Black Dust Mambo

by Adrian Phoenix

  The blues singer wailed about being a coldhearted cheatin’ man. Wailed about needing mercy from a cold-hearted cheatin’ woman.

  She thought of the name penned on the back of the Polaroid—GABI. She tossed back her daiquiri, wincing as brain freeze spiked icicles through her mind.

  “But . . . are you sure?”

  “Of course,” Kallie snapped, rubbing her forehead. “I know what my aunt looks like. That ain’t her. In either picture.”

  “I see,” Layne-Augustine said slowly, his perplexed expression making a liar of him. “Maybe she’s not your aunt, but she is Gabrielle LaRue. Do you happen to have a picture of your aunt?”

  Kallie nodded and reached a hand into her back pocket before remembering she didn’t have her cell phone. She groaned. “My stuff’s still sealed in my room.”

  “Does your aunt look anything like your mother?”

  “Yeah, she and Gabrielle look a lot alike. My tante’s older, though.”

  Relief flickered across the Brit’s face. “Then the odds are good that she’s truly your aunt and not someone posing as her. It would seem that we have a case of mistaken identity somewhere along the line.”

  “Yeah, obviously Rosette identified the wrong woman as my aunt. Shit, Augustine, what else could it mean?” But even as the words left Kallie’s lips, several ugly possibilities pranced through her mind. The first of which the Brit voiced aloud.

  “It could mean that your aunt has taken on the identity of Gabrielle LaRue. Perhaps the original died, or perhaps your aunt simply absconded with her identity.”

  And there it was in a nutshell, ladies and gentlemen, ugly possibility numéro un. What if my tante is a goddamned identity thief?

  Gabrielle didn’t drive a car, rarely went into town, and since she believed that banks and credit card companies were the devil’s capering minions, Gabrielle always paid in cash; Kallie and Jacks had been homeschooled, since Gabrielle had claimed she didn’t trust the inept and inadequate public-school system.

  But her aunt’s behavior didn’t seem typical for a cash-and-expensive-goodies-hungry identity thief. Gabrielle’s actions seemed more suited to a person hiding from, say, the mob. Or how about a root doctor framed for murder?

  “One thing is certain,” Layne-Augustine put in quietly, “Rosette St. Cyr’s vendetta is against Gabrielle LaRue. What is less certain is who that might be. Of course, the possibility exists that there is more than one Gabrielle LaRue.”

  Step right up to ugly possibility numéro deux, ladies and gentlemen: The woman in the photos is the right Gabrielle LaRue, but faulty research led Rosette to my aunt instead—the wrong Gabrielle LaRue.

  Kallie propped her elbows on the table and buried her face in her hands. She felt sick. If that was the case, then the hex crafted on her mattress had been a mistake; Gage’s murder and soul death, an error; Augustine’s violent death, a fumbling accident; and Dallas’s near poppet-drowning, all because of a mistaken identity.

  “Shit,” she whispered into her palms. “Shit, shit, shit.”

  “Care to share your scatological revelation with the rest of the class?” Layne-Augustine asked, voice martini-dry.

  “The wrong goddamned woman,” Kallie said, lifting her head and meeting the Brit’s gaze. “The murdering bitch mighta nabbed the wrong woman.”

  Layne-Augustine nodded. “A distinct possibility.”

  But Kallie wanted more than distinct possibilities. She wanted the truth. “I need to use that,” she said, nodding at the laptop.

  “Go ahead.”

  Kallie rose to her feet and walked over to Layne-Augustine’s side of the table. The Brit scooted his chair to the side to allow her room in front of the laptop. She bent over the keyboard and awakened the monitor with a tap of her finger against the mouse.

  She ran a quick search on Sophie Santiago—her mother’s maiden name, looking for a record of relatives and next of kin. Scrolling quickly through the list of hits, her pulse quickened when a genealogy site dedicated to Creole heritage led her to a listing for an André Santiago and his wife, Bethany Santiago—née Hawkins—and their three daughters.

  Sophie, Divinity, and Lucia.

  Jackson’s mama’s name had been Lucia. Kallie stared at the monitor as though she could will the name Gabrielle in place of the one she didn’t recognize—Divinity.

  This can’t be right. Wrong Santiago family. Gotta be.

