Black Heart Loa

by Adrian Phoenix

  “Merci beaucoup, René, I appreciate that,” Angélique replied gently. “But it’s a problem for another day, oui? Now let’s get that boy in back and on the table.”

  With a nod, René strode from the living room and into the kitchen, the dog right beside him. Ember burbled “Doggie!” then “Tew!” as he passed through, a declaration that Moss echoed in a deep voice: “Tew!”

  Giggles and bowl-banging were his applause.

  Shaking her head and smiling, Angélique followed René through the sausage-fragrant kitchen, past her laughing grease- and jam-smeared children and a mugging Moss and into the back room, her husband just a pace behind her.

  René stopped in front of the first of two hand-carved oak examination tables and eased the unconscious half blood onto its padded surface. The young man’s dark hair partially veiled his face in damp tendrils. One mud-streaked hand dangled over the table’s side and René gently placed it back on the table, murmuring, “Lâche pas, you.”

  Angélique slipped past and went to the sink beside her worktable with its neat jars, boxes, and bottles full of healing herbs and roots, the room awash in the scents of dill and coriander and frankincense.

  Merlin’s worktable was opposite hers, a rootworker’s version of a partner’s desk, and his side was a swirl of clutter and chaos. She usually avoided looking at it. Otherwise her hands would itch with the need to organize it.

  “I’ll get his clothes off,” Merlin said, beelining for the examination table. “Wet and muddy ain’t helping. We’re gonna need a bowl of warm water and rags to clean him up a bit too, hun.”

  “Already getting it,” Angélique replied, pulling a clear glass bowl down from the cupboard above. She placed it on the sink and twisted on the faucet. As the bowl filled, she gathered clean rags from the drawer.

  Bowl brimming with warm water, she carried it and the rags over to the examination table and placed them on the oak instrument tray beside it. The Siberian husky sat on her haunches near the table’s head, panting. Her watchful blue-brown gaze was aimed at the young man sprawled on the table.

  René lifted the half blood’s body up so Merlin could peel his black T-shirt off his lean-muscled torso—or Angélique supposed it was black, it might’ve been a different color before all the mud—revealing dozens of shallow cuts sliced across his chest, belly, and arms.

  Merlin whistled low, then said, “Christ. Cut up, potioned, and buried. Somebody truly hated this poor bastard.”

  “Enough to make him into a true zombie,” Angélique agreed, “caught in the twilight between death and life and bound to the will of another. But,” she added, casting a quick smile at René, “it looks like the potion didn’t work and you saved him from suffocating to death.”

  Looking grim, René eased the half blood back down on the table. “We was following de dog, us. Playing a game, trying to figure out what she was chasing mile after mile after mile.”

  “Damned good thing for him,” Merlin said.

  With the half blood flat on his back again, Angélique moved in with a wet rag to clean his face while Merlin stepped down to tug off his sole remaining boot.

  Angélique frowned as she cleaned dried mud and blood away from what was starting to look like a very handsome face underneath all the dirt. A sense of the familiar swirled through her. Something in the angle of his cheekbones, his closed eyes, his lips.

  Bending closer, she sniffed delicately, nostrils flaring, seeking a personal scent beneath the blood and fever stench, the sour reek of arrested Change. She caught a faint whiff of rosewood, of brine, and of surf-wet sand, but nothing that insisted, except—Remember me—the rosewood. That scent niggled at her memory, nudged.

  “What is it?” Merlin asked. “Something wrong? I mean, aside from the obvious.”

  “I’m not sure. There’s something familiar …”

  Angélique’s gaze traveled across the unconscious man’s torso to the tattoo inked into his right arm near the shoulder. She wiped away grime and blood to reveal an angel-bordered scroll. Leaning over, she read:

  Gone, but never forgotten.

  Nicolas & Lucia Bonaparte

  Junalee & Jeanette, my angels

  Je t’aime toujours

  Angélique’s breath caught in her throat. Then memory poured through her mind like water through a broken dam.

  A boy climbs out of the pirogue and races across the grass yelling her name, but he calls her Ange, since Angélique is too big a mouthful for a four-year-old. He slides to a stop in front of her, his wavy, coffee-brown hair wild, his golden-honey eyes with their slight upward tilt gleaming.

