Lovers Sacrifice

by R. A. Steffan

“So, what are your thoughts on vodou rites?” he asked curiously. “Are you a believer in the power of spirits?”

  “Indeed I am, Docteur,” she said. “I only remain unconvinced about the desire of those spirits to assist the damned in a foolhardy quest.”

  Mason forced a smile. “Surely no one is more in need of help than the damned. If they’re benevolent spirits, what better deed could there be?”

  Duchess’ answering smile was cold. “Benevolent? Whoever told you that these spirits were benevolent?”

  With that, she pivoted on her heel and swept out. Mason stared after her for a moment before turning his attention back to his soup, mulling the conversation over as he ate.

  *

  Oksana reappeared just in time for them to leave. If Mason was any judge—which, as a doctor, he was—she’d barely slept. Admittedly, there were several assumptions involved in that statement. Did she even need to sleep? If so, how often and for how long?

  Whatever the case, Oksana looked like hell. When her eyes met his before glancing away an instant later, Duchess’ words floated through his mind.

  I’ve known her for almost two hundred years.

  For the first time, he could almost believe it. It took more than the twenty-odd years of age she appeared to be for someone to amass that much pain behind their eyes.

  That pain… it ate at him. It made him want to cut his bleeding heart out of his chest and present it to her as an offering. It also terrified him, because he had never before in his life been prone to that sort of overwrought, romantic rot. What the hell was she doing to him?

  Ever since that first jolting touch at the clinic, she had fascinated him. The second lingering touch this morning had drawn him completely into her thrall. He needed to get her to tell him more about this strange, otherworldly bond that they apparently shared.

  He also wanted to feel it again. Preferably soon.

  He followed the others out and shut Mama Lovelie’s door behind them, before lengthening his strides to catch up to her. The others hung back, and he wondered if it was deliberate. When he reached her side, he slowed to match her pace. She didn’t look at him, but when his hand brushed hers, she didn’t pull away. Instead, somewhat to his surprise, she tangled their fingers together and held tightly. The small gesture made his heart lift all out of proportion with what it represented.

  Holy hell, you’ve got it bad, mate, he thought.

  Rather than risk breaking the fragile spell by pressing her for more personal information, he asked, “What will be expected of us at this ceremony tonight? I’m embarrassed to say that even after months here in Haiti, I don’t know much about vodou beyond the clichéd crap from books and bad movies. Which, I assume, is mostly wrong.”

  She seemed to relax a bit. “Wes Craven has a lot to answer for, it’s true,” she allowed, the faintest hint of humor tingeing her voice. “To answer your question, though, nothing will be expected of you tonight. At least, nothing beyond being respectful and not interfering.”

  “Respectful, I can do,” he promised. “I’m brilliant at respectful.”

  She snorted softly, the noise both unladylike and utterly, inescapably charming.

  “See, it’s like this,” she continued. “Vodou is an African religion. At the risk of being politically incorrect, the loa will only visit those with African blood in their veins. Mine is only half, but when I was young, the spirits seemed to favor me. Right up until the night they didn’t.”

  Mason digested this for a moment, weighing his next words. “Okay… on a scale of one to ten, how disrespectful would it be to point out that every single human being on the planet has African blood in their veins? We all originally came from there, after all.”

  She blinked up at him, surprise chasing the sadness from her eyes in the moonlight. He caught his breath, unable to look away.

  “Not disrespectful at all,” she decided. “Merely a bit vexing.” She chewed her lower lip thoughtfully, drawing his trapped gaze down to her full, lush mouth. “I’m not sure it’s so much a matter of DNA, as of the shared race memory of slavery and conquest.”

  He nodded, trying to rein in his wandering gaze and his wandering thoughts. “Far be it from me to discount that,” he said. “Australia has its own history of ugliness. It still stains the land and its people to this day.”

  She squeezed his hand briefly in acknowledgment.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “At any rate, tonight Mama Lovelie will invite the loa to visit the living and possess them. In the Christian tradition, possession is portrayed as something evil. Something to be feared. In vodou, it is our people’s means of touching the divine. Many people will be possessed by spirits tonight, and that is considered neither frightening nor unusual.”

  Mason thought back to what their hostess had told them. “Mama Lovelie said that she would talk with us further if the spirits favored you. Does that mean you will seek to be possessed?”

  “That may or may not be what she meant,” Oksana said. “But, yes, I will invite the loa to enter me.” She paused, the tension returning to her spine. “Unfortunately, the spirits haven’t chosen me once during the two hundred twenty years since I was turned.”

  Mason frowned. “Turned. Meaning, into a… vampire?” It was still difficult to get the word out, his rational mind trying to throttle it, unspoken, despite what he’d seen in the last twenty-four hours.

  “Yes.”

  Silence settled around them. He mulled over her words. If such possession—be it real or imagined—was an important aspect of her religion, he could see how its loss might affect her so strongly.

  “Why do you think that is?” he asked, wanting to draw her out.