  “What is it?” Layne-Augustine asked, concern threaded through his voice.

  “I don’t have an aunt named Gabrielle,” Kallie whispered.

  “Is this the first time you’ve Googled your family?” The Brit sounded bemused. He leaned in to look at the monitor and the information it held.

  Kallie nodded. “I never bothered. I think I was kinda afraid of what I might find out.” Looks like I was right. A dull ache built behind her eyes.

  I no longer know who my ti-tante is. All I do know is that she’s been lying to me ever since she came into my life after the shooting. Kallie felt like she was falling, her foundation yanked out from under her. Her hands clenched into fists. I’m gonna get the goddamned truth no matter what it takes.

  “Another drink?”

  Kallie looked up. The waitress nodded at her empty glass, raised a questioning eyebrow. “No thanks,” Kallie said. “Hey, what time is it?”

  “Almost ten, hon,” the waitress called over her shoulder as she melted back into the crowd.

  Kallie straightened. “Shit, I gotta get back over to the carnival so I can toss buckets of water on men in their skivvies.”

  “Men in their skivvies?” Layne-Augustine questioned. Interest glinted in his eyes.

  “Wet-boxers contest,” Kallie explained. “I promised Bell I’d help. I was looking forward to it, but now with all this . . .” She sighed, trailing a hand through her hair.

  “I’ll walk with you.” The Brit rose to his feet.

  “No need,” Kallie said. “But thanks.”

  Layne-Augustine motioned to a guard hidden among the crowd and instructed him to take the laptop and crate back to his office. “Oh, I’m not offering as a gentleman,” the Brit said. “Or at least, not entirely. I happen to be going the same way.”

  “Back to the hotel?”

  “No. Since this might very well be my last evening on this mortal coil, I intend to enjoy myself. I’m entering the contest. Or, more precisely, I’m entering Valin in the contest.” The Brit winked.

  Kallie stared at him, her breath catching in her throat, and found herself looking forward to tossing those buckets of water all over again.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  FOLLOW ME, BOY

  Jean-Julien finished the last spicy bite of cheddar-filled chorizo, savoring its garlic-and-smoky-paprika flavor. Licking a smear of tangy brown mustard from his finger, he tossed his wrapper and napkin into a trash bin beside one of the gaming booths.

  He sauntered along the carnival fairway, regarding the game booths and the people flocked in front of them with a mix of amusement and contempt, not even sure himself if he felt more of one emotion than the other.

  He paused in front of an empty stage, his gaze drawn by the hand-painted sign hanging above it:

  WET BOXERS CONTEST 10 P.M.!

  IF YOU’VE GOT IT AND WANT TO FLAUNT IT,

  SIGN UP NOW!

  WET T-SHIRT CONTEST AT MIDNITE.

  Rosette’s words returned to him: “It’s like spring break for those teaching and learning magic, Papa, all forms of it. They get to cut loose and have fun.”

  “Sounds like disaster in the brewing to me, girl. Don’t have anything to do with it.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “Spring break for fools who don’t know what they’re playing with,” Jean-Julien muttered. His hand slid into the pocket of his khaki trousers, his fingers caressing the half-empty vial of black dust. He wished for enough powder to throw into the face of every fool walking the fairway. Then he’d teach them all a few lessons, si l’bon Dieu ve
ut.

  A smile curved Jean-Julien’s lips as he pulled his hand from his pocket and sauntered away from the empty stage. He’d nearly reached the point from which he’d begun his carnival exploration, the black-wrought-iron entry arch, when he saw something that halted him in his tracks.

  Kallie Rivière and a dreadlocked nomad passed underneath the arch and into the carnival. A troubled expression shadowed the Rivière girl’s lovely face. Tension tightened the line of her collarbone, knotted her muscles. She curled a lock of dark hair behind her ear as she talked to the tall nomad.

  She was a beauty and no older than Rosette—a couple of years younger, in fact, if he remembered right. And she herself was guilty of nothing.

  But Babette had also been guilty of nothing. Condemned simply for being his wife. Gabrielle hadn’t considered killing his clients and setting him up for the blame enough pain. Hadn’t considered sending him to prison for twenty-five years for murders he hadn’t committed soul-crushing enough. Hadn’t considered keeping him from his bride and the child she carried sorrow enough.

