Central Business District. Being only a five-minute drive (and fifteen-minute walk) from the French Quarter, I can understand how this Effie woman remains in business. She’s not entirely on the bad side of the city, but she’s close, and the location gives any tourist an excuse to be adventurous without crossing too far into crime-ridden territory.
Night has fallen, the autumn air cool, spilling through the slit windows of the vehicle. I park along the curb in front of her shop and tighten my grip on the steering wheel.
Effie’s shop is a tiny place with a brown exterior. Large bold letters spelling out Yakaree are painted at the top of the shop, and pillar candles flicker on the sill from the inside. Iron bars line both windows, as if imprisoning anyone who dares enter, and a three-step stoop leads to a dingy black door that appears to have been knocked down and replaced too many times to count.
Caz stares at it, shaking his head furiously. “I gather nothing but bad energy from his place.”
A silhouette moves past the window just as he says that, the shape of a woman with big, poofy hair who I swear has claws as she reaches for something in front of her.
I level my breathing, though I get the same bad vibe he does.
“You have your gun,” I remind him, keeping my voice steady.
“My gun’ll be useless if she’s a vanisher,” he reminds me.
Right. The vanishing Mythics. “Well let’s hope she isn’t one.” I unclip my seatbelt as Caz pushes his door open. When I meet up to him, he keeps an eye of our surroundings. I take the three broken steps up, stopping at the door. “Ready?” I breathe.
Caz raises his gun to his chest, providing a simple nod.
There’s a doorbell next to the door, and I jam my thumb down on it. The tiny house rings to life, chiming like church bells.
We wait for the door to be answered, but after a few seconds, nothing. I try the doorbell again, and this time I hear rapid footsteps moving throughout the shop.
Immediately, the door is snatched open, and a woman appears, her hair a voluminous snowy afro trailing all the way down to her waist. Her piercing ice-blue eyes narrow as she glares at me, her skin complexion similar to damp coffee grounds. Her eyes are blue and electrifying, quite similar to Caz’s. Alluring and intimidating. She shifts her gaze to Caz, and before I can say a word, she lifts a flat palm in the air, blows dust into our faces, and everything fades to black.