  “Got a baby sister, me!” he exclaims. “I be a big brudder now!”

  Angélique straightened, heart pounding, and looked at her husband. His hands rested on the half blood’s belt buckle, his questioning gaze on hers.

  “I know him,” she said.

  “You do?” Lines creased Merlin’s brow. “But how? Who is he?”

  Hardly believing her own words, Angélique took another look at the young man on the table to verify the names she’d just read in his tattoo, and her heart leapt into her throat when his eyes opened. Golden-honey eyes, an amber gaze, a slight upward tilt.

  All doubt vanished.

  This was the little boy Angélique had last seen nineteen years ago, a four-year-old excitedly bragging to his thirteen-year-old aunt about his new baby sister.

  “Could you feed my dog?” Jackson Bonaparte whispered, his voice raw and hoarse. His eyes shuttered closed again even as the words slipped from his bitten lips.

  “René,” Angélique said, surprised at the levelness of her voice while her heart was thundering against her ribs, “I need you to fetch the Alphas.”

  Looking perplexed, René nodded. “What you want me to tell Ambrose and January when I find dem?”

  Angélique drew in a deep breath. “That you’ve found Ambrose’s brother’s son.”

  “Holy shit,” Merlin breathed.

  TWENTY-THREE

  CIRCLE OF PROTECTION

  Kallie woke from her doze when Belladonna pulled into the small lot behind Divinity’s Circle of Protection botanica and glided the Dodge Dart to a halt in the slot farthest from the trash bin. Aside from Gabrielle’s ancient orange VW Bug, the lot was empty.

  “Thanks for helping keep me awake during the drive,” Belladonna said, looking into the rearview mirror. “Without your constant and unladylike snoring keeping me bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, I probably would’ve driven us off a cliff.”

  “A cliff? Between Chacahoula and Bayou Cyprés Noir? Where?”

  “I’m sure there’s a cliff somewhere. And asleep, I would’ve found it and driven us to our doom. Guaranteed.”

  “Well, then. Ça fait pas rien, and thanks for not killing us.”

  Belladonna yawned. “No problem, Shug.”

  Rubbing a hand over her face, Kallie tried to wipe away her lingering sleepiness and failed. She sat up and unstrapped her seat belt. Her brief sleep had left her feeling more tired than before, her thinking fuzzy, and she wished now that she’d managed to keep her eyes open during the drive back to Bayou Cyprés Noir.

  Kallie looked at Layne and confirmed that he was still out, his honey-blond dreads coiling onto the backseat and floorboard. His breathing was low and easy, and his face—blond whiskers indicating his need for a shave—relaxed.

  Well, that’s one good thing, at least.

  The sky beyond the windshield was still gray and ragged with storm clouds, but at least it was no longer raining. Kallie guessed that it was getting close to noon, and on a normal day, she and her ti-tante would’ve opened the botanica at ten.

  But this was goddamned far from a normal day.

  The closed-in air of the car smelled of jasmine, old french fries, leather, and sandalwood. And although the greasy french fry aroma reminded Kallie that she hadn’t eaten since early evening the night before, she didn’t feel hungry. She actually felt queasy, instead. Too little
sleep, too much stress, pure appetite killer.

  “After we haul Mr. Sexy Nomad inside, you want to go up to my place and take a shower while your aunt is looking him over?” Belladonna asked. “Give you a chance to catch a second wind or even take a real nap.”

  Kallie looked at the stairs leading to the flat above the botanica that Belladonna rented from Divinity. As blissful as a nap sounded, Kallie didn’t want to sleep until she knew Layne’s condition and had a chance to talk with her aunt about loups-garous, loas, and exorcisms. But a shower, on the other hand …

  Tapping a finger against her lips, Kallie mentally reviewed recent sleepovers and decided that, yup, she’d left clothes at the apartment on several occasions. If she was wrong, she could always roll up a pair of Belladonna’s jeans or wear one of her tunics as a minidress.

  “I like that idea, Bell. Wanna do a coin toss to see who showers first?”

  “How about rock-paper-scissors?”

  “Sure.”

  Kallie leaned forward between the seats, shivering as her side brushed Layne’s leather-jacketed shoulder. She tried not to think about skin-on-skin contact. Tried not to imagine the feel of him—all hard muscle and heat—beneath her hands.

