A Grimoire Dark

by D. S. Quinton

  Not being able to keep up with the other kids, he generally played alone when Del wasn’t there. He tried very hard to work his thumb and finger to shoot the marbles properly, but resorted to simply rolling them back and forth. He had learned to roll them towards the wall after several had dropped down the air vent in the floor.

  Del watched as he spoke quietly to the marbles. She wondered what magical thoughts he was conjuring, and hoped they were pleasant.

  Not wanting to disturb his daydream with her sour mood, or with concepts of institutions that he wouldn’t understand, she turned and walked out.

  She rode silently in Frank’s car, replaying the scene of Jimmy playing alone. She had told him what she had learned of the Crow’s plan, but he had no answers. Sometimes these things don’t have good endings, Del-bell, he had said. At that moment she hated Frank for his common sense. That wasn’t the right answer at all.

  Frank parked in front of the halfway house and gave Del a look of apprehension.

  She felt a swell of emotion collect in the back of her throat; all the disappointment of the day culminating in small daggers of insult. And she threw them at Frank.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Del asked sharply. “You act like Mama Dedé’s gonna put a curse on you or something.”

  Frank felt the sting of her words, but knew that she was struggling.

  “Come on honey, let’s get you inside.”

  Henri watched Frank pull up in front of an old two-story house with a large backyard. The yard, like a lot of those in the old section of the city, was subdivided by odd smaller buildings; old stables converted into detached garages; old servants’ quarters converted into lease rooms. Frank and the young girl got out of the car and walked straight into the house without even a knock. Henri drove slowly past the house and realized why. A small wooden sign above the door announced: St. Augustine Transitional Home for Girls.

  The girl was an orphan. What are you doing, Frang?

  Henri drove slowly past the house and through the city, letting his thoughts run. He wasn’t sure what the girl’s relationship was with Frank, but sensed that these two were playing at something they didn’t understand. How was Frank—and possibly the girl—related to the bodies? Was Frank intentionally misleading her? This new turn of events was concerning. But what to do was the question.

  Several minutes later, he arrived at the city morgue and without showing a badge, walked straight down to the autopsy room. He was well known there.

  He was disappointed that there was only one body to inspect. The first body had been lost to the swamp according to Frank, and was exposed to the elements the longest, so there was really no surprise about the state of the remains; the old man however—Loo’siana Slim—was the second in order, which Henri presumed meant that he would be more intact, but maybe he misunderstood what was happening. But the third body, the teenage boy from the wharf, was mostly intact and held telltale signs.

  Henri opened the door to the autopsy cooler and pulled out the sliding tray that held the remains of the third victim. Opening the cadaver bag, he stared down at an incredible sight. A white alabaster bowl, he thought immediately. How strange.

  The inside of the skull had indeed been licked clean. The face was completely missing, although the lower jaw had somehow remained intact.

  Henri scratched absently at the corner of his mouth where the fever blister was getting worse. It had started to form a few days ago. He paid it no attention.

  He let the fingers of his other hand trace the inside of the skull, feeling the bumps and grooves; the brail of the dead. They slid across the whole of the alabaster bowl. They toyed with the sharp, jagged breaks where the skull had been cracked with incredible force. Nicking his finger across a sharp sliver of bone, he pulled his hand back and watched a drop of blood fall into the skull-bowl, staining it with a trace of life. He watched as a second drop joined the first, meandering to the bottom of the bowl, drawing his attention down.

  He absently stuck the cut finger into his mouth as his eyes wandered to the subtle sign of teeth marks along the inside of the skull, near the jawbone; they were clearly animal teeth marks. He imagined whatever beast had done this gnawing against this side of the skull, slobbering into the base as a long tongue snaked out, lapping at the last morsels of brain tissue. As he looked closer, he saw clean striations against a back molar. The beast had left its teeth marks on one of the victim’s teeth. Henri reached down, grabbing the scarred tooth, and pulled it from its socket. Not noticing the bits of nerve that clung to the tooth, he dropped it in his top pocket.

