Black Heart Loa

by Adrian Phoenix

  He was, of course, still nude, but artfully posed. His long hair shadowed his face, but not his lambent eyes. He seemed to look into her. Knowing he’d been rifling through her mind, her memories, Kallie felt stripped naked and vulnerable. Lifting her chin, she forced herself to meet his gaze.

  “I found de problem,” Devlin repeated.

  “The loa,” Kallie said as her heart slowed its frantic pace. “I know.”

  Devlin shook his head. “De loa yo’ maman planted inside you ain’t de original problem, but it be a part of de problem.”

  Kallie frowned. “Original? You mean there’s more than one problem?”

  “It be de black dust you took in from Doctor Heron. De hex you sucked down when you unzipped de man’s soul.”

  Devlin’s words rocked Kallie like a high-pressure blast of cold water. Her thoughts flipped backward.

  “Don’t do it, child,” her aunt says. “It ain’t yo’ place.”

  The black dust coating St. Cyr’s soul ripples, then flows backward and down, back into Kallie’s waiting palm. The root doctor’s spirit unravels inch by inch, molecule by molecule, until the air is empty.

  “De black dust captured de loa,” Devlin continued, “webbed her up like a fat fly in a spider web and it feeds on her power, using it to magnify its own. Dat be the cause of all de magical mishaps. And dat why you be a living hex, Kallie Rivière—a breathing jinx.”

  “Bon Dieu,” Kallie whispered in horror, sitting back on her heels. What the hell have I done? “How do I fix it? Can I fix it?” Lightning strobed across the restless sky and she looked up, then added, “Before it’s too late?”

  Devlin tilted his head as though listening to something she couldn’t quite hear and Kallie caught a glimpse of one delicately pointed ear. “Almost time to leave,” he murmured, before focusing on her again. “When you reach Le Nique, ask for de traiteur and her shuvano mate. Den ask dem about de sacred fire. Dat be de only way you can fix what you done.”

  Kallie’s heart gave a hard pulse. “Am I heading the right way?”

  A smile touched Devlin’s lips. “Oui. You practically right on top of it.”

  Eyes closing in relief, Kallie drew in a deep breath as hope unfolded within her. Maybe she wouldn’t need to give up her life to keep the hurricane from devouring all that she loved.

  Warm and callused hands gripped her arms and pulled her to her feet. Devlin’s earthy odor swept over her. Her eyes flew open and she looked into his ash-colored gaze.

  “Let go,” she growled.

  She tried to jerk free, but the demon wolf wasn’t having it. A wild and primal fear fluttered up her spine. She imagined his claws ripping into her flesh. Tearing out her heart. Imagined him devouring it. She struggled to break free—twisting, kicking, knuckling punches.

  But he simply held her at arm’s length and let her flail away like a tantruming child refusing to go to bed, until she wore herself out. “You done?” he asked when she went limp.

  “For now,” Kallie panted.

  Devlin pulled her close, then leaned in, his cheek next to hers, but not quite touching. He inhaled. “I’ve got yo’ scent,” he said, nostrils flaring. “I can find you anywhere. Anytime. Yo’ heart be mine, Kallie Rivière, hoodoo woman.”

  Kallie wasn’t sure how he meant that, exactly—literally or figuratively, but either prospect terrified her. Devlin released her, and she stumbled back a step as he dropped into a crouch and began to Change.

  His transformation to wolf happened just as swiftly as his Change to human. Pops and cracks snapped into the air like sparks from a burning log as joints, tendons, and bones rearranged themselves, altered shape. Black fur covered flesh with a wind-ruffling-the-grass sound.

  From within the shadowed darkness beneath the oaks and cypress, Kallie heard growls and snarls, then three wolves darted out of the trees to skirmish with the demon wolf. A few quick snapping feints, then Devlin whirled and raced off into the woods and the night. The other wolves chased after him, leaving Kallie alone.

  Lightning strobed across the sky, chased by a ground-rattling boom of thunder.

  Muscles trembling, she dropped to her knees on the soft leaf- and grass-padded ground and sucked in a shaky breath. “Shit,” she whispered, shoving her hands through her hair.

  “You must be Kallie,” a man’s deep voice said from behind her. “Guess de nomad was right.”

