“I mean, it’s hard to know everyone in practice. Sure it’s a community,” Marie says, filling a kettle with hot water and placing it on the gas stove. “But there are groups within groups, private practices, public healers, and families fresh to the city.”
I scribble the word groups onto my page and underline three times. “Groups? Do these groups have different beliefs? What’s the purpose of these groups?”
Marie takes a seat in the empty chair next to King and laces her hands together on the tabletop. She gives a small shrug. “Most simply want to belong to a smaller practicing community, sort of a secondary family, ya know? But then there are the ones like Bondye Saints.”
King lets out a groan and shakes his head. A frown pulls down over Marie’s face and her eyes stay trained on her fidgeting fingers.
“Can you tell me about them?” I ask.
She stands and props herself against the fridge. “Nothing good can come of that,” she says, waving both hands in the air. “Just forget I mentioned it.”
I look to King for help, but he seems to be avoiding my gaze. Telling a researcher to forget something is like telling them not to breathe. I write the group’s name down and draw a star next to it, but I don’t push her anymore on the topic.
After an hour, I thank Marie for her time and she insists on giving me her phone number in case I have any more questions. She places the scrap of paper with her number on it into the palm of my hand and curls my fingers closed. The gesture feels odd and more intimate than a simple exchanging of information.
“Well, thanks so much for that. Marie was really helpful,” I say, exiting the store. “You, Valentine King, are like the best resource material ever.”
“You’re only using me for my infinite wisdom and networking,” King says.
“It’s true. You’re some nice eye candy too.”
He laughs. “Can’t say I’ve ever been called that before.”
“Not to your face, anyway,” I mutter. “Do you know about the group she referred to? The Bondye Saints?”
King takes a deep breath and blows it out through his nose. “I’ve heard of them, but only a few people know the identity of its members. Hell, most of us thought they disbanded years ago.”
“Why?” I ask.
“They were considered Voodoo Royalty of sorts. Back in the day, we had Mambo Asogwe and Houngan, otherwise known as Mama and Papa Voodoo here.”
“Right,” I say. “Those are the leaders, the highest clergy appointments in the religion.” King nods. “And they are the ones who moved across the river years ago?”
“Yes. They kept a small group of trusted advisors around them. These were other high-ranking clergy—the Bondye Saints. The group was originally formed to perform the most sacred ceremonies and keep the rules enforced, but something went down and they supposedly were forced to dissolve. I’m not sure of details. Whatever happened, it happened before I was born and it wasn’t included in any of my history lessons.”
We continue down the street in a comfortable silence. Cutting through a small courtyard surrounded by apartments, we come across three girls playing hopscotch. They are still in their school uniforms, their hair braided with colorful ribbons. Without even thinking, King jumps into their game, hopping through the chalk squares drawn and numbered. The girls squeal with delight and clap when he finishes.
When he turns to find me, his smile falls quickly. I don’t even realize that I’ve pressed myself against the building, gasping for breaths. My head is pounding, my pulse is so loud in my ears I can’t hear much. Every muscle in my body seizes and I feel like I’m being crushed. I fight hard to suck in breaths, but they don’t come quick enough. On top of the panic, I’m embarrassed that King is seeing me like this. I can do nothing to stop it.
“Delaney! Are you okay?” he says. King’s words are a jumbled mess as I feel my legs give out. I try to answer him. My lips move, but no sound escapes. I’m fine, I chant in my head. I’m fine. Why can’t I say that?
“Delaney? Look at me,” his words are softer now, pleading, as he kneels on the sidewalk.
King places his hands on my face, gently nudging me to meet his eyes. I watch him and slow my breathing to match his. Eventually, my heart calms and I can breathe normally again. His thumb sweeps across my cheek and the painful memories snap away. I jump to my feet quickly, adjusting my messenger bag and smooth down my shirt, unable to meet his pitying eyes again.
