Lovers Sacrifice

by R. A. Steffan

  Oksana had spoken to Eris after experiencing several odd dreams during the stolen hours of sleep she was able to catch here and there as they worked. Communications in the region were spotty at best, but the nightmares had started after she’d heard a snippet of a BBC newscast about reports of war crimes and a humanitarian crisis related to Haiti’s current round of rebel insurrection.

  Eris encouraged her to follow the strange pull that seemed to be drawing her back to her homeland, pointing out that, with as little as they truly understood about the war Bael was waging on the world, her dreamlike visions were as a valid an avenue for investigation as any other.

  Tré listened to them both and agreed almost immediately, though he insisted she not go alone. Duchess had volunteered immediately, and Xander had shrugged in easy agreement when Tré asked him to go along as well.

  The cynical part of her—a part she tried to keep buried lest it swallow her whole—couldn’t help noticing that their trio comprised three of the four of them who had not yet found their reincarnated mates. Given that Snag pretty much did whatever he wanted to do, no matter what Tré or anyone else said about it, it seemed fairly apparent that there had been some behind-the-scenes discussion between Tré and Eris about sending her, Xander, and Duchess away, specifically.

  The rational corner of her mind knew that it made a sort of sense. Eris had found his mate Trynn during the disaster in Damascus, and it seemed highly unlikely that another of their reincarnated mates would just happen to be located in the same area. If she, Duchess, and Xander were traveling, moving around, it was more likely that they would stumble across one of the strange vortices of chaos that formed when a vampire drew close to his or her mate. It was simple statistics.

  Unfortunately, the less rational part of Oksana’s mind tended to shut down completely whenever she contemplated the idea of finding her beloved Augustin, reborn. In the most abstract sense, she understood that it was a thing that might happen someday.

  In a more concrete sense, she couldn’t really come to terms with what it would mean if she suddenly had to confront that part of her past. She knew the others thought of her as the nice one. The sweet one. Youngest, except for Xander. Well—also Della and Trynn, now that they’d been turned. She didn’t think the rest of them understood that if she presented a lighter, happier demeanor to the outside world, it was only because she had cut free large swathes of her past and let them drift away, as a form of self defense against the memories.

  Or, perhaps it would be more accurate to say that she’d buried those memories. There was an almost painful irony to that metaphor. She choked back a snort of bitter laughter that had nothing to do with humor.

  Buried, indeed.

  The scrape of her state-of-the-art Flex-Foot Cheetah prosthetic foot replacement against the gravel beneath her was the only sound for a few minutes as she and the others walked companionably down the road. The smell of the sea grew more pronounced as they entered an impoverished area of Port-au-Prince near the coastline, where former factory and warehouse sites had given way to slums, as the island’s shaky economy grew ever weaker.

  “You really believe this might help us learn something useful?” Xander asked.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Eris thinks it’s worth a try. The older I get, the more I’ve come to believe that all religions hold facets and reflections of the truth of the Light and the Darkness. Haitians are closer to the spirit world than most; we always have been. And, once upon a time, the spirits seemed to favor me.”

  “Fair enough,” Xander said. His eyes crinkled at the corners briefly as he added, “though I still think we should try to rescue some of that wasted alcohol.”

  Her laughter this time did not hold the same tinge of bitterness, so she let it come. She looped her arms through her companions’, glad beyond measure that they were here with her.

  *

  The trio continued their journey toward the coast. The smell of salt water, fish, and garbage grew more pronounced as the breeze from the ocean stirred the dust around them. The houses became smaller and smaller until they were surrounded by mud-walled shanties with tin roofs. As the last light of evening gave way to night, children came running along dirt paths through the grass, shouting and laughing as they waved goodbye to each other and returned to their families. Women walked briskly along the road, carrying large pails and jugs of water after their last trip of the day to a nearby pump.

  As they came to a crossroads that led down towards the ocean, Oksana jerked her thumb and gestured them on towards the right, following the mental map she carried in her memories.

  “You really know your way around here,” Xander murmured, the words escaping into the deepening darkness.

  “It’s my home,” Oksana said simply. “Don’t tell me you couldn’t navigate London’s twisting roads and alleys just as easily.”

  “Maybe so.” Xander gave her another flicker of a smile and turned to Duchess. “Still, it’s a good thing we have our own personal GPS unit to walk around with us. Who needs modern technology, eh?”

  Duchess jerked her head around to look at him, as if he had startled her. “Hmm? Oh… yes. Quite right.”

  Her eyes wandered back to a small girl in a dirty pink dress who was crouched outside of a dilapidated shanty, staring at them with wide, hungry eyes. Duchess had practically made a life’s work out of hiding her soft underbelly, but Oksana knew that the weeks spent dragging injured and dead children from radioactive wreckage in Damascus had left her friend raw and aching in a way that the rest of them could not fully appreciate.

  They all had their particular demons to slay. And not just the real life demon that wanted them dead.

  The sound of drums beating reached Oksana’s sensitive ears. “We’re getting close now,” she said, hoping to draw her friend back to the present.

