Black Dust Mambo

by Adrian Phoenix

  Layne paused in the room’s threshold. The pain knotting around his heart had nothing to do with his broken ribs. “I’m going to get his body ready,” he said, voice rough. “He woulda done the same for me. No matter what.”

  Behind him, Mc Kenna sighed, but said nothing more.

  With a tap of his fingers against the door frame, Layne walked into the room and to the bed. Gage lay half on his side, half on his belly near the edge of the bed where Kallie and her friend had pushed him, pillows propped against his back.

  “We need to get him off that bed, first of all,” Mc Kenna said, eyeing the hex on the mattress. “Probably safe to touch him since he’s no longer in contact with the spell.”

  “You sure about that?” Layne barely suppressed a convulsive shudder as he remembered the feel of the hex’s tainted magic rampaging through his body.

  “No,” Mc Kenna admitted. “I’m not sure. But if you go to me room and fetch me staff—”

  “Nuh-uh. You ain’t sending me off on some errand and then taking all the risks yourself, woman.” Layne held Mc Kenna’s dark gaze. “I know you.”

  She tilted her head. “You think you do, anyway. But you only know what I’ve allowed you to know.”

  Layne glanced up at the ceiling and counted to ten, refusing to take the bait. “I know you think you’d be protecting me because I don’t have any real magic skill,” he said, returning his gaze to hers, “through no fault of your own. I couldn’t have asked for a better shuvani because one doesn’t exist. But it’s just not in me—not the way it is . . . was . . . with Gage.”

  Was. The word hollowed out Layne’s heart.

  “Ah, but yer wrong, lad. The two of you worked so well together, completing and enhancing each other’s spells,” she said, a sad smile brushing her lips. “You were true brothers-in-magic.” She looked at Gage’s body. The smile vanished from her lips. “I won’t lose you too. Now go fetch me staff.”

  Layne bent and kissed the top of Mc Kenna’s head.

  “Thanks, buttercup, I appreciate it, but I ain’t leaving. Fetch your own damned staff.” He straightened.

  “Man-stupid.” Mc Kenna’s hand snapped up and caught a fistful of dreads. Yanked. Pain rippled across Layne’s scalp. She yanked again. Then once more. His eyes watered. Grip of steel, that woman, but he refused to give her any satisfaction.

  “Did you want something?” he asked, pleased at the levelness of his voice.

  “I wanna knock some sense into yer head, but since yer head seems to be lacking a brain, there’s no point in the knocking.” She gave his captured dreads one more eye-stinging yank before releasing them. “So I’ll settle fer keeping you alive and on yer path.”

  Curling his hands into fists in order to keep from rubbing at his scalp, Layne asked, “And what path is that, Kenn? Not many are laid out for a Vessel.”

  “You’ve already lived longer than most Vessels and, except for occasional bouts of man-stupidity, yer still sane.”

  “That’s me, breaking records all over the place. Spill—what path?”

  Mc Kenna walked away, pacing around to the opposite side of the bed, her fingers smoothing and twisting locks of nearly black hair into points along her temples and cheeks, a rakish and sexy habit that Layne still enjoyed watching. But right now, she was using it to distract him. Not going to work.

  “What path?” he repeated.

  Mc Kenna looked at him, her hand dropping to her side. Her lovely face held a careful neutrality that he recognized as the Teacher, and he knew he wouldn’t get his answer. Or he would, but his answer would be twisted into a riddle impossible to unwind.

  “Answer hazy,” she replied. “Try again later.”

  “Will I need to shake you first?” Layne growled.

  “Oh, what a rare pleasure, truly,” a female voice with a posh British accent cut in. “I’ve never met a human Magic 8 Ball before.”

  Layne spun around, automatically reaching for the gun normally tucked into his jeans, but it wasn’t there, and pain rippled hot and liquid through his chest with the movement. Vision peppered with black specks, he stumbled. “Shit.”

  Hands gripped his arms before he could fall—inquisitive, touchy-feely hands, sliding along his forearms and caressing his biceps—and guided him to a chair.

  “My, my, my, aren’t we well built and firm?” the British voice murmured. “Here. Please sit down and catch your breath.”

  Layne half fell, half sat in the chair, then leaned his forearms against his thighs, lowered his head, and closed his eyes. His heart hammered against his aching ribs.