“Uh, sorry. I, uh….” I mutter, unable and unwilling to explain. I hurry down the sidewalk, hoping that a hasty retreat will eliminate a need for an explanation. I should have known better.
“Delaney! Wait up!”
I can hear his approaching footsteps and know that I have to give him something. King catches up quickly, wrapping his hand around my forearm and dragging me to a halt. I shove my hands in my pockets and keep my eyes on my shoes.
“What was that?” he asks.
“Just a panic attack,” I answer without looking up.
“What could have possibly triggered a panic attack?”
I shake my head. I hear King blow out a breath and then his arms wrap around my waist. His body presses against mine in a tight embrace. I don’t over think my actions. I pull my hands from my pockets and wrapped them around his waist, pulling tighter against him.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. I squeeze my eyes shut to keep the tears away. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Thanks,” I say as he leans back to look down at me. Those jade eyes hold mine and a calm washes over me. King glances to my mouth and back to my eyes. Instead of leaning in like I want him to, he releases his grip on me and steps away. The moment he is gone I want him back. There is something special about King’s touch that soothes my pain.
“Hey,” he hedges, lifting my chin with his fingertips so that our eyes meet. “You got plans for the rest of the day?”
“Nope.”
“Good. Let’s go drop off your stuff at your apartment.”
King grabs my hand to pull me down the street and I am thrilled when he doesn’t let go. We walk in silence as I feel my pulse return to normal, my breathing even out.
When we reach my apartment, I set my bag down on the bed and excuse myself to the bathroom. I splash cold water on my face and give a pep talk to the freak in the mirror. When I come out, I find King cooling himself directly in front of my air conditioning window unit. I smile as I watch him pull the hem of his t-shirt up, revealing defined muscle and more flawless skin. He smiles back when he catches me watching.
“It’s so damn hot,” he says, dropping his shirt.
“I figured you locals were immune to the heat,” I say.
“Honestly, it’s not something you ever get used to.”
“Good to know,” I say. “I’d hate to have unattainable expectations.”
King grins and smooths down his shirt as he steps away from the A/C unit. “You ready?”
“Yeah, where to?”
“That’s for me to know and you to find out.”
I grab my key, wallet, phone, and sunglasses before following him out the door and down the steps. He waves hello to Cas and leads me back toward Rampart Street. There aren’t many people out and about today, so the walk is tolerable. Our conversation stays light as he points out historical buildings, the best eateries and his favorite bar.
King never asks about my life prior to New Orleans, and I couldn’t be happier about that. I figure if we remain friends, one day I will have to tell him. But, I can’t do it now. He would look at me with pity and disgust, just like the others.
So, I keep the conversation geared toward him, which he doesn’t seem to mind at all. I love hearing about his summers growing up here and all the trouble he got into in the Quarter. King is proud of where he comes from and it shows in every memory he relives and story he shares.
Spending time with King is easy. I don’t have to always be on guard. Nothing feels forced or uncomfortable. It’s not until he f
inishes regaling me with his last story, that I realize we have reached our destination.
“I thought you had to be on a tour to get into this place,” I say.
King winks. “That’s what you tourists think.”
I raise a questioning eyebrow at him as King pulls me around the block and through a small unlocked iron gate of St. Louis Cemetery #1.
“What are we doing here?” I ask, my eyes trailing up and down the rows of above ground graves.
“Coming to see a friend,” he answers.
“Your friends hang out in cemeteries?”
“Some do.”
I shrug and let him pull me along the winding walkways between tombs. We make turn after turn until I am completely convinced that we’re lost. Finally, King slows and looks back at me, grinning.
“Here she is,” he says as he waves a hand toward a decaying tomb covered with hand-etched X’s.
I step forward and pull my sunglasses up to read the plaque. “Marie Laveau. This Greek revival tomb is reputed burial place of this notorious ‘Voodoo Queen.’ A mystic cult, Voodooism, of African origin, was brought to this city from Santo Domingo and flourished in the nineteenth century. Marie Laveau is the most widely known of many practitioners of the cult.”