  She was silent for another long moment.

  “My soul was irreparably damaged,” she said eventually, the words emerging so softly that he had to strain to hear them. “The human spirit contains both light and darkness. It’s the balance between those forces that makes us who we are.”

  Mason looked down at her tiny frame. “I can understand that analogy,” he said slowly. “But, having watched you risk your life to save a boy you’d never met, I can tell you with certainty that your soul is not irreparably damaged.”

  She waved off his words far too quickly to have properly taken them on board. “My life was never in danger the other night. I’m a vampire, Mason. A roof collapsing on me would hardly have slowed me down.”

  He continued to look down at her, unimpressed. “But you are claustrophobic?”

  Oksana shrugged, and he could feel her closing off.

  He tried a different tack. “Okay, so I’m apparently not going to win that argument. Why don’t you help me understand what you think is wrong with you? With your… soul.”

  She flickered an eyebrow at him, in irritation… or perhaps in challenge. “A demon ripped it free of its moorings and tore it into two pieces,” she said evenly. “But you don’t believe in any of that.”

  No. That was true. He didn’t.

  “I believe that each of us chooses, every day, whether we act for good or evil,” he said, picking the words carefully. “I believe that in the end, our actions are the only metric by which we can be judged. If we leave the world a better place than we found it, who would dare condemn us for the condition of some unseen vital force that supposedly resides inside of us?”

  They were approaching the center of the village, and Oksana was spared from answering by the sound of drumming and chanting coming from the grassy open space ahead of them.

  “We’re here,” she said, and slid her fingers free of his. Mason swallowed a sigh of frustration, knowing that further discussion would have to wait.

  The scene was both primal and exotic. A large bonfire dominated the open space, throwing golden light over the figures of the village folk. Most were dressed in loose, white clothing. Many were dancing in a slow rhythm around the fire, while others sat on stools or on the ground, singing or beating small drums.

  His eyes scan
ned the chaotic space until they settled on Mama Lovelie, wearing a beaded tunic and skirt decorated with a pattern in the African style. She was bent over a makeshift altar, holding a gourd rattle with a small silver bell attached to the bottom. Smoke from burning incense rose above the low table, curling into the night air.

  When Mason dragged his attention back, Oksana had already slipped away. Xander stood in her place, and Mason suppressed a faint, instinctive shudder at the unnaturally silent way they both must have moved when he wasn’t looking.

  “The ladies went to join the dancing,” Xander said. “Can’t say I’m in too much of a hurry to join them. I’m guessing you’re not, either. Do you have a grasp of what’s happening here, out of curiosity?”

  “Only in the broadest sense,” Mason said cautiously.

  Xander only nodded. “I’m afraid I’m barely qualified to offer commentary, but what the hell. Right now, the mambo is running through a very particular set of rituals to summon the loa. First, the one who’s a sort of gatekeeper for all the rest, and then all the ones who they’re hoping will show up to possess some poor, random sods and ride them like horses, as the natives put it.”

  He eyed Mason sideways before adding, “You might want to settle in. We’re going to be here a while.”

  Mason lifted an eyebrow. “Not a true believer, then?”

  Xander made a sharp noise that might conceivably be interpreted as laughter. “Me? Blimey. I’m not a true believer in anything, Ozzie.”

  Mason let his attention drift back to the dancers. Duchess’ pale complexion was an anomaly among the swirling mass of dark skin. Oksana also stood out in her t-shirt and denim cutoffs. Mason’s eyes followed her movements, graceful despite her high-tech prosthesis. Both of the women were welcomed into the crowd of revelers—worshipers?—despite their obvious differences. The sight made a smile tug at one corner of his lips.

  “You two looked a bit cozy on the walk over here,” Xander observed, his green eyes on Mason rather than the spectacle. “Did you chat about anything interesting?”

  Mason bristled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Exactly what is sounded like,” Xander said. “It’s a fairly straightforward question, I’d’ve thought.”

  “I’m not sure our private conversation is any of your business, mate.”

  A spark of brighter green kindled behind Xander’s gaze. “You’ll probably want to rethink what you consider a private conversation, when you’re within range of vampire ears, mate,” he said. “But, as it happens, you’re sniping at a potential ally. I had a talk with Oksana earlier today. Tried to convince her to relax a little and be more herself around you.”

  “Oh,” Mason said, floundering a bit. “Er… thanks?”

  Xander smiled, briefly flashing teeth that—while not pointy or elongated—were still disconcertingly straight and white.

  “You’re welcome, Ozzie. You see, both Duchess and I want Oksana to be happy. That’s very important to us. Do you know why?”

  Mason felt a frown furrow the skin of his forehead. “She’s your friend.”

  “She is,” Xander agreed. “But there are things you should probably know about us, before you spend more time with her. You see, Duchess and I are not good or nice people. We never have been. Oksana, by contrast… is.”

  The frown cleared as Mason’s eyebrows tried to climb into his hairline instead. “Wait. Are you… am I seriously getting a shovel talk from a vampire during a vodou ritual?”