  No, the coldhearted bitch had made sure he’d never reunite with his bride. Not in this world, anyway. Jean-Julien would return the favor threefold.

  Most of the high-spirited attendees milling along the fairway carried plastic cups full of booze, but the Rivière girl and the nomad wove with ease through the crowd without bumping one elbow or causing a single drop of liquor to spill. They walked with purpose toward the contest stage.

  It looked like Jean-Julien wouldn’t have to use Rosette’s keycard to go into the Brown girl’s room to search for a personal item to use in his spell after all. Maybe he could collect it right now.

  Jean-Julien turned and followed them.

  Dallas’s stomach rumbled when he breathed in the sweet and tangy smell of BBQ wafting from the carnival grilling competition. After he’d located Kallie and Belladonna, he just might come back for a plate of ribs. A man couldn’t live on beignets and beer alone. Well . . . not and be happy about it, anyway.

  Middle Eastern music and rhythmic jingling from underneath an awning to his right drew his attention. A pair of hennaed belly dancers in swirling chiffon skirts and coin-dangling hip scarves performed hip drops with a supple and sensual precision that left his mouth dry.

  Although Dallas yearned to stay and watch, he forced his gaze away from their shimmying hips and gold-coin-draped cleavage and resumed walking. Noticing the contest stage just ahead across the fairway, Dallas paused in front of a gelato stand a few booths back and ordered a cup of raspberry ice.

  Just as Dallas had slipped the first cold, tart-sweet spoonful into his mouth, he saw Kallie and the ghost-possessed nomad—whatever the hell his name was—working their way through the crowd to the stage. He also noticed a tall and wiry man in his fifties with a close-cropped cap of dark hair and milk-in-coffee-colored skin following behind them, an expression of intense focus on his face.

  Dallas stiffened, the hair prickling at the back of his neck, little plastic spoon in his mouth. Look sharp, podna. Now who the hell is that?

  Tossing aside his spoon and cup of raspberry ice, and ignoring the angry “Dude, what the hell? My sandals!” that followed, Dallas hurried after him.

  Kallie bounced up on her toes. She spotted Belladonna standing with three other people between the stage and the first row of metal folding chairs, her head of blue-and-black curls bowed as she conferred with the other judges. “There she is. C’mon, let’s get you signed up.”

  “How many are participating?” Layne-Augustine asked.

  Kallie shrugged. “No idea. You’ll have to ask Bell.” She cut across the fairway and led the way up the grassy aisle to the stage.

  Belladonna looked up, and a smile lit her hazel eyes. “Just in time, Shug.” She glanced at Layne-Augustine, then back at Kallie. “Is he still that Lord Augustine?” she whispered.

  “Yep. And he’s entering the contest.” Kallie grinned. Belladonna’s eyes widened. “Get the hell out! Seriously?”

  “Well, not seriously, of course,” the Brit said, “but for fun. It will be fun, correct?”

  Belladonna’s gaze slid over him from the top of Layne’s honey-blond dreads to the tips of Augustine’s expensive loafers. “Oh, yeah, it’ll be fun,” she murmured. She shook her head in appreciation. “Mmm-mmm-mmm. Walk your fine ass backstage, and Rudi will fill you and the other contestants in.”

  “Goody,” Layne-Augustine said in a voice dry enough to spontaneously combust. He climbed the stage, then ducked behind the curtain.

  Belladonna grabbed Kallie’s arms, fingers curling around her biceps. “Hellfire! How did you convince him to enter the contest?”

  “I didn’t. He—”

  “Excuse me,” a man’s voice interrupted. “But I’m looking for the chakra-reading booth. Would either of you ladies know where it is?”

  Kallie swiveled around to face the speaker—a tall, middle-aged man, but a good-looking one with café-aulait skin, high cheekbones, and eyes a striking sea shade of pale green. He smiled, a warm and inviting curve of his lips, but she only felt cold seeing it.

  The image of a heron, a flopping fish held in its long beak, flared in her mind. The mojo bag tucked inside her bra tingled and burned against her skin.

  “There you are!” Dallas exclaimed, trotting to a stop between Kallie and the stranger. “I thought I’d lost y’all.” He cut a warning glance at the man, his blue eyes frosty.

