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Chapter Seven

E veryone had eaten their fill of delicious food and had now moved out to the porch to enjoy the day. Even the weather seemed to be cooperating to create the perfect event. A lovely breeze wafted through the air and even the humidity seemed to be behaving.

“What a wonderful day,” my mother sighed, leaning her head on JR’s shoulder as they lounged on the wicker settee, taking in the view.

It really was. I glanced at the gnomes, still visible from the porch. Well, except for them.

“Those gnomes are so freaking weird though,” Iris said as if reading my mind.

“It must be a neighbor’s prank,” Etienne said, ever the optimist. “I bet it was a J-Team.”

The J-Team was a group of teenage nutria Shifter brothers, who often helped out Etienne with intel and security. But they were teens and enjoyed playing pranks. It honestly was a good theory. And one I wanted to believe because it made the gnomes sudden appearance much less eerie.

I was about to agree when Jocko piped up from his fishbowl, waving what had to be his seventh mimosa in the air. “They are witches’ gnomes. Look at the hats.”

I squinted again. I didn’t know what witches’ gnomes would be exactly, but the hats did look witchlike.

“Should we… move them?” I suggested, not sure I wanted to touch them.

“Non,” said Jocko. “They’re like tiny bombs. If you move them, they explode in your face.”

Etienne snorted. “You are thinking of grenades.”

Jocko shook his head. “No, I am thinking of gnomes. You have not seen the old country.”

Here we go with this old-world thing again. What was this couyan crustacean even talking about? Although I was pretty sure it was the champagne talking.

I put the gnomes out of my mind, or tried to, as the conversation moved to more pleasant things like baby names and ideas for nursery décor.

“I think I will go with yellows,” I said about the baby’s room.

“Greens are nice too,” my mother said, ever the Green witch.

“I can’t believe you aren’t going to go with black and grays,” Ghede said since he loved to tease me about my pixie-goth esthetic.

“With pops of red,” Sam added.

“Remember when Mally painted her whole room black,” Iris said with a laugh.

“I was going through some teenage angst,” I said, defending my choices.

“You were the most upbeat goth I ever met,” Violet said in her usual way of defending me.

Suddenly everyone grew quiet. Something in the air had changed, and we all felt it.

The world seemed to shimmer. The sky above the cypress trees began to ripple, then a rip in the air erupted, showering the lawn in a cascade of gold glitter, rainbow confetti, and about a hundred pairs of metallic sunglasses.

A motorcycle with a sidecar studded with rhinestones and blaring the theme from “Miami Vice,” shot out of the rift.

Four Nosferatu lookalikes were crammed in the sidecar.

And driving the bike was Baba Yaga, herself.

She wore a pink leather catsuit, fingerless gloves, and shoulder pads so severe they could have doubled as weaponry.

Her hair was teased into a frosted explosion of 80s volume, and her eyes were shielded by diamond-studded Wayfarers.

She threw both arms wide as the bike crashed through the line of garden gnomes, scattering them like bowling pins.

The minions toppled out of the sidecar, spinning over the lawn like a breakdance circle in the grass, each moving with an angular, unnatural grace.

Baba Yaga dismounted as the motorcycle slid into the bayou, the music dying gurgling, watery death. She clapped her hands as if that was exactly the entrance she’d intended. We all remained silent, stunned. Even the critters of the bayou fell mute, seemingly as shocked as we were.

Baba Yaga scanned the porch, then pointed directly at me.

“There she is!” Her voice could have shattered glassware.

“The most important witch of the decade! The hope for the future!” She began to walk toward me, somehow making the act of walking feel like a royal procession, every step sequined and deliberate.

I tried to think of something to say, but Baba Yaga’s presence always made my brain seize up. She had a way of making everyone feel like they were being graded.

She stopped in front of me, snapped her sunglasses off with a whip-like flick, and gave me a once-over. “You look… radiant. Like a mortician on vacation, but radiant.”

I stood and curtsied, which I regretted instantly, but she seemed to approve. “Thank you. Welcome to our home.”

“I couldn’t miss this celebration” Baba Yaga declared, then pulled me into a hard, perfumed hug that left my nose full of Chanel No. 5 and Aqua Net. She released me, then gestured for Etienne to come over.