I run my fingers over the raised bronze letters, letting it all sink in.
“It’s such bullshit,” King says. “They call Voodoo a cult, when it’s not. It’s a religion, but you know that.”
I nod and inspect the tomb more closely. Small trinkets—things like statues, rosaries and plastic dolls—line the bottom ledge. There are fresh pieces of fruit, candy, quarters, and even a forty ounce beer, unopened and wrapped in a brown paper bag.
“Offerings?” I ask and King nods. “What about the X’s? I know they’re symbolic in voodoo, but what do they mean here?”
“The X represents the crossroads between the worlds of the living and the dead. That part you probably know,” he says taking a seat on a nearby crypt. “Laveau used the X mark on legal documents as her personal signature. So, to draw them here, is a way to call on her for a favor.”
I take a seat next to him, keeping my eyes on the tomb and feeling the heat burn through the seat of my shorts. “And people think that works?”
“Well, just stop by anytime there’s a tour coming through here. They’ll mark the X’s, turn around three times and knock on the tomb before placing their wish.”
We both stare silently at the tomb and all its offerings. Even in the middle of the day, with no one around, this place feels a bit spooky.
“I used to hang out here a lot when I was a kid,” he offers after a long silence.
“You weren’t scared?”
“Nope. It never occurred to me to be scared of dead people,” King admits. “I’m hungry, let’s grab some food.”
We make our way to a small po-boy shop and place our order. I insist on paying for his food and after lots of arguing, he finally allows me to. As we take a seat at a small table in the corner, the bell chimes and a group of guys walk in. Immediately, the blood drains from my face and my heart beats a heavy rhythm against my chest. Gable’s eyes connect with mine, but he doesn’t recognize my embarrassment—or he doesn’t care.
“Delaney! Hey!”
My one-night stand runs over and throws his arms around my neck, planting a kiss on my cheek. I can feel my face burning as King looks on. His stoic expression gives nothing away.
“I left in such a rush Sunday morning I didn’t get to tell you goodbye properly,” he says far too loudly.
“Uh, yeah, sorry,” I mutter, running my hands through my hair in frustration. “I had to be somewhere.”
“No worries. I’ll see you at the bar again soon, I’m sure,” he says before turning his attention to King. “King, good to see you, man.”
King ignores him as Gable ruffles my hair and leaves me there with my mouth hanging open fighting off the urge to crawl under a rock. The group of guys order and have a seat across the aisle from us. Meanwhile, King is still watching me carefully.
“Order up,” the employee yells in our direction.
I stand and ask if we can get it to go. He says it’s no problem and wraps up our sandwiches. I grab our meal and wordlessly plead with King to follow me out. Thankfully, he does.
He tags along for a whole thirty-seconds before finally asking, “So, why didn’t you introduce me to your friend?” It’s the same kind of cool demeanor you expect from King with a side of “I already know the answer, but I want to make you say it” attitude.
I freeze, the paper bag with our lunch gripped tightly in my fist, and turn to face him. If I’m being honest, I’m a bit pissed off that I’m having to explain myself.
“Uh, he’s not exactly a friend,” I finally say. “How do you know him?” My tone is rough and clipped and I know King doesn’t deserve it. He looks me over and those usually expressive eyes are guarded.
“His name is Gable Leblanc. He’s Marie’s cousin. We all grew up together.” King turns to go, cooly making his way down the sidewalk.
“Hey, what about the food?” I yell.
“Keep it.”
6
FOR THREE DAYS I bury myself in research. I transcribe the entire conversation with Marie and make notes to dig deeper into the Bondye Saints. Her casual mention of the group and immediate avoidance of the topic after is enough to tell me it’s important.
Marie mentioned that most members of the Voodoo religion have a specific role to play. She said that Mamie, Valentine’s grandmother, is regarded as a healer and modern day oracle. People go to her with questions about their love life and futures. There were Priestesses to help with spells, educators, and even record keepers.
