by G A Chase
Back in her apartment, Kendell held Sanguine so tightly that she thought her arms might give out. “What the hell happened? I was so worried about you.”
The woman’s long blond hair, which Kendell had only seen soaked in sweat and swamp water, now cascaded in soft, vanilla-scented waves around her face.
“The plan worked,” she answered.
Kendell’s irritation threatened to replace her feeling of relief. “You have to do better than that. Where’s Colin Malveaux, Baron Samedi, the fucking cane? I’m not some tourist gawker asking out of curiosity. I need to know.” She let go of Sanguine and sat next to Cheesecake and Myles for the long-awaited answer.
“Now that my grandmother’s life’s work is complete, I guess I can tell you. Agnes Delarosa wasn’t your run-of-the-mill swamp witch. Her mother, my great-grandmother, was the one who Marie Laveau originally trusted as curse guardian. Agnes was born to watch over the Malveaux curse. With Baron Malveaux in Guinee and all of his cursed possessions well hidden, that meant, for over a hundred years, her primary duty was to sit and watch. But she was also an oracle. She knew what was coming. She had mad skills as a witch, and she had nothing but time. Do you really think I was the one to invent Colin’s hell?”
Though Kendell knew the living side of voodoo, Myles was more versed in what actually went on in Guinee. Fortunately, he didn’t sound as suspicious and hostile as he did with Delphine. “Your grandmother built the hell, and you forced Colin into it?”
“I didn’t force anything. He could have stopped chasing after the cane. My grandmother knew he’d become the ‘rabid dog’ as she called him. Not everything was clear to her. Oracles often see patterns more than actual events. She’d hoped Lincoln Laroque would change his ways, but in case he didn’t, she wanted to make sure she’d be the first to know his plans. Baron Samedi’s cane was like a meaty bone she waved in front of him to see how he’d react.”
Kendell could tell Sanguine was stalling. “I’m well aware of the Laroque family’s obsession with power. And no one understands Baron Malveaux better than Myles. What we need to understand is what cage your grandmother built to contain Colin.”
Sanguine rolled her eyes like a high-school girl trying to talk her way out of detention. “That’s what I’m trying to explain to you. There’s no version of hell in Wicca. Even voodoo only has Guinee, which isn’t really sufficient at holding someone prisoner. Answer me this. What’s the opposite of the deep waters?”
Kendell turned to Myles, who’d spent far more of his life studying the subject.
“The deep waters are the sum total of all human souls,” he said. “It’s the universal connection we all experience in life but can’t define. So I guess the opposite would be complete isolation.”
“Exactly. Agnes referred to Colin as the family’s fulfillment. What she meant was all of the Laroque’s ambition had been bred into Lincoln. Those physical traits that were painstakingly cultivated by intermarrying members of the family—and only bringing in outside partners if they added to the gene pool—was only the outward manifestation of their goal. The family elders distilled all the greed and lust for power into Lincoln. Then, when he ingested the baron himself, Agnes knew her life’s calling had reached its end. Imagine all that greed taken out of the deep waters. Her work was to improve humanity by cutting out the cancer.”
Myles took his time responding, which told Kendell he too saw Sanguine as a younger sister who’d done her best. “I can see the allure of doing something that seemed like an ultimate good. Such actions don’t come along often. I guess, in her shoes, I might have spent my life trying to remove some greed from the human experience as well, even if it only amounted to a small modicum of that vice. Our worry—and this comes from the loas of the dead—is what’s holding him in your grandmother’s creation? Does he have Baron Samedi’s cane? Because if he does, your grandmother is up against a far more powerful adversary than she thinks. And what happened to Baron Samedi? Is he also in this new version of hell? If Colin Malveaux were to break out of this prison—either into Guinee or what we know of as life—we may be facing a devil we can’t control.”
Sanguine stamped her foot. “You know, you can be a real buzzkill.”
* * *
Colin came to on the side of a gravel road. The hard-driving rain mixed with the blood running from the cuts on his face and arms and dyed the swamp water a deep brown. Attracted by the scent, crawfish swarmed around him and pinched voraciously at every piece of exposed skin.
He was still alive. The realization created an insane, hysterical laugh that he struggled to control. From the lack of hurricane-force winds, he knew the storm had passed. However, the black clouds continued to cover the sky so thoroughly he couldn’t guess if it was day or night.
The pragmatist in him argued he needed to assess his strengths. The sheets of rain made it hard to see. Off in the distance, his once-pristine SUV was wheels up in the swamp. It took him longer to spot Delphine’s old Cadillac, which Sanguine had stolen, at the end of the road. He’d have missed it, but as it was hanging precariously fifty feet up in a tree, it made the limbs creak and crack with every sigh of wind.
Sanguine was nowhere to be seen. He found comfort in the fact she wasn’t towering over him with her look of artificial superiority. With any luck, the wind that had taken the Caddy had also whisked her far out into the bayou.
He needed to get up and find out what had happened. Those answers weren’t to be found by lying at the side of the road. Every muscle hurt as he rolled over and attempted to push himself up off the ground. The effort set his side ablaze. Cracked ribs.
He fell onto his back and performed a more careful assessment of his body’s condition. He could move his arms and hands. They were bloody but functional. Next, he tried bending his knees. Though his left leg performed as expected, his right leg remained in the swamp, where the crawfish were rushing to resume their meal. The rain was noticeably darker as it ran into his right eye. He touched the gash in his forehead, trying to measure its length and depth. He needed something to stop the bleeding.