  Kallie spun around on her knees. A tall, tawny-haired man in a tight white T-shirt and jeans stood barefoot underneath an old oak. He studied her with a wild animal’s watchful and unwavering gaze. Like a wolf. Like Devlin.

  Skin prickling, she jumped to her feet. “Layne. Where is he? Is he all right?”

  The man shrugged. “He be fine, far as I know. He and de girl been following me. But dey t’ink I don’t know dat.” He paused, eying Kallie’s chest, nostrils flaring. “You be bleeding.”

  Kallie glanced down. Four bloody scratches marred the top of her left breast. And stinging pain kicked in the second she realized Devlin had left his mark on her. “Shit.”

  The thud of running feet pulled Kallie’s eyes up. Layne pelted out from beneath a willow’s moss-draped branches, Belladonna a couple of steps behind him. Relief washed across the nomad’s handsome face, then quickly vanished. A muscle in his jaw flexed and his blond brows slanted down over a furious glare. Belladonna folded her arms over her chest.

  Uh-oh.

  Layne stalked over to Kallie in two long-legged strides and grabbed her by the shoulders in a steel-fingered grip as though he intended to shake her. “Are you hurt?” he asked harshly.

  “Just scratches.”

  “What the hell were you thinking? You ever pull a stunt like that again, woman, I’m gonna put you over my knee and paddle your ass.”

  Belladonna snorted. “Paddle her ass? That’s a punishment? Nomad, please.”

  “Shut up, Bell,” Kallie and Layne said at the same time.

  Layne’s grip shifted from Kallie’s shoulders, then he wrapped her up in a tight-muscled hug and pulled her against him. “You scared the crap outta me, sunshine.”

  “Is that what I smell?” Kallie teased.

  “No, that would be Belladonna.”

  “Mmm-hmm. Laugh it up, road rider,” Belladonna purred. “You just went to the top of my payback-is-a-bitch list.”

  Laughing, Kallie relaxed into Layne’s embrace, her cheek against his leather-jacketed chest. Listened to the hard beat of his heart. Tried to keep the moment, knowing it couldn’t last. Magic was still in flux and a hurricane raged only hours away.

  When you reach Le Nique, ask for de traiteur and her shuvano mate. Den ask dem about de sacred fire.

  Kallie reluctantly freed herself from Layne’s arms. “Hey,” she called to the man in the white T-shirt. “What’s your name?”

  “René,” he replied.

  “I need to find a place called Le Nique,” she said. “I’m looking for my cousin Jackson Bonaparte, and for a traiteur and her shuvano.”

  René shook his head. “Can’t help you, je regrette.” He turned to walk away.

  “Wait! I’m the reason the hurricane wards turned into magnets. The reason magic ain’t working right. And I desperately need the help of your traiteur and her mate.”

  Kallie heard Belladonna’s breath catch in her throat.

  René swiveled back around and regarded her for a long moment, then nodded. “Follow me.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  LE NIQUE

  Wolves had followed their slow progress down the bayou, melting in and out of the inky darkness beneath the palmettos and cypress and weeping willows as if pawed extensions of the night, their eyes luminous with storm light.

  Kallie climbed out of the gently rocking pirogue and onto the weathered cypress dock connecting to stairs that led up to the raised cottage’s front porch. The cool scent of fresh mint from the cottage’s window boxes sweetened the air.

  From what she’d seen of Le Nique from René’s
boat, stone piers lifted each cottage and cabane a good six or eight feet above the ground. Plywood slabs already covered most windows in anticipation of Evelyn’s landfall.

  Tree branches swayed and creaked in another gust of wind. Rain finally fell, dimpling the bayou’s dark surface. Wolves gathered, watching intently as Belladonna, then Layne, hopped from the pirogue and joined Kallie on the dock.

  Layne gave Kallie’s shoulder a quick squeeze and she looked up at him. “Give me a minute,” he murmured, then strode past her, stopping at the dock’s midway point. His cluster of knotted-back dreads hid most of the orange-tailed fox and other clan markings painted on the back of his rain-beaded leather jacket.

  Lightning flared—one, twice, a double strike. Thunder rumbled.

  Layne dropped down to one knee on the gray-planked dock and lowered his head respectfully beneath the lupine gaze of the loups-garous, his hands palms-out at his sides. “Fox clan,” he said, quietly identifying himself. “And we know about being hunted. We know about living Outside. Your secrets are safe.”