  Chapter 33

  Frank and Armand arrived at the St. Augustine Transitional Home for Girls at 7:30 in the evening in separate cars. They both felt terrible about falling asleep the night before, and bringing Del home so late that morning. Frank explained to Armand that Del had not gotten into trouble, but that Mama Dedé was none too happy with Frank, so they should probably not mention what a grand time they had last night.

  As they ascended the steps of the halfway house, Frank turned to Armand and said, “Now remember, my time with Mama Dedé goes way back. As a young detective, I had to make use of her skills on more den one occasion.”

  “I never took you for a recipient of charms and spells,” Armand said. “Are you a closet practitioner Frank?”

  “No, nothing like dat, but she’s good at knowin’ things dat shouldn’t be known, dat’s all I’m sayin. And in da early days, she kinda had more den one job, if you get my meanin’. So we kinda ran into each other a lot on da street.”

  Armand nodded his understanding. A lot of Voodoo practitioners had multiple occupations.

  Walking into the house, Armand was struck by the dichotomy of currents he felt flowing beneath the veneer of the transitional home for girls.

  The front sitting room was furnished with old donated furniture; clean, but badly worn. The mismatched styles of lamps and chairs gave it a whimsical, clumsy look that the matching slipcovers could not hide from his antiquarian’s eye.

  The plaster walls had been patched and painted many times, and although not offensive, gave the air of a matriarch wearing her best regal face against the cruel process of aging youth.

  The overall smells were homey; meager meals, enough to satisfy small bellies, had been cooked with love and stretched together with donations from the community. But at the same time, it smelled antiseptic and sterile, indicating a flow of too many bodies transitioning from one state of uncertainty to another.

  These feelings and smells Armand had anticipated. What surprised him the most was the feeling that beneath all of this, there was a vast well of supernatural activity hovering just out of sight. It was as if this place pulsed with an energy that wanted to be consumed, flowing from a dark well of knowledge, bristling in anticipation of being released.

  Del descended the stairs looking clean and fresh. Both men noticed how vibrant she looked. Her dark hair and freckles perfectly accenting eyes full of a mysterious knowledge.

  As the men greeted Del in the foyer, they heard heavy footsteps trundle toward them down the hall. A moment later a stout, round woman filled the width of the hallway entrance to the foyer.

  Del looked at Frank with a sly, knowing grin that indicated she sensed his nervousness. Frank shot her a look of consternation and brushed his shirt again.

  “Well, well,” Mama Dedé said. “Look who it is. Standin’ here like you in a bread line waitin’ for a coffee!”

  Her short gray hair betrayed her age, but her smooth black face and sparkling eyes spoke of wisdom and caring. Frank waved cigar smoke away from his face, then brushed invisible ashes from the front of his shirt.

  “Mama Dedé. How you been?” Frank said politely. “Been a long ti—, well… it had been a long time until—”

  “Yeah, it had been a while, hadn’t it, Frank?” Mama Dedé eyed him with hands on her wide hips. “Until you showed up here ‘dis mornin’ bringin’ my girl in after all kinda hours!
”

  “Oh, now Mama Dedé,” Frank said with a low head, “I explained all that dis morning, it got to be kinda late you see an—”

  “Mmm-hmm. This I know.”

  Del watched Frank squirm with fascination.

  “Who da fancy man?” Mama Dedé said, ignoring Frank’s discomfort and nodding at Armand.

  Stepping forward, Armand took her hand gently and said, “Armand Baptiste, at your service, mademoiselle.” He nodded slightly. “I’m a fan of your… abilities. Your reputation precedes you.”

  With wide eyes and a rock of her hips she said, “Ooo wee. At my service!” She inspected Armand, then sent a dismissive glance at Frank.

  “OK Frenchy, you wit me. Frank, da coffee’s in da pot. Del honey, show Frank where da cups are. And don’t break my good cups Frank.”

  She turned and led Armand down the hall. “How you like your coffee, Armand?”

  With a twist of his mustache he said, “Hot and black, mon chéri.”

  “Ooo wee! Mon sherry!” she said, shaking her hips again. “You alright, Frenchy. You just fine wit me.

