There is something about Monday mornings that makes you want to kill yourself, especially when you're on your period. I had gotten mine when I was using the toilet for the eighth time. At first, I thought I had stomach ache until I pull my shorts down and notice the huge red stain on my white underwear. Though I spent the rest of the night abusing my laundry machine, I feel like my luck is about to change today.

I wake up, brush my teeth, change my tampon, and start my day by listening to some Paul Ngozi on my old stereo. The coffee brews inside the pot while I place two thick chocolate chip waffles inside the toaster.

A yawn escapes from my mouth. I stretch my arms and smooth the creases of my oversized Frank Zappa shirt.

As soon as I hear the waffles pop out of the toaster, I hurry over to the kitchen and grab my plate. In the meantime, Ichabod trots down the stairs. His eyes focused on my waffles until I went to make coffee.

"So," he says. "How did you sleep last night?"

"It's okay, I guess," I answer, taking the small milk jug from the fridge.

I unscrew the blue cap and pour it in a chipped, purple mug with black cats.

"Seriously?" Ichabod chortles, watching me from a safe distance. "I saw you pacing around the laundry room like crazy."

"Yeah," I huff. "But at least I got my shit washed."

Once the coffee is done, I take the pot and pour the fresh brew into the mug. I wanted to put sugar in my drink, but my idiot cat stole all the packets.

Stretching his hind legs, Ichabod shrieks, "Hey, where the fuck's my breakfast?"

Smiling, I yank the bowl from the dishwasher, fill it with cat food, and set it beside the fridge.

"Bon appetite," I say, kissing him on his head.

Ichabod scurries over to his food bowl and munches on his kibble while I pick up a plate of waffles and my coffee and then carry them over to the table.

I stroke the chunk of waffle against the pool of sticky syrup, stab it with my fork, and eat it in three quick bites. My dark hair bounces on my shoulders. The music transitions from Paul Ngozi to Fela Kuti.

"So, how is Audrey doing?" Ichabod asks. "It's been a while since I've seen your niece."

"She's doing fine," I tell him. "She's even got the mixtape I made for her. It has songs from Rage Against the Machine, Living Color, Bad Brains, New York Dolls, and Fishbone. Audrey loved it so much she asked me to send her more of them."

"When was the last time you saw her?" he suggests, running his tongue around his crumb-smeared mouth.

I shrug as I place the purple mug on the table.

"I visited Audrey on her eighth birthday." I tell him. "I gave her presents, sang Happy Birthday, hung out with Audrey for an hour, then left before Andie tried to con me with her 'sweet big sister' act."

Waddling towards my right foot, Ichabod leaps on my lap and oddly looks up at me. I throw back my coffee like a shot of vodka and then place my sticky fork in the center of the plate.

"I think you should go to Hiraeth Country and pay Audrey a visit," Ichabod says encouragingly.

Hiraeth County is this weird town in Louisiana. Most people come here for the Southern folklore and food, others are more interested in seeing wealthy black sorcerers thrive in their natural habitat than care for the poor.

You see, my mom is born to one of the powerful witches in Baton Rouge while my dad comes from a long line of wealthy witch doctors. Since my siblings and I are the members of the family, my mom expected us to live up these high expectations like losing weight for school dances, practicing curses until our hands bleed, or finding a coven after college.

After I left Louisiana without a warning, I didn't hear anything from my family, except Matt and Andie. The last thing Matt wrote to me was that he's in Burbank and Andie gave me permission to meet her daughter, Audrey.

While I do love my niece, I'm still bitter about the things Andie did to me when we were kids.

"I'm not seeing fucking mom again," I scoff. "No way."

"Come on, Teddy," Ichabod urges. "Your brother and sister wants to see you."

As much as I love the idea of being a comfort blanket for my adorable niece, I didn't want to think about my parents' fiery glares piercing the back of my head.

Besides, even if I did step foot in my old, gilded cage, my mom would nag me with stupid questions about me dropping out of St. Hawthorne or joining a fucking coven like half the witches in Baton Rouge.

Finishing my coffee, I study the chipped green nail polish on my fingernails and brush them against my dry kneecaps.

"All I care about is Audrey's safety, not theirs," I say, picking my teeth with my stubby fingernail. "Besides, I'm better off on my own than reopening old wounds, okay?"

"What?"

"I don't need them, Crane. I've got an apartment, a few odd jobs to keep me busy, and you, so..."

