The French Quarter is our home. Tarantulena claims she’s my owner, calls me Bright Eyes, her black cat, but the truth is, it’s the other way around. Otherwise, why would she take me with her everywhere along cobblestones, parks, feed, and sometimes bathe me (which I despise), and provide suitable free lodging while she works for a living?
Tarantulena doesn’t regard painting and selling her work on Jackson Square as actual work. She rarely uses her witchy talents—only in emergencies.
I remember the day she saw a young girl fall from a streetcar near the canal, her arm bending the wrong way. She pushed through the onlookers while I slipped between legs, unseen. She leaned over the sobbing teen, waved an eagle feather, whispered a chant older than the Quarter itself, and the broken arm straightened with a soft pop.
“It’s just a bruise,” she told the crowd. “She’ll be fine.”
But the girl, tear-streaked cheeks and wide-eyed, whispered, “Wow. Like magic. Thanks.”
Most days, nothing happened, peaceful, after we’d rid New Orleans of Dracor and his five wicked daughters two years ago.
From our apartment above the corner of Canal and Bourbon, the nights shimmered with light, laughter, and jazz. Below us, life burned bright; inside, all was calm. My plush round bed sat beside Tarantulena’s.
“Oh, Bright Eyes,” she murmured one night, stroking my head. “I don’t know how I’d live without your golden gaze. You’ve saved us both more than once.”
I purred deeply, enough to make her smile.
But peace never lingers in the Quarter. Evil seeps in through the cracks, soft and silent. This time, it came in the form of Drezelda and her venomous sister, Prunella, descendants of the Darkwood, Kentucky clan. They oozed into New Orleans like a slow plague: black, beautiful, and deadly. Their game was murder for profit. They poisoned members of wealthy families, then offered the cure—for a price. Refuse? No cure. Dead of apparent natural causes by dawn.
When Tarantulena read the morning paper, I leapt onto the table, pawing the headline: Mysterious Deaths of Two Prominent Families.
“You’re right, Bright Eyes,” she said, slapping the table. “It’s up to us.”
I flicked my tail. She knew what that meant. Anyone foolish enough to meet my golden gaze would have their will melted, their mind softened like wax in the sun. Tarantulena could shape that weakness into obedience.
Still, we needed bait.
***
For two nights, Tarantulena haunted the Quarter’s darker corners—where the air smelled of absinthe, blood, and perfume. She painted on the Square by day, but at night, she whispered to the right ears—spirit traders, potion sellers, the madwomen who read fortunes in spilled rum.
“Tell Drezelda,” she said, “I have a cure even her poisons can’t undo. A power she’ll want to see.”
And word spread quickly in the Quarter’s underbelly.
On the third night, a raven landed on our balcony, eyes gleaming with unnatural intelligence. It carried a scrap of parchment: Midnight. We’ll come to you.
The hour came heavy with mist. The street below was empty; even the jazz had died away. Two silhouettes appeared at the foot of our stairs—Drezelda in a gown blacker than tar, her smile thin as a razor blade; Prunella beside her, eyes like pools of oil. The air grew so cold it frosted the windowpanes.
Inside, candles flickered, though no wind blew. Tarantulena stood tall, wrapped in her crimson robe. I crouched low, tail twitching.
“You summoned us,” Drezelda said, her voice low and honeyed. “You claim to possess a charm against death?”
“Not a claim,” Tarantulena replied. “A promise.”
For a breath, there was stillness. Then, before my claws could unsheathe, Drezelda’s hand flicked upward with a wand, a whisper of Latin, and a concussion spell struck like thunder. The room exploded in white light. The walls shook. Tarantulena was thrown back, her body crumpling beside me. My head throbbed, and ears chimed.
Lying dazed, she rasped, “Kill me if you must… but don’t harm my cat. His golden eyes are worth a fortune.”
That was all I needed.
Both sisters turned toward me—greedy, triumphant—and looked straight into my eyes. My power surged, bright and searing like sunlight. The golden fire within me flared to life, piercing their skulls like molten needles. Their wills softened, melted, like chocolate on hot asphalt in August.
Prunella trembled. “What do you wish us to do?” she whispered. Drezelda could only nod, vacant-eyed.
Tarantulena rose, her face pale but resolute. “Follow us,” she commanded.
We led them through the sleeping Quarter, down side streets slick with mist, to the old butcher shop that hadn’t opened its doors in twenty years. The faded sign still swung from a rusted chain, and the air reeked faintly of decay.
Behind the building resided a lye pit once used for dissolving bones, with a wide mouth of rotted boards covering the darkness below. The stench that seeped up was rancid and thick. Tarantulena lifted her hand, and the boards slid aside with a groan.
“Walk forward,” she said. “Do not stop.”
The sisters obeyed, feet shuffling through the grime. When they reached the edge, they stepped off as if walking into a dream. The black liquid below hissed and swallowed them whole. The surface bubbled, gurgled once, and went still.
Tarantulena replaced the boards with a flick of her wrist.
I leapt onto her shoulder, licking the blood from a minor cut on her cheek. She laughed softly, though her eyes stayed grave.
But I kept watching the alley, my golden eyes looking for the faintest shimmer of movement or a vapor.
“The Quarter sleeps peacefully again,” she said.
Yet I watch all the late-night strangers, golden eyes glowing in the dark, waiting, always waiting… for the next shadow to rise.
Because shadows always do.
[END]
About the Author
M.D. Smith of Huntsville, Alabama, writer of over 350 flash stories, has published digitally in Frontier Times, Flash Fiction Magazine, Bewilderingstories.com, and many more. Retired from running a television station, he lives with his wife of 64 years and three cats.
https://mdsmithiv.com/