  “Hot and black times two Frank!” she called out over her shoulder as they disappeared down the hall.

  Frank looked at Del with chagrin. He understood what his punishment was to be for bringing Del home so late.

  The side parlor off the kitchen was a shadow of its former glory. The ten-foot ceilings still held an air of aristocracy, but the smoke-stained wallpaper and peeling plaster spoke of faded glory. An old upright piano sat against one wall, and mismatched chairs lined the walls for extra seating. The stone fireplace opening was edged with short drapes that were tied back to reveal a type of altar surrounded by candles. A large round table sat in the middle of the room, and candelabras stood on every conceivable surface.

  As Mama Dedé lit several candles, a soft glow drew stark shadows from the corners of the room, like dark moths to a flame.

  Frank sat the serving tray of coffee on the big round table and took a seat next to Armand.

  Del had never been in the parlor before, as it was always kept locked, but suddenly realized there was far more to Mama Dedé than she knew.

  Once the idle chatter passed, Mama Dedé began: “OK boys, out wit it.” She looked from Frank to Armand and settled there. “Why’d you call dis meetin’?”

  “Well Mama Dedé,” Frank said, “we think we got us a bad problem.”

  She looked at Frank, resting her chin on the back of her folded hands and said, “Can’t Armand tell da story?” Turning to Armand she said, “That’s a handsome mustache, Armand. I admire a man that can grow such a handsome mustache. Why can’t you grow no mustache Frank? Yes, that’s a handsome mustache alright.”

  Frank sat open-mouthed, with the tip of his cigar drooping down.

  Mama Dedé turned back to Frank with a wink and said, “Oh Frank, lighten up. I’m just jerkin’ ya! Get on with your story now before I need to pee.”

  Frank perked up and repeated the story of the dead body in the swamp, Loo’siana Slim and the boy found on the dock. Mama Dedé assumed a more serious posture and listened intently.

  When he reached the part about the skull being licked clean, she leaned her girth back in the chair. It protested loudly. Her fingers locked over her round stomach.

  “So why you comin’ to me?” she finally asked. “You need protectin’ from da man you chasin’?”

  “Tell her about the grimoire,” Armand said.

  Mama Dedé eyed Armand carefully. “What grimoire?”

  “Yeah, I was gettin’ there,” Frank said.

  He then told her about the book he’d found in Sharon’s house, which looked identical in some aspects to a second book.

  “A second book,” she said. “Where?”

  At this point Armand lifted a thin leather satchel he’d been carrying, placed the bag in his lap and patted it lightly.

  “What you got there, Frenchy?”

  Armand nodded slowly and took the books from his bag and placed them on the table.

  Mama Dedé leaned forward in her chair and inspected the books for a moment, then opened each one carefully.

  She muttered under her breath and nodded as she read; many spells and incantations she recognized. When she finally turned to the poem verse in Sharon’s book she drew back with a gasp.

  “Oh lawd,” she said quietly, reading it slowly.

  She looked from Frank to Armand, and they both nodded to the second book. She flipped a few more pages, then found the other passage.

  “Oh lawd, say it ain’t so.”

  Armand pointed his finger at his grimoire and said, “‘L’un des trois.’ One of three,” then pointed at Sharon’s book and said, “‘Trois de trois.’ Three of three.”

  “Oh my Lawd! It cain’t be!” she said, struggling to stand up. She walked quickly to a shelf and pulled down a small book. It was a bible. “The Lawd needs to help us all now. ‘Specially you.”

  She turned and looked at Del.

  Slow surprise crept into Del’s face. “What do you mean, me?” she asked.

  “It’s about time we had a chat honey,” Mama Dedé said, smoothing the edges of the old bible before gripping it tightly. “If this thing is happening, we got to see how far it’s gone and see if it can be undone. You got to be ready.”

  “Ready? Ready for what?” Del said. “How does this have anything—”

  Mama Dedé raised a heavily ringed hand and said, “Hush up, girl. Now all of you listen to what Mama Dedé has to say.”