Despite his privileged upbringing, Colin had learned the basic first-aid skills any kid born in the South had been taught from earliest childhood. He stripped off his once-elegant coat, now torn to shreds, and his silk shirt, which hadn’t fared any better. Finally, he tore his cotton T-shirt to ribbons and bandaged his head and arms. Making a splint for his leg took a little more ingenuity, but the edge of the bayou was full of driftwood swept down from the Mississippi.
After an hour of wallowing around in the mud, he made another attempt at standing. His ribs still burned so badly that he found it hard to breathe, but otherwise his medical skills seemed sufficient for him to save himself from the mudbugs.
Flashes of lightning over Lake Pontchartrain backlit the New Orleans skyline. Not a single building had power, but at least he knew where he was headed. He estimated the Quarter to be twenty miles away, but with any luck he’d run across someone willing to help within a mile or two. People had a way of riding out the storm rather than risk losing what little they had to looters. Wheel ruts in the gravel were filled with water, but not a car was to be seen. Stay here and die, or get walking. He took one last look around the scene of destruction, seeing no cane, no Baron Samedi, not even the evil old swamp witch who thought she’d won. If that was her version of hell, it looked an awful lot like the reality he remembered.
With each step, he felt his confidence returning. Sanguine had failed. The old swamp witch had failed. Even Baron Samedi had failed. Colin might not have the cane, but he had his life. As long as he existed, he could fight his way back. Battered and bruised was not the way to leave an adversary, especially one with so much power. All they’d managed to do was piss him off.
By the time he found the main road, he was itching for a fight. The pain in his leg and ribs only added to his rage. He looked both ways down the deserted highway, searching for some sign of life he could exploit. The o
nly movement was the continual driving rain. No matter. The closer I get to the Quarter, the more cowering people will be longing for a leader. Despite his injuries, he no longer needed help. As always, he would take what he wanted.
As he approached the town of Gretna, he wondered if everyone had finally grown brains and left when they’d gotten the order to evacuate. Not a single car was on the freeway. He listened intently for any buzz of a home generator. All he heard was the continuous storm.
The day had been incredibly long. He needed to get out of the weather, attend to his bandages, and get something to eat. If the neighborhoods really were empty, then each house was fair game. The first street he turned down looked as if the residents had prepared for a zombie apocalypse. The houses weren’t just boarded up—they’d been covered in welded metal sheeting. What the hell were you people expecting? The next street was no better. He shook his head at the residents’ paranoia. Even after Katrina, the small bedroom community had turned its back on New Orleans’s refugees. He couldn’t expect much better of people while a storm was still raging.
He returned to the freeway and braced himself for walking the whole way to New Orleans. I’ve made it this far. Even from the small suburb, he could see his penthouse looming from atop the highest skyscraper in the city. With each burst of lightning, he raised his head and felt his office beckoning him home. Fuck ’em all.
A nagging thought finally took hold of him as he approached the Crescent City Connection, which crossed the Mississippi River. He hadn’t found evidence of a single person. It seemed beyond improbable that every man, woman, and child had run from the storm. He started looking for evidence that anyone was still manning the infrastructure that kept the city going. Not a single light shone in any window of any building. In cases of power outages, some buildings always had their own generators. He stared over the edge of the bridge. Ships needed attending to, even in the worst weather. Not only were there no longshoremen, no ships were there, either.
Panic was not an emotion he’d ever accepted. No matter how long the odds were, he always found a way of turning the tables on those who would defeat him. I must get to my office. From there, I can figure out a plan. Dogged determination had served him well in the past. All he had to do was hold fast to one course of action. He dragged his splinted leg with renewed vigor.
His anger grew when he hobbled off the freeway and onto the city streets. He looked up and yelled at the storm, “I’m not buying it! You hear me? There are always cars on the streets. No way every vehicle gets out of town. Your simulation sucks, so you can just knock it off right now.”
He knew he was talking to himself. Even if the old swamp witch was getting even with him for bonding with Baron Malveaux, she wasn’t about to answer him. My vengeance is going to be swift and merciless. Now that he knew the game, the time had come to start planning his moves.
***
Want the fourth book in the Malveaux Curse series? Get it here:
Voodoo You Love
G.A.’s Newsletter
Connect with G.A. on Facebook
Website
Book List
Technopia Series:
(writing as Greg Chase)
Creation
Evolution
Damnation
Salvation
The Malveaux Curse Mysteries :
(writing as G.A. Chase)
Dog Days of Voodoo
You, Me, and the Voodoo Queen
Oops! I Voodooed Again
Voodoo You Love
Voodoo You Think You Are
Look What You Made Me Voodoo
Love Me Like Voodoo
The Devil’s Daughter:
(writing as G.A. Chase)
Hell in a Head Gasket
Other Stories
Through the Lens
About the Author
G.A. Chase is the pen name for Greg Chase. He is a science fiction and paranormal author living in New Orleans with his wife, fellow author Deanna Chase, and their two shih tzu dogs. On any given day you can find him behind his computer, people watching in the Quarter, or out in his studio creating stories in glass. His glass work can be found at www.chase-designs.com.
www.gregchaseauthor.com