"Teddy," Ichabod says tentatively. "Would it kill you to get out of your comfort zone?"

"What the fuck are you, my mom?" I huff.

When Ichabod doesn't answer, I pick up my plate, my used coffee mug, and my fork, forcing Ichabod to hop out of my lap and onto the floor.

"Hey!" he exclaims. "Where are you going?"

"I'm putting the dishes away," I replied. "Then, I'm going to check my mail, get dressed, go to the library, and find another case."

"You're taking another job from Vincent?" Ichabod guesses, wandering close to my feet.

"Probably."

"Don't you want to get a desk job or something?"

"And get bored very quickly?"

"Come on, Teddy," Ichabod says, looking up at me with a worried glint. "Are you seriously going to spend the rest of your life as a dangerous criminal?"

Look, you might think I am a dangerous criminal, but I don't enjoy working for gangsters like Vincent or his family. I mean, sure, I worked for crime bosses and stuff in the past, but I did it for a hefty fee or a reasonable discount.

The same goes for my non-convicted clients. Unless I get paid to dig up skeletons in their closets, I don't care much about their personal lives. My only goal in life is to earn enough money to put a roof over my head and buy food, tampons, and the kind of bras that don't have fucking wires in them.

"Crane, I don't care if the job is illegal," I tell him, turning on the water. "All I care about is paying my bills so Stanley would leave us alone."

"Perhaps you could live with your older sister Andie."

"I can't because the last thing she needs to hear is me getting involved with Vincent's crew."

Speaking of bills, I immediately remember to check my mail. So, I finish breakfast, head outside, and return with a handful of envelopes.

I toss away advertisements, stack Audrey's adorable drawings on the black kitchen countertop, and burn documents related to my old college. But just as I was about to throw away my phone bill, something fell out of my hand.

Cursing to myself, I picked up the object to see the cream-colored envelope addressed to me. Most words are scribbled in ink-black cursive, but I can even make out my name and home address. Running my fingers against the rough paper, I notice the purple raven seal until Ichabod circles my feet and taps my leg with his paw.

"What does it say?" he asks.

Taking out the letter, I lean my back against the countertop, unfold the piece of paper, and read it to him aloud:

Hello, Theresa Crowe

If you have received this letter in the mail, then the St. George family would like to discuss something with you regarding the passing of Prometheus St. George. His lawyer had uncovered new documents relating to the items Prometheus had in his will.

Please come to the funeral home tomorrow at around eleven-thirty, and we will discuss this matter thoroughly.

Sincerely,

St. George Family

After I'm finished reading, I set the letter and envelope on the countertop.

"It says that I need to drop our plans and meet with Prometheus's family," I tell him. "Come on, we have to go."

Ichabod blinks his eyes at me. "Why am I a part of this shit?"

"Because A) I don't like leaving you here," I growl. "And B) you'll just tear up my bed or read my fucking journal."

"As if I want to read your boring-ass journal," Ichabod responds irritably.

"Shut up and finish your breakfast."

"Fine."

******
When I was little, my parents enrolled me in a private school called Northwell's School of Witchcraft. It was like the Louisiana version of St. Hawthorne, except you learn how to cast elemental magic spells and get along with your familiars.

But around the spring of '94, Northwell's headmaster, Prometheus St. George, got AIDS from a complicated blood transfusion.

The local authorities, newspapers, parents, and social workers caught wind of what happened, but instead of giving Prometheus the respect he deserved, the adults were scared that he exposed their pure-bred daughters to AIDS and had the school shut down.

I can't remember if it closed before or after my senior graduation, but I got my scholarship to St. Hawthorne from the mail and left the house as soon as possible.

Opening the dresser drawer, I remove a green, beaded handbag and shove all my clean clothes. Next, I grabbed three Shirley Jackson novels from my shelf, tampons, sneakers, boots, socks, spell books, a Glock I stole from my mom's safe, ammunition, money, a journal, pens, and a book of coded messages.

Believe it or not, whenever I'm on a case, I take this bag everywhere I go. You might think it's surprising that a small bag can carry a shitload of stuff, but when you're going on a trip, and you're too stressed out to pack a suitcase, this handbag is your best friend. 

Tossing the bag on the mattress, I first change into a green army jacket I bought at Hamlet's Vintage, a brown flannel, a striped babydoll top, and make sure I put a belt on my high-waisted jeans. After donning my white socks, I slip into my old pair of Doc Martens.