  The candles flickered angrily in protest against the heavy gloom that fell about the room.

  “I think you all are talkin’ about da Gris-gris man, you know that?”

  Del jumped at the word. “Oh my god, you know that name? My friend Jimmy was just singing a weird nursery rhyme about him.”

  “Jimmy? That boy you was tellin’ me about?”

  “Yes,” Del said. “He got in trouble the other day for singing a strange nursery rhyme about… this man. It got stuck in his head and he couldn’t stop singing it.”

  The group looked from face to face, judging the others’ concern.

  Mama Dedé said, “Da Gris-gris man is bad business. An old spirit dat got killed off a long time back. If it came back somehow, ain’t nobody safe. ‘Specially you.” She looked at Del again.

  Throwing her arms up, Del started to protest.

  “Quiet. Just listen.”

  “But how—”

  “Quiet!”

  “Mama Dedé,” Armand said, “if I may. You just said ‘the Gris-gris man,’ but then described it as a spirit that got killed off. Which is it?”

  “It’s both. Or at least, it’s some combination of both. It started as a man. A long time ago a man named Dr. John got to be—”

  “Dr. John?” Armand interrupted. “Jean Montanee, also known as Dr. John? Who had the famous feud with Marie Laveau?”

  “That would be da one. They lived da same time you know; eighteen-hundreds there about. They both got to be mad powerful in da Voodoo ways. Marie, she used hers for good… and for makin’ money, but mostly for good. John, he got to workin’ it da other way. Oh, he made plenty of money with it, I hear, and helped lotsa people too, but sometimes he did bad business. Black business.”

  “And that’s why they called him the Gris-gris man?” Armand asked.

  “After he got to doin’ da black business and shapin’, he changed. People say that somethin’ inside him just snapped. Some people say it wasn’t even John no more, and that it wasn’t really his fault, ‘cause he got tricked. Either way, people got afraid to say his name for fear of callin’ da spirit after ‘em, so they took to talkin’ about da Gris-gris man so people knew da difference.”

  Armand nodded thoughtfully. “Did you say ‘shaping’?”

  “Yeah, shape changin’, shapin’. Stories say that he got so good wit da old Voodoo spells, he could call up spirits. It was one of them spirits that taught him how to shape.” />
  “Wait,” Del said, “we’re talking about a legend of someone being able to change their shape? Really?”

  “Yeah, that’s what they say.”

  “No, I meant we’re really going to explain the recent murders with this myth?” Del said.

  “Del,” Frank started.

  “No, that’s OK,” Mama Dedé said. “I know da girl don’t got da belief. She got to work her mind to it.”

  “But real shape changing?” Armand said. “What could he change into?”

  “That’s da problem. John did all kind of black business: tricked people out of money, cursed people for money, let dead folks speak through him for money, even tried to raise a few dead folks I heard, but don’t know if he did that. And he could change into about whatever he wanted, but when he got to shapin’, he usually picked a mean ol’ animal like a wild hog sometimes, or a gator.”

  Frank choked on his sip of coffee and coughed loudly, interrupting the story. “Sorry, sorry,” he said through a strangled voice, coughing again. “A gator?” Frank asked. “He change into a gator?”

  “That’s what they say. I hear that he got so used to it, and if someone done him wrong, he’d trick ‘em and change them into somethin’, then eat em up! Yeah, da Gris-gris man was bad tricky.

  “He thought he was da trickiest, until he crossed Marie. Then he met his match.”

  “Marie Laveau, you mean?” Armand asked. “Yes, what about her? Was their feud real? And if so, what caused it?”

  “Yeah, it was real, alright. Some say that he was Marie’s mentor in da Voodoo, but some say she was his. Anyway, when John started cattin’ around after she had the baby, she—”

  “What? John and Marie had a child?”

  “Two, actually. A boy and a girl. They both had some other kids already, and never were right for each other, but they couldn’t keep away for a while. They were each other’s own, dark drug, if you know what I mean.

  “But when he went back to cattin’ and she kicked him out, he got to doin’ more black business. Finally, she cut ties with him completely and that’s when da feud started.