By Friday, my brain is spent and I decide to take a day off from my project. I haven’t been out drinking all week and am certainly missing my former nightlife. I am nervous because I hadn’t heard from King all week. Afraid that he is angry with me, I don’t reach out to him either. I know I am being a coward, but at least I am consistent.
I shower and get dressed, finally throwing on something worthy of a night out—jeans that feel like a second skin and a halter top that ties behind my neck, leaving my back bare. Mascara and a red gloss finish off the look. I press my fingertips to the purple below my eye, noticing that the bruise is almost gone. I miss having a black eye though. It made me feel like a badass.
Around ten o’clock I hit the Quarter, vowing to find a new place to hang tonight. Even though I avoid Bourbon Street, the sidewalks are still crowded with party goers and vacationers looking for a good time.
I happen across a small place with a couple of pool tables near the back. Ordering my poison, I perch on a barstool tucked into a dark corner. I love to watch the interaction between people, especially strangers meeting at the bar. They use the alcohol as an enabler, letting down their defenses and sometimes softening their standards. They’ll flirt with the eyes first, then maybe a little conversation before progressing to casual touching. A hand on the shoulder or a brush against the thigh always means there’s more to come.
I spot a tall guy with short dark hair and my whole body stiffens. He spins around to order a drink and I sigh in relief and disappointment that it’s not King. All week I tried to keep my mind clear of him, but left alone at night with nothing to occupy my thoughts, he always appeared in my dreams.
After two more drinks and a trip to the bathroom, I try to resume my post when I hear a familiar voice.
“Delaney! Fancy seeing you here, darlin’.”
Marie saunters over to me in a short skirt and heels so high they seem to defy gravity. Her dark hair fades to a light honey color, wild springy curls sticking out in every direction. I can’t help but be mesmerized by the sway to her hips.
“Marie, good to see you again.” She kisses my cheek and runs her fingers through my hair.
“Well, don’t you clean up real nice,” she says, twirling a strand of my hair around her index f
inger. It’s affectionate, but feels strangely intimate for the two of us. “You look hot.”
“Thanks. Let me get you a drink. What are you having?” I ask.
“Aw, that’s not necessary,” she answers, releasing my hair.
“I insist. It’s a thank you for answering all my questions.”
She looks up at me through her thick lashes. “It ain’t nothing. Anybody cool with Valentine King, is cool with me.” I raise an eyebrow as her smile grows wider. “I guess I’ll let you buy me a Southside.”
I motion for the bartender and order her drink, instructing him to put it on my tab. After the cocktail is delivered, Marie stands there for a minute, sucking on her straw. I’m not sure what to say, so we drink in awkward silence.
“Well, I’ve got to get back to my girls. Hope to see you around, Delaney.”
“Later.”
As soon as she’s gone, I close my tab and leave the bar, trying to put some distance between us since I value being surrounded by strangers. I wander through the grid of one-way streets searching for somewhere new to numb my nightmares.
The next place that catches my attention stands like a beacon amongst dark storefronts. A crescent moon made of neon lights up the doorway while twinkling stars cast blinking shadows down the street. Two hulking men stand guard at the door wearing stern faces and cheap suits. A group of guys gather outside, and as I try to make my way past, ignoring the catcalling, I hear my name. King emerges from the center of the group, the others parting to let him through.
He’s wearing a white button-up shirt with the top three buttons undone. A metal chain accompanies his usual cord, and a leather cuff is tied around one wrist. My eyes travel down his frame, appreciating the way those jeans hug him in all the right places. He looks like a goddamn rockstar. My mouth goes dry and there’s a long moment before I realize I’m silently gawking.
“King,” I greet, my brain scrambling for something clever and flirty.
“Can we chat?” he asks, meeting my eyes before looking me over.
King Me Page 6