“This,” she said, making a grand sweeping motion, “is the man. The Rougarou Prince who had the foresight to see the importance of a truce between the witches and the Rougarous,” She sized up Etienne, who had the good grace to look a little intimidated.

“You keep her happy. If you don’t, I’ll turn you into a poodle. ”

He bowed slightly. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

The crowd, which had started to unfreeze, murmured approval and a few nervous laughs.

Baba Yaga turned to the assembled witches, Rougarous, and miscellaneous magicals.

“Everyone! This is a most sacred union. And now, a new child to unite our people forever! May this baby have the strength of the Rougarou, the wit of the witch, and the charisma of—” she paused, then raised a single manicured eyebrow— “well, myself, obviously.”

Iris and Violet started a slow clap, and even the Dubois brothers barked approval. Baba Yaga held her arms wide, and everyone surged in for a group hug that was more awkward than spiritual, but it did the trick. Suddenly, we were one big, slightly dysfunctional family.

Then Baba Yaga broke the huddle, turned on her spiky heel, and took a out held package from one of her bobbling minions. “A gift!” she bellowed. “For the baby.”

I accepted it with a bow. The wrapping was silver lamé and tied with VHS tape. I peeled it open to reveal a set of miniature leg warmers in neon colors, a pacifier shaped like a microphone, and a tiny “Members Only” jacket.

“It’s for a girl or a boy,” she said. “Gender is so last century.”

I nearly choked up. “Thank you. This is amazing.”

She nodded, deeply satisfied. Then she spotted the garden gnomes, which were still spread all over the yard.

Baba Yaga’s smile vanished. “Who brought those?”

Everyone shrugged, except Jocko, who pointed at the nearest gnome and said, “They brought themselves.”

Baba Yaga snapped her fingers and three minions immediately tackled the the lone, still standing gnome, wrestling it to the ground, which seemed like an unnecessary and ridiculous show of force since it was an inanimate object.

“This is not good,” the bedazzled head witch said. “Not good at all.”

She knelt by the gnome, examining it with professional detachment. “These are surveillance gnomes. They scout for witches, but they never come on their own. They are being controlled. Someone wants to keep an eye on you.”

She looked at me, then at Etienne. “Be careful. There’s trouble brewing.”

Etienne nodded, all humor vanishing from his face. “Is there something we should do?”

Baba Yaga thought for a moment, then barked, “Gather all the gnomes. Now.”

The minions swept through the yard, collecting every last gnome and tossing them into a pile.

“That’s right,” Jocko cheered, waving his mimosa wildly.

When the last gnome was accounted for, Baba Yaga produced a tube of glitter glue, a bag of rock salt, and a bottle of Old Spice.

“Stand back,” she said to her minions. The rest of us were already keeping our distance.

She poured a ring of salt around the pile, then drizzled glitter glue in a complicated pattern. She uncapped the Old Spice, dabbed a little on each wrist, and then spritzed the gnomes liberally, chanting a spell under her breath that seemed to be sung to the tune of a Journey song.

The gnomes vibrated slightly, then fell totally still. I could suddenly sense they were truly just lifeless ornaments now.

“There,” Baba Yaga said, brushing her hands off. “That should hold them. But after the moon rises, you need to take them out to the bayou and toss them in. Good riddance.”

I wanted to ask what exactly would happen if we didn’t, but she was already corralling her minions clearly preparing for their departure.

She turned once more, fixing me with her electric blue gaze. “You did good, Mally. Never doubt yourself. And if you ever need a babysitter, don’t call me. But do keep in touch.”

I saluted. She returned it, then signaled her minions. She snapped her fingers and they all vanished, leaving behind a trail of sparkle, synthetic hair, and the lingering echo of “Like a Virgin” in the air.

The rest of the party was anticlimactic after Baba Yaga’s exit.

There was cake, and Etienne gave a sweet toast that made me sniffle, and the children did a water-balloon relay that ended with Jocko winning by sheer, vicious cunning.

The sun set, the bug zappers hummed, and for a few hours, everything was as it should be.

I stood at the edge of the yard, holding Etienne’s hand and looking out over the bayou.

