by G A Chase
The soldier began fading in the pale light. “I no longer exist.”
In his place sat the old witch. “I summoned him from the dead to give you answers. Though I can see your future, I can’t stop you. My time on Earth is nearing its end. A new generation will take up the battle.”
“I have no intention of releasing the baron, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I worry you won’t know which side of the leash you’re on. Close your eyes, and you’ll enter the curse. Survive until morning, and I’ll let you off the island. Should you become the rabid dog, though, I’ll put you down.”
He didn’t doubt she had the power to carry out her threat, but her days were numbered. “I have no intention of being possessed. He’ll find the leash is attached to a choke collar.”
“Brave words.”
The room faded to black, and nightmares filled his mind—deaths from the curse in vivid, emotional detail with him as both the victim and the villain. He experienced every life that had been tortured by the baron’s deeds—from the women he’d forced into prostitution, to Anthony’s sister Serephine as the pipe tool slit her delicate young wrist, all the way to Marilyn Fontenot, who died recently on that parade float. The fear experienced by the victims, however, paled in comparison to the adrenaline-filled rush of excitement as the curse fulfilled its destiny.
By morning, he understood what the witch had meant by getting lost in the connection of the curse to the baron. A rabid dog sought only to kill, and he’d tasted of that bloodlust. A wild animal, however, lacked control. The curse wasn’t the source of power, but it would hold him to the baron. The untamed aggression they shared would unite them in a common cause.
He stumbled from the cot and made his way to the living room. “I’m still human.”
Everything had been a dream.
The witch hadn’t moved from her chair. “That is yet to be seen.”
* * *
Back in his office, Lincoln paced around the crudely carved voodoo fetish like a cat stalking his prey. Since he had gained control, he needed to figure out how to release the trapped spirit. The anticipation of finally commanding so much aggression mixed with his anxiety of the unknown.
He sat in his office chair and stared the figure in the face. What he should do was call Delphine for a consultation. She’d secured the baron, so she would surely know how to release him. Doing so would probably involve some incantation and stinking up his office with perfume. Knowing the old goat, Lincoln figured a sacrificial virgin might even be involved.
Trusting Delphine, however, had never given him exactly what he’d wanted. Like all her ancestors before her, she had an unnerving habit of mixing in some personal vendetta, escape clause, or stipulation into her voodoo spells. The last thing he wanted was someone else tugging at the leash. This is between me and you, mon pere. He tapped his fingers on his glass desk to ease his need for action.
Light from his office’s floor-to-ceiling windows reflected off the antique blue glass bottle nestled in a fur-and-leather-lined cavity in the belly of the statue. A thick dark liquid filled half of the square container. He knew what he had to do. Controlling the baron would only be another frustrating rung up the ladder. He wanted the power himself, not just to control it. You stole from the gods. That’s the kind of supremacy I seek.
Before he had time to think about what he was doing, he plunged his hand into the hole and wrested the jar out of the belly of the voodoo doll. As he removed the bottle, prickly needles that felt as if they were from a miniature porcupine lodged in his skin, but the liquid fully occupied his attention. He used his fingernails to peel the wax-sealed cap off the top. The smell of death from the small opening filled his nose as if the liquid was trying to reach out and pull him in. I haven’t come all this way to stop now. He lifted the bottle to his lips and upended it into his mouth, draining it in one shot.
The stuff tasted like tar thinned with rum. As it spread down his throat like molasses, the acidic vapor filled his nose and sinuses. Even his ears felt as though the viscous fluid was backing up into his Eustachian tubes. His eyes burned. He tossed the empty bottle onto his desk and grabbed the arms of his chair. His natural bodily reaction was to vomit the vile substance from his stomach, but his inner control kept him in his seat. He was headed for death or omnipotent power—no turning back.
The feeling of black death spreading down his throat didn’t stop at his stomach. A chill radiated out from his heart as if it were pumping liquid nitrogen instead of blood. He leaned back in his chair, certain he was facing the end of his life. Hopefully, this stuff only kills and doesn’t turn me into a zombie.
“You should be so lucky.” The voice he heard was his, but deeper and darker. It reminded him of the fluid he’d consumed.
Lincoln knew it was the baron, but instead of carrying on a conversation with him, the banker’s memories from the 1800s intermixed with Lincoln’s. Once he had the man’s life melded with his, the spirit’s observations from watching the living for a hundred and fifty years in Guinee revealed themselves. Lincoln struggled to maintain a sense of identity as he was overcome by a multitude of thoughts and memories that were becoming his own. I am my own leash. The baron would become a part of him, not the other way around.
His human brain could only hold so much information, though. Like a computer that had been tasked with too many simultaneous processes, he sat frozen in his chair, unable to form a coherent thought. In desperation, he closed his eyes and hoped for sleep.
* * *
By the time the morning sun crept over the river and lit up his office, Lincoln Laroque had absorbed a life that had spread over two hundred years. His mind had rebooted. The baron Malveaux was no more, but every thought, memory, and accomplishment was now an integral part of Lincoln—as were all of the evil spirit’s lusts and powers.
