Hold - d.m

002 - the dead are calling

Valerie Margo Moreau
September 31, 1999

The circle-shaped tattoo behind my left ear stings.

The Dead are calling.

As if on cue, the Moreau Manor goes into a frenzy.

"Get her down here this instant, Tabby! Darse prisa (Hurry up)!" demands my mother, and I can picture her face crystal clear—calm but crazed.

Tabby, my mother's house-elf, knocks loudly on my door while muttering something to himself.

"Mistress Moreau demands your presence Missus Valerie Margo."

I ignore the elf, but I know he hears me as my heart pounds. Not now, not now, not now. I ignore my anxious mind, a stone-face setting in as I open the door, moving to the staircase that descends to the first floor of my house, the onyx black railing cool against my palm.

Mother is waiting at the bottom of the stairwell, arms crossed in front of her chest as she waits for me. Her lips are pursed and the muscles in her neck are pulled taught. It's her nerves.

My mother is a beautiful woman. Long, black hair down to her waist, high cheekbones, and full lips. Her honey skin is smooth and glowing against the morning light as she glares at me.

"Meeting, Valerie. DWL."

Dead Wizards League.

I nod, straightening my posture, the name of our syndicate reminding me of my place.

"Yes, ma'am."

The Moreau Manor is a maze to those who first enter. The twists and turns, the secret passageways, the disappearing doors. It consumes you with the confusion of it all making it impossible to find what you need.

But I've lived in the manor for years. I know every fake window, dead-end, hiding spot, and trap door like the back of my hand. No one knows the manor as I do. No one knows how to hide like me. And it goes where we go. With the flick of a wand, my house can fit in my hand, be shoved inside my pocket, or sent with an owl and taken across the country. It's yet another one of my parent's excuses for moving so much.

I move quickly behind Mother as she stomps towards the golden door on the first floor, moving through swiveling corridors.

The burning sensation behind my ear still irritates me, but I grit my teeth and dismiss it. It's not like I've never felt it before, but it's been months. Months since my family has been called.

The door is heavy and practically suctioned to the wall, but Mother pulls it open as if it's nothing. My entire family sits silently at the long, mahogany table, engraved with flowing designs of flowers and wind. The chairs are tall and uncomfortable, and candles flicker in their golden goblets scattered around the red walls.  The beauty of my families meeting room is undescribable.

Father and Mother sit at either end, while my siblings and I fill in the sides. There are seven Moreau children in our family. Mother had her first boy at fifteen and from there went on to have five others.

I'm their only daughter.

"What is she doing here," Miguel immediately comments as I sit beside him in the empty chair.