“Ready to face whatever comes next?” Etienne asked.

“With you?” I grinned. “Bring it on.”

The garden gnomes sat silent. But I didn’t feel watched anymore. Just a little bit… protected.

Inside the house, I heard the clink of plates and the whir of the dishwasher.

Violet, Iris, and Etienne’s mother Thea had refused to leave, claiming they wanted to “help tidy up” but in reality just wanted to keep a close eye on me.

I appreciated their concern. The gnomes were no longer a threat, but Baba Yaga had confirmed someone was out there, watching us.

Etienne and his brothers left as soon as the moon was high in the sky.

The four of them, plus half the Rougarou Guard, had fanned out through the bayou, both to get rid of the gnomes, but also to look for the one who sent them.

Whether it was witches, rougarous, or some third, unspeakable thing, no one could say.

Jocko, who had partaken from any liquor that was available. was in a bloated, drunken stupor. “They are not just gnomes, you know,” he slurred, eye stalks swiveling toward me. “They are spies. They listen.”

“Thanks, buddy,” I said. “Sleep it off.”

I rocked in my rocker, the rhythmic sway making me sleepy. Inside, I could hear my sisters and Thea talking and laughing. I let my head fall back against the back of my chair. I closed my eyes, drifting a little.

That’s when I heard it—the whispers.

At first I thought it was just the wind, or maybe a neighbor’s TV. But it was close, right by my ear, and it said: “Prenze. Brenze.” The syllables stung the air, sharp as a wasp.

I tried to shake it off, but my body refused to move. It wasn’t just sleep paralysis—it was as if invisible hands had wrapped my arms and legs, cinching tighter and tighter. I tried to call out for help, but my mouth filled with the taste of potting soil and sugar.

Somewhere below me, Jocko was thrashing, his claws scrabbling at the side of his bowl. He managed a low, strangled, “ Merde ,” before he passed out—I hope he only passed out and bobbed on the top of the water.

I tried to turn my head, desperate to see what was happening, but my body wouldn’t obey. Only my eyes darted, frantic, searching for rescue.

Through the front window, I glimpsed of Violet, Iris, and Thea clearing the dining room table, their faces haloed by the yellow warmth of the chandelier. None of them looked my way. None of them noticed the shadow gliding silently across the floor behind them.

My rocker jerked violently, slamming me back into awareness. A shape was standing over me. For a moment I thought it was Etienne, but the shape was wrong—shorter, stubbier, with a beard like a sopping mop and a hat the color of old bubble gum.

A gnome. Not a ceramic statue, but a living, breathing, evil-eyed gnome.

He bared his teeth, which were tiny and perfectly white, and pressed a pudgy finger to his lips: “Shhh.”

The world spun. I was off the rocker, dragged across the porch and into the dark. I tried to fight, to thrash, but my body only shuddered weakly. Every muscle was jellied, every nerve screaming.

The gnome rolled me onto my back and leaned over my face. His eyes glowed pink and cold. I could smell the synthetic resin, even though he moved like a living being.

He pressed a pudgy finger to his lips.

I tried to scream again, but the gnome clamped my mouth shut with a palm as soft as velvet and as strong as a bench vise.

“You will be fine, my girl,” he said. His accent was pure New Orleans, the kind of twang you get from a lifetime of chicory and mischief.

A shadow detached itself from the darkness, sliding up next to the gnome. It was human-shaped, but wrong—made of the same stuff as the shadows from my earlier dream. It hissed and whispered to the gnome, the two voices clashing in my head, the words overlapping in a blur of pain.

They said: “Take her.”

I tried to fight, to reach for my magic, but my body was locked in a vise of pure electricity. My magic sparked, then fizzled, as if every conduit in me had been unplugged.

“Sorry,” the gnome said, its smile suddenly kind. “It is not personal. You must sleep.”

A cold hand pressed to my forehead. A thousand memories flashed behind my eyes—my sisters, my mother, Etienne’s laugh, the promise of the baby growing inside me. Then all the colors bled out, and the world went white.

The last thing I saw, as I slid into the void, was Jocko’s tiny black eyes fixed on me, wide and scared, and the word “Prenze” echoing through my head like a curse.

Then nothing.