  “Who the hell are you?” Mc Kenna asked the woman Layne still felt standing beside him, an energetic, hummingbird-busy presence.

  “Felicity Fields. I’m Lord Augustine’s assistant. And may I extend my condolences for your loss?”

  “You may, but are you kidding me?” McKenna asked, her tone dubious, but Layne heard the humor beneath her words. “Felicity Fields sounds like the name of a Bond babe. You a double-O spy?”

  “No, but—my, my, my—what a fascinating possibility. A spy. Me. But no, I’m here because Lord Augustine asked me to tidy up the situation.”

  Layne opened his eyes at the woman’s words and lifted his head. “A man was fucking murdered. That ain’t something you can just tidy up.”

  Felicity Fields—tall and curvaceous in a knee-length rose-colored skirt belted at the waist below a gauzy white sleeveless blouse—met his gaze. A rose-colored Bluetooth cupped her right ear. Strawberry-blonde hair fell sleek to the tops of her shoulders, framing a fair-skinned and freckled face. She regarded Layne with sympathetic hazel eyes. “I’m referring to the physical aftermath, of course,” she said. “Not the emotional.”

  “You ain’t taking his body,” Layne said, rising to his feet.

  “The deceased was nomad,” Mc Kenna said. “You can’t.” Felicity frowned, a deep crease cutting into her forehead between her eyes. No Botox for this Bond babe. “I’m afraid my instructions say otherwise. We need to perform an autopsy to determine—”

  “That fucking hex on the mattress is what killed Gage,” Layne said. “No mystery there. Why don’tcha take a look? Perform an autopsy on that.”

  Her eyes brightened, and her smile made an encore performance. “Oh. My.” She drew in a shuddery breath. A happy shuddery breath.

  Now it was Layne’s turn to frown. Wasn’t my intention to turn the woman on.

  “We don’t need to know how Gage was killed,” Mc -Kenna said. “Or even why. We just need to know who created tha’ hex and where to find them.”

  “Then we’ll tidy things up,” Layne said.

  Felicity’s smile vanished beneath a rose-glossed frown. She darted over to the dresser on the other side of Layne’s chair and drummed her fingers against its lacquered surface, her nails clicking in a staccato rhythm. “My, my, my. A fascinating dilemma,” she murmured.

  Layne glanced at Mc Kenna, surprised at Felicity’s response. Her body practically vibrated as she considered the tin ceiling, mulling over their words, her fingernails click-click-clickety-clicking against the dresser. Layne half expected her to flit away to the nearest flower.

  Mc Kenna offered a half-shrug, expression bemused.

  “I hope you realize we ain’t asking permission,” Layne said. “We’re telling you how it’s gonna be. I’m taking Gage back to our room. What you do here after that, I couldn’t care less.”

  Felicity’s vibrations stilled, and she returned her attention to Layne. She nodded. “Given that the victim is nomad, perhaps we can waive the usual rules.”

  “You have enough murders during carnival to require rules?” McKenna asked.

  “The rules—the laws—aren’t just for carnival, my dear Lady 8 Ball.”

  The indignation that rippled across Mc Kenna’s face at her new and unwanted title didn’t faze Felicity one bit, provided the hummingbird Bond babe had even noticed. But Layne suspected that Felicity counted on being underestimate
d, suspected that maybe her mannerisms had been created with that goal in mind. Suspected that she missed very little.

  “We may be a society of conjurers, illusionists, and diviners,” Felicity continued, “a secretive minority bound by a common interest, but we’re still quite human. Therefore, Lady 8 Ball, we need laws to keep us safe even from one another.”

  “Call me ‘Lady 8 Ball’ again,” Mc Kenna muttered, her death-in-a-thousand-different-and-painful-ways glare fixed on Felicity, “an’ I’m gonna ring yer skull like a bell at a boxing match.”

  Excitement kindled in Felicity’s eyes. “Really?”

  Mc Kenna blinked, but managed to keep her death glare going. “Really.”

  “My, my, my.”

  Almost seeing the steam curling out from McKenna’s ears, Layne decided to break up the weird staring match by saying, “You know what you can do with your Alliance rules, right?”

  “Shove them where the sun doesn’t shine, perhaps?” Felicity responded, shifting her attention to him.

  Annnnnd mission accomplished.