  The heat pooling in her belly and points south told her that she’d failed.

  Belladonna’s gaze met Kallie’s, then shifted over to Layne. A knowing smile slinked across her lips. “Maybe he’s going to need a sponge bath,” she said, her eyes returning to Kallie’s.

  The mental images Belladonna’s suggestion conjured set Kallie’s blood ablaze and put coherent thought on pause. Heat suffused her body in a tingling rush. Glaring at Belladonna, she growled, “Pure evil.”

  She yawned. “Stating the obvious, girl.”

  Once her racing pulse had calmed down and her temperature had dipped below the steam threshold, Kallie said, “Okay. Ready.”

  “On three,” Belladonna instructed, counting down, and thumping her fist against her palm.

  Kallie’s scissors won over Belladonna’s paper, so she eyed her friend suspiciously. “Did you just let me win?”

  “What? Me?” Belladonna shook her head, her blue and black curls swaying. “Hoodoo, please. Why would I do that? It’s not like you’ve been rolling around in the mud or chasing judgmental chickens or going five rounds with death or anything.” She flapped a hand at Kallie. “Get over yourself, girl.”

  Grinning, Kallie stretched across the seat and planted a kiss on Belladonna’s cheek. “You’re the best friend ever.”

  “Again, stating the obvious.” But a pleased smile lit her face.

  The mingled odors of wet pavement and eau de Dumpster swirled in when Belladonna opened the door and hopped out of the car. Just as she flipped the driver’s seat forward so Kallie could climb out of the back, a low, husky voice said, “Where are we?”

  Kallie twisted back around. Looking at Layne, she saw the same things she’d witnessed before—no color to his handsome face, pain-tightened features, dilated pupils. “At my tante’s botanica,” she replied. “She’s meeting us here.”

  “I appreciate that,” Layne said. “I prefer a hoodoo healer to a hospital. Thanks.”

  Kallie smiled. “Who doesn’t?”

  Pushing against the reclined seat with his elbows, Layne levered himself upright, and Kallie realized she was wrong about his face being completely drained of color as she watched him blanch, his fox tattoo stark against his suddenly bone-white skin. He squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed hard. His hands white-knuckled around the seat edge, holding on for dear life.

  “Fuck,” he whispered after a moment. “Yeah. Okay. I think I need a minute here.” He slumped back down in the seat, eyes still closed, jaw tight.

  Ducking her head down into the car, Belladonna eyed him critically, then tsked. “Back at Doctor Heron’s place, Augustine and Babette kept fighting over control of your body. I told those damned ghosts that they weren’t helping the situation—namely, you.”

  Layne slivered open one eye and looked at Belladonna. “Babette? Holy fuck. So that’s my other passenger, the one Augustine’s got snared in static. Shit.”

  “I thought it wasn’t possible for a ghost to enter an already occupied Vessel,” Kallie said.

  “Me too. Ain’t supposed to be possible,” Layne replied, draping an arm over his eyes. A muscle flexed in his jaw. “But apparently that supposition’s dead wrong. I don’t know how long Augustine’s gonna be able to keep her in the bubble.”

  Bubble? Kallie mused. So much she didn’t know about Vessels, and so much she didn’t know about this one in particular.

  “Look, let’s get you inside and lying down,” Kallie said, reaching over to squeeze his forearm. His leather jacket creaked beneath her fingers. “Then we’ll figure out how to exorcise Babette. I can always call McKenna—if necessary.”

  “Thanks, sunshine. I know how much that cost you. Especially since Kenn’s no doubt still plotting your demise. By now, she must be up to plan W.”

  Kallie shrugged. “Like I said before, everyone needs a hobby—even leprechaun-sized nomads with a Darth Vader complex.”

  Layne snorted. “This is one hobby you don’t want to encourage. But we can’t do an exorcism until my headache’s gone, anyway, so no point in calling her yet.”

  “She doesn’t worry me. Let her give it her best shot.”

  “Famous last words, sunshine.”

  “We’ll just see about that. Now hold still, okay? Me and Bell are coming around to get you.”

  “Christ on a corn tortilla,” Layne muttered. “What’s next? A wheelchair blanket and a can of Ensure?”

  “Only if you ask me nicely. What flavor would you like?”