  A couple of minutes later, they rounded a corner and the peristil came into view. It was a rough structure, mostly open on the sides, with a roof of mismatched lengths of tin supplemented with tattered blue plastic tarps.

  She gestured. “Here we are.”

  Duchess stared at the unprepossessing ceremonial hall. “Are you sure this is the place?” she asked. “For some reason, I expected something a bit more… grand.”

  Oksana shrugged. “Yes, this is it.”

  “Your Catholic roots are showing, Duchess,” Xander chided. “Religion isn’t all cathedral spires and gold crucifixes, you know.”

  Duchess glowered at him, but then she appeared to shake herself free from her earlier distraction, giving Oksana’s shoulder an apologetic squeeze. “I’m sorry, ma petite. That was crass of me. What can be found inside such a place is far more important than the roof and walls.”

  Oksana covered her hand to show she wasn’t angry. “It’s all right. For what it’s worth, we have Catholic churches here, too. Though I imagine the gold has mostly been looted by now.”

  She led the others into the peristil, ignoring the suspicious looks thrown their way as people stared at her companions’ pale skin. The three took up inconspicuous positions along the structure’s only wall, next to the handful of wooden benches occupied by worshipers. The rough concrete blocks were cool at her back, in contrast to the stifling heat of so many human bodies packed close together in the humid Haitian night.

  A group of men and women knelt in a circle around a flickering fire at the center of the peristil. A man with smooth skin the shade of burnished teak stood inside the circle, pacing back and forth, eyes closed, as he murmured unintelligible words under his breath.

  The darkness outside had fallen fully over the city, and the only light in the peristil came from the ceremonial fire and the multitude of candles burning on the various altars set up to the loa. Some held food, some held bottles of drink, some held money, while others held more obscure items like cosmetics or jewelry. The scent of incense hung in the air.

  Each spirit demanded a different offering, in accordance with their individu
al persona and eccentricities. Without the offering, they would not deign to enter the peristil and inhabit the body of one of the people present. The vodou religion was steeped in tradition, and while the sight of possessed worshipers might appear chaotic to an outsider, the beginning of a ceremony never deviated from established ritual.

  The man at the center of the circle wore a flowing white shirt and loose trousers, with a vest covered in intricate beadwork of the African style. His hat, too, was covered in patterned beads, with a small plume of white feathers attached at the front.

  He held a large beaded rattle with a bell attached at the bottom, which he shook in time with the drumbeats. The men and women in the circle started to chant, their voices rising and falling to the beat.

  “That’s the houngan,” Oksana whispered, confident that her vampire companions would be able to hear. “He’ll lead the ceremony, even though there may be several other priests and priestesses in the circle. The calabash rattle is called an asson. It’s the mark of his station, and contains snake bones.”

  Her audience of two looked on with interest.

  “I can feel it,” Duchess said, keeping her voice low. “There’s power in it, though I can’t tell where it’s coming from.”

  “Everything in the ceremony is meant to intensify the houngan’s connection with the spirit world,” Oksana replied. “That’s the source of a houngan or mambo’s power. Often, such a ceremony would take place outside, under the stars and near a focus of power such as an ancient tree. They must not want to attract attention tonight.”

  “After the reports we’ve heard of attacks on vodou practitioners in the city, you can’t really blame them,” Xander said, all his earlier flippancy gone without a trace.

  “No,” Oksana agreed. “It still troubles me, though. I’ve never known any houngan to be afraid of the night.”

  Sadly, the backlash against the old religion was not unexpected. Nor was it the first time it had happened. It seemed those Haitians who claimed to be the most progressive were often the most superstitious, at heart. Whenever strife came to the island, violence against vodou practitioners followed close on its heels as frightened people blamed vodou curses for their woes.

  It was a running joke that Haiti was seventy percent Catholic, thirty percent Protestant, and one hundred percent vodou. The Christian population might dismiss the existence of the loa publicly—but privately, they believed in the spirits’ power over their lives.

  The ceremony continued, with those chanting in the circle calling on Papa Legba to open the gates to the spirit world so the loa could pass through. Afterward, each spirit was summoned individually with the proper form. Oksana heard Xander’s quiet noise of disgust when the houngan laid out a geometric pattern on the dirt floor with cornmeal and poured a bottle of vodka over it.

  When the bottle was empty, he straightened and raised his arms. His body began to shake and twitch, the drums intensifying as if to keep time with the movements of his body.

  Without warning, memory rose up and drew Oksana into the past.

  *

  Standing in the bright sunlight, Oksana clutched her mother’s hand as they approached the houngan. He sat in the dust at the side of the road, eyes closed—still as a statue.

  Their master had sent Manman and the other women into town to gather supplies for a feast later that night. They were returning now, with heavy baskets and slings full of food tied to their backs. Even though Oksana could only count seven years, she was laden like all the others.

  “This is how we used to do it in Africa, child,” her mother always whispered to her as she tied on the burden.

  Another woman in their group had spotted the houngan and insisted they stop to speak to him for a few moments. Oksana pressed closer to her mother in fear. She had never been to Africa, but she thought the man looked wild.

  He’s a lion-man, she thought, remembering the stories of the great maned beasts with their fangs and claws.