  “Exactly.”

  “Ooooh.” All shuddery and breathy again.

  Layne walked back to the bed. He grabbed the blankets piled up at its foot and spread them out on the floor to cushion Gage’s coming fall.

  “What are you doing?” McKenna asked. “Ye’d better no’ be doing what I think yer doing.”

  “And that is?” Layne said, picking up the pillows. “Moving Gage.”

  “Gotta be done, Kenn.”

  “Well, then, I’m helping,” she muttered, then walked around to his side of the bed. “Yer just gonna hurt yerself.”

  “My, my, my. Fascinating.”

  Layne wasn’t sure what the Brit found so frigging fascinating—the quibbling nomads, their attempt to move a body, the possibility of more magic carnage—but he decided that if Felicity said fascinating or my, my, my one more time while they sweated over Gage’s body, he would toss her onto the mattress just to see if the hex was all used up or not.

  Handing Mc Kenna one of the blood-spattered pillows, Layne said, “On three.”

  Mc Kenna nodded, her elfin face dead serious. “Your count.”

  While Mc Kenna climbed onto the bed, kneeling at its head out of hex-touching range, Layne knelt on the mattress at the foot of the bed and pressed his pillow against Gage’s lower back.

  The fall won’t hurt him.

  And even though he knew nothing remained of Gage, that Gage’s body was as empty as a snake’s shed skin, tension coiled around Layne’s spine, knotting his muscles and radiating pain through his chest. Because his heart refused to believe, refused to let go of a breathing Gage.

  He’s just out cold. Too much booze. The fall will wake him up. Piss him off.

  I’ve gotcha, Gage.

  Glancing at Mc Kenna, Layne counted down. “One. Two. Three.” He shoved against the pillow hard at the same time Mc Kenna pushed hers against Gage’s shoulders. His clan-brother’s body rolled off the bed, hitting the floor with a heartbreaking thud. Layne released the pent-up breath he’d held.

  The fall didn’t hurt him. Can’t hurt him. Gage is gone.

  And as bad as that hurt, the death, the loss of his best friend and draíocht-brúthair, the knowledge that Gage no longer existed in any shape or form hurt worse.

  Dead, body and soul, because someone had intended to kill a dark-haired hoodoo beauty, but missed. He remembered Gage’s parting words before he’d left their shared hotel room: “Her eyes, bro, you should see her eyes. Purple-blue like hyacinths in sunlight. Fuck, man, she dazzles me.”

  The pillow fell from Layne’s hands onto the blighted mattress. He slid off the bed and knelt beside Gage’s sprawled body.

  “Well, that was easier than I expected,” Mc Kenna said, tossing her pillow onto the blankets, then scooting off the bed.

  Throat too tight for words, Layne nodded.

  She dropped to her knees beside Gage’s head. Her hands hovered above Gage’s black curls, yearning stark on her face. Then her hands clenched into fists.

  Layne looked away, a lump aching in his throat. He used a blanket to glove his hands, then straightened his clan-brother’s body and smoothed out his limbs.

  “Fasci—”

  “Don’t fucking say it,” Layne warned. “Or you’ll be trying that hex on for size.”

  Felicity’s side of the room fell so silent that Layne imagined he could hear crickets clear from the bayous outside the city. Smart woman.

  Layne folded the blankets closed over Gage’s face and nude body, finally able to give him back some dignity.

  “Ah, Gage,” Mc Kenna mourned, bowing her head.

  “I need you to contact the clan and let them know what’s happened,” Layne said, sitting back on his heels. Keep busy. Planning his next moves, thinking ahead, would shift his attention from his grief. “Let them know I ain’t returning until I’ve found Gage’s killer and dealt with him or her.”

  Mc Kenna lifted her head. Her dark eyes glistened with unshed tears. The corners of her mouth quirked up into a fierce smile. She nodded. “Aye. As his draíocht-brúthair, ye have the right. But you won’t be alone. As his shuvani, I have the right too, so I won’t be going back either. Together, we’ll avenge our Gage’s death.”

  “Or die trying,” Layne said.

  Blinking hard and fast, refusing tears—as always—Mc -Kenna rose to her feet. “I always knew it was more than yer looks and brawn that won me away from Raven clan.”

  Layne felt a smile curve his lips. “I thought I snuck into your camp, tossed you over my shoulder, and rode off with you.”