  Kallie’s heart double-thumped against her chest as several wolves—gray and russet and black—stiff-legged over to him, fur spiked.

  Layne inclined his head toward Kallie and Belladonna. “We’ve come seeking help. We ain’t here to cause trouble.”

  Kallie held her breath, her fingernails biting into her palms as she watched the loups-garous circle Layne.

  Layne remained still as the loups-garous checked him over, sniffing his dreads, his face, his body, nosing at his clothes. He looked up and made brief eye contact with each before dropping his gaze again. One nipped the back of Layne’s leather jacket, then tugged at it, a low growl vibrating into the air.

  “You need to leave yo’ gun, Fox Clan,” René said, stepping onto the dock.

  “Not a problem,” Layne replied in an easy drawl. “I’m gonna do just that.” Reaching for the Glock tucked into his jeans at the small of his back, he pulled the gun free, then rested it carefully on the weathered planks.

  René bent and scooped it up. Slipped it into the front of his jeans. Layne rose to his feet and the wolf sentries escorted him to the base of the cypress stairs before loping away. He waited there for Kallie and Belladonna, shadows masking his face as he scanned the area, automatically searching for any threat, any danger—inbred nomad survival trait, Kallie realized.

  Kallie released her breath in a relieved exhalation. “Goddamn.”

  “Nomad’s lucky they didn’t pee on him or use him as a chew toy.”

  Kallie laughed, then nodded. “You might be right.”

  “I don’t know about you,” Belladonna said in a low voice as they went to join Layne at the foot of the stairs, “but it worries me that our guide hasn’t even said if Jackson’s actually here and, if he is, whether he’s okay or not.”

  “Me too,” Kallie admitted. Doubt had settled in, like dark silt. What if she’d been wrong about Jackson being in Le Nique? What if Baron Samedi had lied about the loup-garou scent in the grave? And worst of all—what if she’d finally found her cousin, only to arrive too late? Her nails bit even deeper into her palms.

  Kallie parked herself beside Layne. Gave him a measuring look, one he returned. “Did you know what you were doing?”

  “Nope. Flying by the seat of my pants. Just felt like the right thing.”

  “Then you’ve got good instincts. Even better, you listen to them.”

  A lazy smile curled across Layne’s lips. “Thanks, sunshine, but I know several people who would disagree with you on that.”

  Kallie would bet that Layne’s ex-wife led the list. “No doubt. But she’s wrong.”

  “Y’all wait here,” René said, striding past the three of them, then trotting up the stairs to the porch. He rapped his knuckles against the door lightly before opening it and disappearing inside.

  The door opened again a moment later, spilling soft light onto the porch. A woman stepped out wearing a purple silk robe, her auburn hair sleep-tangled and tumbling past her shoulders. She was followed by an athletically muscled black man in blue-striped pajama bottoms carrying a lit Coleman lantern. He closed the door firmly behind him. René remained inside.

  Must be the traiteur and her mate, the man Devlin Daniels named to be a shuvano, a nomad healer and conjurer like McKenna. The lateness of the hour hit Kallie when she took in their nightwear. Pajamas and robes, shit—it must be 4, maybe heading on 5 a.m.

  “C’mon up out of the rain,” the woman said. Light flickered across the porch as the man rested the lantern on the railing. Her lambent gaze skipped over all three of them, taking careful note of each before settling on Kallie. “I understand you’re looking for someone—among other things.”

  “My cousin, ma’am, Jackson Bonaparte,” Kallie said as she climbed the cypress stairs to the porch, flanked on either side by Belladonna and Layne, then stopped a couple of yards from the waiting pair. “My apologies for showing up at your door so late.”

  “And what makes you think you’ll find him here?” the shuvano asked. Swirling Celtic-style clan tats were blue-inked into his dark skin, covering his torso and swooping across his shoulders and down his arms.

  “Loups-garous rescued him from a grave in Chacahoula,” Kallie replied, “and I’ve got reason to believe he was brought here to Le Nique because his papa was loup-garou.”

  The Coleman lantern emitted a steady hiss, loud in the sudden silence. The pungent odor of kerosene mixed uneasily with the mint from the window boxes.

  “Are you Kallie?” the traiteur asked.