  “Tamara,” Oksana’s mother called to the woman approaching the houngan, “there’s no time. We need to get back.”

  “No one will ever know we stopped,” Tamara replied, brushing off her concerns.

  “Time,” the houngan said in a low, slow voice, “makes fools of us all.”

  Tamara knelt in front of the seated man like a child before a teacher. “What can you tell us from the spirits?” she asked, her voice low and respectful.

  The houngan did not answer, but closed his eyes and tilted his face towards the sun. A breeze whipped around them, stirring the dust and dirt into spirals on each side of the man. Oksana watched with wide eyes, mesmerized by the sight of the wind and the earth dancing together.

  I want to fly someday, she mused, her eyes following the path of a leaf of dried grass floating back to the earth.

  “Come to me, my pale-skinned child.” The houngan commanded, ignoring Tamara.

  Oksana jumped in surprise and turned towards the man, only to find him looking straight at her with eyes so dark they almost seemed black. A great stillness seemed to settle over the group, and Oksana tightened her hold on her mother’s hand.

  She hated being different—even though Manman’s friends made much of her lighter skin, telling her she was beautiful and special because of it. She’d heard them whisper many times about Manman and the master, though she didn’t understand exactly what they meant. Her skin did not look like the master’s, which was pale pink, like all the other white people she’d seen.

  Of course, Oksana’s skin didn’t look like her mother’s, either. Her mother’s skin was beautiful—dark as ebony.

  “Do not be afraid, child,” the houngan insisted, motioning again for her to come closer.

  Oksana felt her mother release her hand and nudge her forward. She looked up into Manman’s face and received a reassuring smile in return.

  Several tentative steps brought her within a few feet of the man. She was still wary of getting too close. The houngan sat up straighter. He reached out a wrinkled hand and pressed his forefinger gently to the center of Oksana’s forehead.

  She felt a strange force pass through her, as if a chill wave had rolled over her body. She shivered and took a hasty step back, breaking contact with the houngan.

  “You ask the wrong questions,” the houngan said in a strange tone, his gaze flickering to Tamara for a moment.

  “I’m sorry?” Tamara asked, confusion evident in her voice.

  “You ask the wrong questions,” he repeated, settling himself back. He rested his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together in front of him.

  “I still don’t understand what you mean,” she said.

  “Just a moment ago,” he replied after a lengthy pause, “you asked me ‘what can you tell us from the spirits?’”

  The houngan paused again, his head tilted to one side as he considered Oksana.

  “The wrong question,” he murmured.

  The group of slaves stood in total silence as Oksana shifted her feet uncomfortably back and forth. She didn’t like being the center of his focus as he stared at her in thoughtful contemplation.

  “You should ask ‘whom have the spirits sent to us?’”

  As Oksana looked around at the adults standing in the sun, each and every set of eyes turned towards her. Their gazes felt heavier than the pack of food strapped to her back. The weight of their eyes might as well have been the weight of the world settling across her young shoulders.

  *

  A touch on her arm startled her. Duchess was looking at her with mild concern. “Are you still with us, mon chou? Something is happening inside the circle.”

  Oksana blinked and focused back on the houngan before her, instead of the one wrapped in ancient and hazy memory. He was being supported by two of the women. His eyes closed and his face transported as his body continued to shake.

  “The spirits are here,” she said quietly.

  Other people were rising from the benches now, chanting along with
the group in the circle, their bodies moving and swaying with the beat of the drums.

  “They’re possessing people?” Xander asked, looking around in interest.

  “Yes,” Oksana confirmed. She closed her eyes, reaching out to take in her surroundings, and then shook her head in frustration. “I can’t feel them at all, though—only see their effects. I’d hoped, maybe…” The words trailed off.

  “You’d hoped… what?” Xander asked, his attention firmly back on her.

  She blew out a disappointed breath. “Ever since I was turned, the loa ignore me. My soul was too badly damaged, I think. I’d hoped, perhaps… with Bael drawing nearer… with our soulmates reappearing… that might have changed.”

  Duchess spoke, ever practical. “Maybe it’s for the best. I’m not in any particular hurry to see you possessed, ma chere. If you have questions for these spirits, just ask one of them.” She tilted her chin to indicate the houngan and several others who appeared to be lost in possession.

  Oksana squared her shoulders. “Yes,” she said, pushing away the old bitterness that threatened to rise. “You’re right, of course.”

  The priest straightened away from the hands supporting him. He reeled for a moment as if he’d forgotten how to use his legs, but then his equilibrium returned.

  “Two great realms are crushed together,” he proclaimed. “They will bring chaos as the barriers crumble. The beast grows hungry. Upheaval will follow!”

  Xander sharpened like a hawk sensing prey.

  “Will it indeed?” Duchess asked, her perfect brows drawing together.

  Oksana was already on the move, pressing through the dancing, chanting crowd, using her mental influence to clear a path for herself. She felt the others right behind her as she slipped through the last few people to reach the houngan.

  “Please, you must tell us,” she said, hoping that whichever loa currently inhabited the man was a sympathetic one, and not a trickster. “Is Bael coming here? What should we do?”