  A strange expression crossed the stranger’s face—an odd blend of annoyance, wariness, and astonishment—and it almost seemed like he recognized Dallas.

  Speaking of which . . . Kallie doubled-up her right hand and punched Dallas square in the nose.

  Pain lanced through Dallas’s skull as his nose cracked with a sharp and sickening sound beneath Kallie’s knuckles. He staggered back a step, his hands flying up to his face. Blood trickled hot against his fingers and onto his lips. His eyes teared up, dunking his vision underwater.

  “What the fuck, Kallie!” he cried.

  “Shit, Dallas. I warned you,” she said, shaking out her hand and wincing.

  “You broke my nose, dammit.” Dallas glared at her from over his hands. He wanted to tip his head back to help stop the bleeding, but didn’t want to take his tear-swimming gaze off the man standing in front of Kallie and looking beaucoup startled.

  Maybe he was just another carnival attendee asking directions. Maybe he wasn’t. But after the morning’s grim events, Dallas didn’t feel like taking chances.

  Kallie glared back. “Toldja I would. Toldja to keep your goddamned distance.”

  “Don’t blame her, Dallas Brûler,” Belladonna put in, adding her two cents. “You’re the one who marched over and put yourself in harm’s way.”

  “Like hell,” Dallas muttered. Blinking until his vision cleared, he narrowed his gaze on the stranger. “Just who are you, podna? Think it’s wise to bother women you don’t know?”

  “He ain’t bothering anyone,” Kallie snapped. But Dallas caught a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes underneath all the anger.

  Huh. Maybe she picked up some kind of weird energy from the guy. Felt something.

  “My apologies, m’selles,” the stranger said, lifting his hands palms out and eyeing Dallas’s damaged face. “I’ll just keep looking.”

  “Good idea,” Dallas growled. He wiped blood from his face with the hem of his lilac button-down shirt.

  “It’s closer to the entrance,” Kallie said, shooting Dallas another cold, furious look. She blew a wayward strand of hair out of her face.

  “Merci,” the stranger said. “Much obliged.”

  “Hold on, podna,” Dallas said, dropping his shirt hem and straightening. “Where you from, anyway?”

  “Enough, Dallas,” Kallie said. “Let him go about his business.” She handed Dallas a wad of napkins that Belladonna had fetched from her bag. “And you’d better go too, cuz I don’t wanna hafta give your nose another god-damned adjust
ment.”

  “I’ll be going, all right,” Dallas replied, lobbing the napkins unused into a black-bag-lined trash barrel. “Just hold onto your britches.”

  “Again, m’selles, thank you,” the stranger said. He sidestepped past Belladonna, brushing against her as a small contingent of jingling and veiled belly dancers sashayed along the fairway.

  Dallas watched the man stroll over to the black iron entry arch and pass underneath. Once he was on the other side, his long-legged stride shifted from casual to purposeful.

  Wiping at his nose with the back of his hand, Dallas spat the heavy taste of copper into the grass. “Keep away from that asshole, both of you,” he said, voice harsh. “Something ain’t right about him.” Without waiting for an answer and without a backward glance at Kallie or Belladonna, he headed back to the entry arch, breaking into a jog so that he wouldn’t lose sight of the man.

  Let’s see what you’re really up to, podna.

  Kallie shook out her throbbing and bruised hand. Belladonna was right about one thing—she couldn’t keep punching people, not without gloves, at least. She watched the root doctor stalk away toward the black iron arch, body coiled tight, his red hair ablaze beneath the carnival lights. A twinge of regret curled through her.

  Ease up, he’s only trying to help. And I did feel something off about that man.

  “Maybe I shoulda counted to ten before hitting Dal,” she said.

  “Maybe. But you did warn him.”

  Kallie glanced at Belladonna. “Did you feel anything negative from that guy?”

  “No, but I’m guessing you did.” Belladonna nodded toward the may madness arch. “Dallas too, apparently.”

  “Man triggered my bag’s protective mojo,” Kallie said, touching her fingertips to the top of her tank, still feeling the tingling warmth of the flannel bag nestled against the curve of her left breast.

  A look of disgust rippled across Belladonna’s face. “Probably a perv looking to lay a domination trick on a naïve and nubile young thing without a lick of enchantment-awareness sense. Bastard.”