  Tension unspooled from Kallie’s muscles, unknotted her fists. “Oui, I am. Jackson’s just a couple of months older than me, but—”

  “He used to brag about being older,” the woman finished with a smile. “Said it made him the boss of you—when he was little. Before he stopped coming to Le Nique.”

  Kallie laughed in relief. “That’s Jackson, all right. You do know him.”

  From inside the cottage, Kallie heard the faint click of claws against wood, the jingle of a metal collar, then a familiar and pulse-quickening whoo-whoo. Excitement spilled through her like wine.

  “Cielo! Bell, that’s Cielo.”

  “The Siberian husky I saw in the back of the truck?” Layne asked.

  “Yup. That it is,” Belladonna said. “I’d know that whooing anywhere.”

  A long string of whoo-whoo-whoos sounded behind the door as Cielo launched into a long Siberian-husky-style explanation of events.

  “That’s my cousin’s dog, so he must be here,” Kallie said. “Where is he? Is he okay? I’d like to see him.” Her heart fell when she saw the look the traiteur exchanged with her husband, an uneasy blend of reluctance and apprehension that spelled nothing but bad news. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  The woman shook her head, auburn locks brushing against her silk-draped shoulders. “We’ve got a few other things to discuss first. René said you claimed to be the reason magic is ricocheting and the reason Evelyn’s headed for Louisiana, that you told him you needed help from a traiteur and her shuvano mate. That would be us—I’m Angélique Boudreau and this is my husband, Merlin Mississippi.”

  Kallie quickly introduced Belladonna and Layne. Merlin and Layne acknowledged each other with friendly nods, Merlin’s short twists of bead-locked braids jabbing out in all directions around his skull like a multiple-armed star.

  “Fox,” Layne stated.

  “Squirrel,” Merlin answered. “Welcome, drom-prala.”

  “Road brother,” Layne translated before Kallie could ask.

  Meeting and holding Angélique’s eyes, Kallie said, “René’s right on all counts. And I’ll explain everything, tell you anything you want to know, but I need to see Jackson first. I need to know that he’s okay.” Tension returned, ratcheted her muscles wire-tight. She looked from Angélique to Merlin, then back. “Is he okay?”

  “No, he’s not okay, Kallie,” Angélique said in a soft voice. “But he’s s
till alive.”

  Kallie nodded, not trusting her voice. Still alive was good. Still alive suggested he could remain that way. But if he needed more than potions and salves? If he needed a healing or uncrossing trick?

  “What’s his condition?” Belladonna asked for her. “Maybe we can help.”

  “Can you help a half blood loup-garou enduring his First Change?” Stark and furious emotions tightened Angélique’s features. “A Change made even more dangerous because it comes years later than it should’ve? A Change made impossible because his mama carved a spell into his flesh binding him to just one form—a spell that suddenly ended?”

  A horrifying thought occurred to Kallie. She felt sick. She glanced at Belladonna and saw the same realization in her eyes. “Because of me,” she whispered. “Because of the goddamned black dust and the loa.”

  “Now, hold on, Shug—” Belladonna began.

  “Ain’t your fault,” Layne said, stepping in front of Kallie and gripping her shoulders. “Doctor Heron—”

  “Mighta laid down the hex, but I’m the one who took it back inside of me when I unraveled that fi’ de garce’s goddamned soul.” Kallie twisted free of Layne’s tight-fingered grip, walked away from the comfort he offered. She locked eyes with Angélique. “Take me to Jacks. I’ll tell you everything, just let me see my cousin.”

  The traiteur regarded her for several moments, radiating a strong, steady energy—a healer’s deep river aura. Then she nodded. “Fair enough.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  DARKLING I LISTEN

  Wolves loped along either side of the path leading to the small stone cottage beneath the old, twisted oak, raindrops pearling their fur in the slackening downfall, a loup-garou escort.

  Kallie noticed that their eyes either shimmered silver or emitted a pale green, absinthe glow—like Jackson’s had that long-ago summer night, seemingly glittering with green fairy dust. Had he already been enchanted, trapped into one form even then?

  “He’ll be okay,” Belladonna soothed, as though reading her mind. “Jacks was bayou born and raised, so he’s bayou tough. He survived that bastard Doctor Heron. We’ll get him through this.”