  “Vanilla. Gonna drink it out of my belly button?”

  Kallie paused, reignited heat flooding her body as she imagined doing just that, her tongue licking across Layne’s vanilla-sweetened skin. Her mouth dried as all moisture raced south of the border.

  “I’d call that asking nicely,” Belladonna said, voice light and airy with mock innocence. “Wouldn’t you, Shug?”

  Sucking in a deep breath, Kallie banished all thought of her tongue and Layne’s skin from her mind, banished the word that begged to slip from between her lips in response to the nomad’s teasing question: Yes.

  “Shut up,” Kallie growled instead, cheeks burning. “Both of you.”

  It didn’t help that both Belladonna and Layne chuckled in unison, like evil twins. But at least her desire—desire? How about grab-him-throw-him-down-tear-off-his-clothes-and-ride-him-for-all-he’s-worth lust?—had cooled.

  Kallie climbed out of the backseat, then walked around to the passenger door, relieved that she and Belladonna wouldn’t have to haul Layne inside the botanica. She honestly didn’t think she had the strength to carry him again, although she would’ve given it her damnedest.

  Hell, she would’ve trotted over to the Beyond Roses flower shop next door, if necessary, and politely asked the proprietor and main bouquet artiste, Arthur Dempsey, if she could borrow his muscular and often shirtless boyfriend, dark-eyed Cole.

  Kallie had no doubt Arthur would’ve been agreeable. Especially once he’d gotten a look at the nomad his boyfriend needed to scoop up and carry. Probably would’ve directed the entire thing too, she mused.

  Careful, Cole, he may be a nomad, but he’s a human being. A lean and sexy human being. Carry him like one. Over the shoulder like a fireman—that’s right. Now follow the ladies. They’ll show you the way, darling.

  And just like that, the lusty thoughts returned.

  “What are you snickering about?” Belladonna asked as she joined Kallie at the passenger door.

  “Just picturing Cole from next door carrying Layne inside for us.”

  “Are they both shirtless in this little imagining?” Belladonna replied, voice dreamy. “Chests oiled? Rippling abs gleaming? Belts unbuckled?”

  “Yup,” Kallie said, pulling open Layne’s door. “And that’s just the
start.”

  “Mmm-mmm-mmm,” Belladonna purred. “Oh, I’d pay to see that.”

  But, Kallie reflected a split second later, it seemed that what Belladonna wouldn’t pay to see was Layne suddenly leaning out of the car and dry-heaving onto the pavement in a very nonsexy, but undeniably nomad, manner.

  Kallie gathered Layne’s thick dreads in her hands and held them away from his face while Belladonna slapped her hands over her own mouth and back-pedaled a healthy distance across the parking lot.

  After a few moments, Layne stopped trying to upend his stomach and lifted his head. He slumped against the door frame, sweat glistening on his forehead, eyes closed. Some color had returned—green.

  “Well, that was seven degrees of awesome,” he muttered.

  Kallie knotted his dreads to keep them back in case he got sick again. She brushed the backs of her fingers against his heated face. He shivered beneath her touch. “You want to wait a bit before trying to stand up?” she asked gently.

  “Just for a minute, yeah,” he whispered.

  “Let me know when you’re ready.” Kallie motioned for Belladonna to return. “Dry heaves and puking aren’t contagious, Bell. And anyway, he’s done.” For now.

  “I know they’re not contagious,” Belladonna replied indignantly, lowering her hands from her mouth, but remaining right where she was. “It’s the whole monkey hear, monkey puke thing that’s at issue.”

  “Ah. Then why are you still over there? There’s nothing to hear—”

  The botanica’s back door creaked open, and Divinity stepped out, hands on the hips of her purple Gypsy skirt. “Dere y’all are. I was starting to wonder, me.” A pause, then, “You girls need help with de nomad?”

  Kallie shook her head. “No. He’s just resting.”

  “Not anymore,” Layne said, opening his eyes and glancing at Kallie. “I’m ready.”

  “Okay. Let’s do this,” Kallie murmured.

  Kallie snugged a bracing arm around Layne’s waist once he’d levered himself upright and helped him out of the car and onto his feet. He swayed, stumbling against Kallie, but another arm looped around his waist from the other side, warm hand brushing against her own, and steadied him.