Marching towards my vanity mirror, I apply deep brown concealer on my acne and a small amount of dark red lipstick and eyeliner.

When I got ready, I fastened my Hamsa Hand choker around my neck, snatched my bag, and called Ichabod's name.

My cat lets out a whine. He rolls off the living room couch and trots over to my feet while I scoop my car keys off the dining table.

"Alright, I'm up!" he groans. "Just where the fuck are we going?"

"The Poseidon Express."

"I thought that train was in Manhattan or Brooklyn."

"It's in Brooklyn, but I know a good shortcut."

******
After packing my bottomless handbag and backpack, I follow Ichabod towards the Volkswagen Beetle and then take off onto the road.

I spend every five minutes fidgeting with the radio channels. The autumn air rushes inside the car as I steer to my left. Resting comfortably in the passenger seat, Ichabod curls himself into a black ball and passes out.

Sliding my cassette into the tape deck, I push the PLAY button and hum "In the Light" by Led Zeppelin. My delicate fingers wrap around the steering wheel. I continue driving forward until all the fancy buildings and restaurants are gone. Gas stations, abandoned supermarkets, and mom-and-pop shops are all left. While I notice a few diners here and there, they seem pretty empty.

A loose, dark curl brushes across my brown cheek, but I ignore it and focus on the scarlet traffic lights until they automatically switch green. Looking up from the chair, Ichabod stares at me.

"Are you sure you know the way?" he asks.

"Yeah, Crane," I answer, pressing the gas pedal with my foot. "Just be patient, okay?"

"Ugh, whatever." Ichabod groans.

He curls into a ball and licks himself until I find an empty lot in front of the abandoned barbershop.

Sighing, I drove over to it. I park the Volkswagen Beetle, unlock the doors, and remove my necklace. I make sure I tighten it around the rearview mirror, fetch my green backpack and bottomless handbag, and tell Ichabod to get off of his chair.

While I don't know how long our trip to New Orleans will last, I'm not too worried about leaving my car behind because I placed a protection spell on the necklace so my car wouldn't get torched or stolen.

"Yo, Teddy!" Ichabod growls. "Where the fuck are we?"

I sling my backpack over my shoulders and stuff the small handbag inside my right pocket.

The barbershop is disgusting, and no person in their right mind would enter. But once you ignore the layers of dirt, graffiti, and broken glass, you'll start to understand why I came here.

"Come on, let's go," I tell Ichabod.

"Fine," the cat grumbles. "But if you get killed by some random monster, I'm leaving you behind."

"Gee, my hero," I reply sarcastically.

Clutching the strap of my bag, I enter through the cracked glass doors.

Fumes of hairspray and dust fly into my nostrils. The chairs look like a pair of scissors have shredded them. Hair products and fake hair scatter on the floor, making it easier for cockroaches to hide.

Ichabod winces at the fleeting insects but walks straight down and sprints close to me.

After we hurry to the men's bathroom, I notice the sinks are caked in rust, and the white, broken tiles scatter throughout the floor like pedals. Next to the row of dark blue bathroom stalls is a door-sized hole that can easily fit a truck. However, it has been boarded up by four large pieces of driftwood.

Ichabod furrows his nose. "What is that?"

I walk up to the boarded hole and inspect the ancient green writing on the surface.

Though I can't make out the writing, I suspect a warlock had created this type of wood to prevent intruders from entering the aperture on the wall. When I told Ichabod about this, his eyes widened in amazement.

"Let me get this straight: so, you are saying that this hole is like that closet from The Chronicles of Narnia?"

"This entrance doesn't lead to an enchanted forest," I answer kindly. "It leads to the Poseidon Express. I need to open it."

"Oh, yeah? Like what?" asked Ichabod.

Chewing my bottom lip, I think about it for a minute when an idea pops up.

"Crane, get behind me, okay?" I insist. "This is going to get messy."

Ichabod cocks his head but takes three steps away from the entrance.

Sighing, I slip my fingers inside my pocket, take out the handbag, and retrieve the stolen Glock. I then cock it with my thumb, aim it at the boarded entrance, and blast the thick driftwood into fragile, wooden chunks. Sawdust and wood chips fly over their heads as tinkling bullet shells spray the floor.

But just as the entrance is clear, Ichabod and I hear a man's British voice: "All ABOARD! Hurry up! The Poseidon Express doesn't like dawdling!"

© kstorm68q