Having the memories and understanding them, however, were two very different things. His right palm itched. Though it had been the hand he’d thrust into the statue, the tiny thorns had covered the back of his hand, not the palm. No matter what he grabbed, the irritation wouldn’t abate. Something was missing. He had to get up and move. Sitting behind a desk all day wasn’t the way to live.
He passed his secretary as he left his office. “I’m going to Gottlieb’s. I need some new suits. This thing feels like it’s made of burlap.”
“Didn’t you just buy that one last week? I can call Brooks Brothers. They have your measurements on file.”
Was I ever so naïve? “Not this time.” A new suit wasn’t just about the attire. It took an old-style haberdasher who understood his trade to properly fit a gentleman of means, and a man of power had to look the part. Being at the top of the business world had meant the most expensive, but traditional, suit he could find. As a peer of the gods, he needed something that would stand out. Then I’ve got a score to settle.
Walking helped calm his nerves and settle the old memories in with the new. Each street he saw, along with every building he passed, developed a personal history within his mind, stretching back through the two hundred years of his shared consciousness. The nagging sensation that something was missing, however, only increased with each step. His hand tingled as though he’d slept on it. Flexing and shaking to get the blood moving, however, did nothing to alleviate the feeling of pins and needles jabbing his fingers.
From his experience possessing Myles’s body, he knew the old tailor at Gottlieb’s could whip up a suit with only a moment’s notice, provided enough cash was involved in the transaction. At the time, he had insisted on the long coats of a bygone area and fashionably colorful vests, and the establishment had found it profitable to bow to his whims of fashion. A well-appointed section of the haberdashery looked equal parts steampunk gallery and museum. The combination worked perfectly for his desires.
The tailor was at his side the moment he started inspecting the silk linings. “These aren’t just reproductions of a past age. We custom design
ed them to be light enough to fit comfortably even in the heat of summer.”
Of course, the man didn’t recognize Lincoln. The baron had possessed Myles’s body when last they’d met.
“I’m seeking a unique look,” Lincoln said. “It’s not to be a costume but something I could wear every day. Suddenly, normalcy has grown boring to me.”
“I understand completely, sir. Top hat and tails but with an eye toward modern comfort more than the avant-garde.”
The differing aspects of Lincoln were finding their place in his new reality. “I’d like some specially monogrammed items as well. Put your designer on creating a calligraphic CM for Colin Malveaux, with skulls ornamenting the three angles of the M.”
The name fit. Condensing Lincoln to something less Yankee and reclaiming his birthright mixed the two versions of what he knew of himself, but something was still missing.
The old man fitted the last of the accoutrements to the new suit. “Colin” turned toward the mirror to inspect each aspect of the new attire. The powerful businessman would be laughed out of any boardroom in the silky black garment with blood-red lining and accessories. “I’m still missing something.”
“The leather top hat is being sized. It will be ready momentarily. How would you like this order billed?”
“I’ll be opening a new account. Put it under Colin Malveaux.”
As he left the shop, he kicked the threshold and nearly fell. Instinctively, he tried to plant his walking stick for stability. It wasn’t in his hand. I need that cane!
A sense of panic swept through him such as he’d never experienced. Emotional control had been his hallmark in business. The sudden feeling came from his newfound memories. He leaned against the doorframe and closed his eyes to retrieve the source of his apprehension. A single word dominated his thoughts: power.
Despite his owning all the baron’s old memories, some were buried so deep he had to approach them with care. Whatever he’d done as Baron Malveaux was carefully hidden from anyone who might probe his thoughts, and that included the new owner of that history.
Source of power.
The additional words illuminated what was really missing. Somehow, the walking stick had connected him to the beyond—to the loa from whom he’d stolen his power. In the rush of so many memories, he’d lost track of his ultimate desire. But where is that damn cane? He traced back through the memories of his mother handing over the black stick with the silver-skull handle in the bank. The feeling of being completely back among the living with the cane in his hand left him all the more desperate to find it.
Those damn kids! He’d been abducted. When they’d taken the burlap sack off his head on the far side of the river, the cane was missing. He needed to find those responsible for his kidnapping. In all likelihood, they didn’t even know what they’d stolen.
As much as he wanted revenge for having been removed from that idiot Myles and imprisoned in the voodoo fetish, that retaliation would have to wait. They were his only link to what had happened to his cane. Without that mystical stick, he was no more than a repository of useless history. He’d also find it pointless to confront his family without proof of his claim to the proverbial throne.
Conflicting emotions vied for dominance when he thought about confronting Kendell. As Baron Malveaux, he’d suffered her success at removing him from her boyfriend, but even that misogynistic side of him admired her strength and resilience. No matter what had been thrown at her—kidnapping her dog, abducting her friends, even possessing her boyfriend—she’d found a way to strike back. As Lincoln Laroque, he’d played with her like a cat toying with a mouse. He’d first threatened those she loved then offered her and her band musical fame and fortune to gain her cooperation.
His age-old natural desire for conflict confronted his modern education as he considered turning an enemy into an ally. The question was which option would work best on the bohemian young woman. Though bedding her would fulfill the threat he’d made to Myles, Colin feared giving in to the baron’s lust for aggressive sexual domination might make him emotionally vulnerable. Whether she ended up an adversary or ally, that moron of a boyfriend would have to go.