  “At my suggestion,” McKenna said with a half laugh, half sob. She wiped at her eyes with her knuckles. “I’ll contact the clan, let Frost know what’s happened here.”

  Layne nodded. “It’s bad enough that Gage is dead, but if his family knew that his soul was gone too, it’d destroy them. Ask her to keep that part secret.”

  “I’ll ask her,” McKenna said. “But I’ll bet it ain’t necessary. Yer mum’s a savvy and compassionate chieftain.”

  “I know. But I just wanna be sure.”

  “Where will you be?” McKenna asked.

  “In my room, preparing Gage for cremation.”

  “Nomad funeral rites,” Felicity said. “My, my—”

  Layne looked at her from beneath his lashes. “Hex,” he reminded.

  Felicity’s sentence remained unfinished.

  From out in the hall, Layne heard the sound of wheels squeaking along the carpet. He arrowed a look at Felicity. The Bond-babe Brit, vibrating with enough suppressed energy to make the pearl buttons on her blouse shimmy, met his gaze with a curious lift of her eyebrows.

  “If that’s the maid,” Layne said, “you’d better tell her to pass us by. If it’s anyone else, you’d better tell them to fuck off.”

  “Ah, nomads. So deliciously feral,” Felicity murmured. She tilted her head, strawberry-blonde locks curving against her face. Freckles were sprinkled across the bridge of her nose and across her cheeks. “I’d think that in your present condition, a gurney should come in handy. It should make transporting the deceased back to your room just a tad easier.”

  “She’s got a point there, lad.”

  Now that the adrenaline fueling him since he’d walked into Kallie’s room had burned off, weariness morphed Layne’s muscles into lead while pain crackled like lightning along his nerves. He wasn’t sure he could even get back onto his feet, let alone find a way to carry Gage back to their room.

  “Okay, fine, a gurney it is,” Layne said.

  As if summoned by his words, the metallic front end of a gurney poked in through the doorway. Felicity smoothed her hair back into place, then flitted over to greet the black-uniformed medic maneuvering the gurney into the room.

  Mc Kenna walked around behind Layne, then knelt. He felt her pull some of his dreads back and knot them around the rest, to keep them all out of his face. Knowing he’d need
them out of the way while he cared for Gage, and knowing the pain tying them back himself would cost at the moment, gratitude poured through him.

  “Thanks, buttercup,” he whispered.

  “No problem.” She leaned in and planted a warm kiss on his cheek. “How are you planning to start yer search for the killer?”

  “By staying close to Kallie Rivière. Whoever wanted her dead bad enough to kill her soul too ain’t gonna give up after just one try.”

  “Who says it was the first try?” Mc Kenna said, rising to her feet. “I’ll see if Basil-boy detained her and ferret out the situation. In the meantime you be careful and wait for me.”

  “I will,” Layne promised. McKenna’s words rang in his mind long after she’d walked out of the room. “Who says it was the first try?” An even darker thought of his own nipped at its heels: What if she deserves to die?

  EIGHT

  THE COLD ALTAR OF REVENGE

  Rosette St. Cyr’s fingers white-knuckled around the handle of her vacuum cleaner. She couldn’t believe her eyes. Didn’t want to believe her eyes.

  Flanked by black-suited Hecatean security, Kallie Rivière stalked down the hall in pink bathrobe and bare feet, chin up, her long hair a lustrous coffee-black stream down her back, her hands clenched into fists.

  Very much alive. And accused of murder.

  Lord Augustine paused long enough to help Rivière’s friend haul the unconscious Brûler back inside his room. Then, with a two-fingered salute, he strolled after the hoodoo student and her guards, the towel containing Rosette’s poppet clutched tight in his long-fingered hand and held out at a safe distance.

  The chilling conversation Rosette had overheard only a few moments before looped and twisted through her thoughts.

  “Seems like someone is killing hoodoos.”

  “Trying to, at least. Or perhaps someone is trying to make it look that way, yes? So far only a nomad conjurer has died. No hoodoos.”

  Rosette’s heart drummed a ferocious rhythm of denial against her ribs. Had Papa’s hex killed an innocent? And worse—an innocent’s soul?

  Icy bricks of dread plummeted to the pit of Rosette’s belly. If someone else had truly been killed . . .