49
Myles’s considered opinion about all the dead people who kept showing up was that the only reasonable response was to get blind, stinking drunk. Not a single member of the recently dead had passed from natural causes—stabbed, shot, drugged, beaten, hit with a car, or fallen off a motorcycle. He was beginning to feel that mass murderer might be his next career move. He was certainly learning the moves from the victim’s perspective.
Also, the loas of the dead weren’t any help. Though he kept showing up at the gates of the cemeteries with the recently dead, like some Uber hearse driver for the soul, not a single guardian stuck around long enough to explain his latest predicament.
He poured another glass from a half-empty bottle of Captain Morgan. Typically, he preferred mixed drinks, but being alone in his apartment wasn’t a party. His goal was complete intoxication, and the faster, the better. After midnight on a hot, humid Friday in summer, the dead showed up like traveling bands of Jehovah’s witnesses. Unfortunately, not one of them had the good manners to wait at the door. At least then, he could ignore them. Maybe his being drunk would convince the unfortunate souls that he wasn’t their best choice in spiritual transportation.
“Feeling a little sorry for yourself, don’t you think?”
Myles looked up to see Papa Ghede pushing a glass across the table toward the bottle of rum. The diminutive original conveyor of the dead to the afterlife wore his traditional dusty top hat and tails along with his ever-annoying smile.
Myles did his best not to slur his words. “You’ve got some explaining to do.”
“Did you really think all that travel back and forth to the deep waters wouldn’t have some lasting effect on your life? The living don’t see the underlying truth, but you do. Once a person dies, they’re no longer distracted by life’s experiences. All their senses—sight, smell, touch, hearing, taste—along with earthly desires and daily emotions are all washed away. Ask yourself, what’s a person left with?”
He wanted to toss the glass at the first human who’d ever died. “You know damn well that’s how I access the other side. I focus on what I am when everything I know about life is removed. All I’m left with is the realization I’m not a separate being but actually a part of every other living thing.”
Papa Ghede stopped waiting for Myles to pour the drink and did the honors himself. “That’s why the recently dead find you. Everyone else is busy focusing on their own lives. You are aware. Plus, you’re an associate of the loas of the dead. That makes you our natural go-between.”
“I’m pretty positive I didn’t ask for the job. You can’t just go around making people do what you want.”
The man’s smile never left his face. “I can, actually, but for the most part, I choose not to. Did you really think that time you spent in Guinee talking to all the other loas was just about getting you out from the baron’s possession? They were interviewing you. If you really didn’t want to be one of us, you shouldn’t have made all those trips to our domain. A member of the living stopping by the land of the dead doesn’t go unnoticed, and someone like you, who can make the trip so effortlessly, piques our interest. Still, we would have left you alone had you not started bringing people with you. I’m afraid this is really all your doing, my friend.”
Myles downed another shot of rum. The old man’s words rang a little too true. Even when he had tried to prove to Kendell that he wasn’t imagining things, he knew he was, in part, showing off. Nothing good ever came from being arrogant.
“Then at least tell me what the job of loa of the dead entails,” Myles said. “I seem to have missed my orientation.”
The man’s smile burst into a full-throated laugh. “I’ve spent two hundred thousand years in Guinee. The other loas aren’t as experienced as I, but each of them has paid their dues. Y
ou’ll be more like our errand boy. Consider it a promotion from greeter to the dead. From time to time, there will be favors we’ll ask of you. Being a part of the living makes you more fit for some of the chores that come along with accepting a newly dead person.”
“If I agree to help, will you stop the recently deceased from showing up at all hours and all places? I feel like I’m losing my mind. In case you didn’t know, it’s not natural for people with gunshot wounds to just stroll up to someone and ask to be escorted to a cemetery.”
Papa Ghede set his glass next to the bottle. “If that’s what it takes, we have a deal. No more dead spirits looking for guidance. You’ll only see them if we’ve agreed on our side that you can help and we can’t.”
“I could still use a little guidance. After all, if you’re sending me on a mission you can’t accomplish yourself, it’s probably not as simple as pouring drinks at the bar.”
He nodded toward the bottle. “Get a better brand of rum. That one’s not fit for a proper loa of the dead. Anytime you need to talk, pull it out, and pour two drinks. One of us will find our way to you.”
Myles’s drunken fog made conducting an informed negotiation hard. “Would it be too rude to ask what’s in it for me? So far, this arrangement sounds more like extortion.”
“Payment will be commensurate with the task. Remember, you created this problem. Many in Guinee would be happier to see you pass on to the deep waters permanently. We guard the gates. You coming and going as you please is like an unruly schoolboy who jumps fences just for the fun of it. By repeatedly trespassing into our domain, you’ve shown others they might be able to neglect our position as guardians as well. What I’m offering you is legitimacy, kind of like how a police detective might hire a criminal.”
Myles had never considered how his flights of psychometry might not be looked on favorably by spirits from the other side. “So if I help you, I can continue to visit the reservoir of humanity without opening a breach between the living and the dead?”