  “Of course not,” Xander said. “That would be ridiculous.”

  Mason relaxed his tense stance and drew in breath to apologize for jumping to conclusions, but Xander cut him off.

  “This could hardly be construed as a shovel talk. Because if you hurt our girl, Ozzie, I promise you—there won’t be enough of you left to bury.”

  There was a pause as the drums and chanting swelled behind them.

  “O-kay, then,” Mason said.

  Xander patted him on the shoulder. “Good. I’m glad we could have this little chat.” He seemed to lose interest an instant later, his attention turning back to the scene unfolding in the grassy lot. “Oh, look. The loa are possessing people already. Capital. Maybe we’ll actually be able to get out of here before dawn comes and fries us all.”

  Mason did that thing again where he let the crazy roll off his back and moved on to whatever came next. Which, in this case, was apparently spiritual possession. And to think, a few days ago, he’d thought his life couldn’t get any stranger than staring down the barrel of an assault rifle held by a child who only came up to the level of his chest.

  He returned his gaze to the people around the bonfire. Oksana was still dancing, her head thrown back now; her eyes closed.

  She was breathtaking. He didn’t want to look away, but several other people were acting strangely, now. Some were shuddering in the supportive grip of other worshipers. Others lay on the ground, their backs arching like seizure victims. Mason’s instinct was to go to them and check on their vitals—make sure they were all right—but a hand closed around his upper arm, holding him in place with a grip that hinted at inhuman strength.

  “Best not,” Xander said. “I’m told it’s all perfectly normal.”

  Mason clenched his jaw, but stayed where he was. As he watched, some of the people on the ground rose and began to wander around. They wove their way among the crowd, some strutting, some using an odd, hitching gait, like actors playing some over-the-top role in a pantomime play.

  As more people began to exhibit the strange behavior, which Mason presumed was associated with being possessed, the circle of dancers broke up. Those allegedly possessed by loa spoke with the other villagers, or embraced them, or made gestures of blessing over them.

  Mason did a double take as he noticed Duchess. No… his first impression hadn’t been mistaken. She really was tongue-kissing the hell out of a rather plain looking middle-aged Haitian woman.

  Xander followed his gaze. A moment later, he let out a vaguely long-suffering sigh. “Stick your eyeballs back in their sockets, mate. Apparently that villager has been taken over by a male loa. Duchess said something about wanting to find out what the blood of someone possessed by a god tastes like. We find it’s best to just let her have her way when she gets like this.”

  “And… when did she tell you this, exactly?” Mason asked, trying valiantly to get a handle on his what-the-hell expression.

  “Just now,” Xander said. “We can read each other’s thoughts. Did Oksana not cover that part, either?”

  Just let the crazy roll off like water, Mason reminded himself. Deal with it later.

  “Oh, dear,” Xander said. “Look over there—I do believe that Mama Lovelie has left the building. The lights are on, but somebody else is home.”

  The mambo’s eyelids were fluttering, her head lolling back as she straightened away from the altar and lifted her arms over her head, spreading them wide.

  Xander winced. “Ouch. That’s a formidable one. Crikey, she’s leaking power like a sieve. Can you feel that?”

  Mason slanted a look at him. “Run-of-the-mill human over here, mate. I have literally no idea what you’re asking me.”

  Xander’s distracted grunt was his only reply.

  A moment later, an inhuman shriek shook Mason so completely from his focus that he stumbled back a step. The unearthly wail was followed closely by more recognizably human cries of fear, and he cast around, looking for the source. Next to him, Xander had gone very still.

  The hair on the back of Mason’s neck stood on end as he saw a disturbance at the edge of the crowd. People were backing away, nearly falling over one another as they fled the terrifying sight in their midst.

  It was a girl. A single, raggedly dressed girl, perhaps seven or eight years of age, shuffled into the circle of firelight. A putrid stench tickled Mason’s nose as the girl turned dead, milky eyes towards the figure by the altar. In her right hand, she clasped a dagger—dark stains coati
ng the blade.

  “Oh, hell no,” Xander murmured, barely audible over the confusion.

  The child opened her mouth again, and the same hair-raising scream filled the night air. Several people shouted commands for her to leave, none of which were obeyed.

  The people around the fire stood frozen, as if transfixed by her keening cry. No one moved except for Mama Lovelie, who took several slow deliberate steps forward.

  The girl’s blind gaze turned towards the approaching mambo. Lank, wet braids swung around her shoulders as the firelight flickered over her unnaturally gray skin. Everything about her seemed to have a cast of decay, including the rotten teeth visible through the rictus of her lips.

  “Begone. I command you!” The mambo said, her voice sounding louder and more resonant than humanly possible for such a small woman. Mason struggled with the instinct to cover his ears as he watched with wide eyes, still paralyzed by the sight.

  Faster than his eyes could follow, the girl moved. As she lunged toward Mama Lovelie, Mason felt Xander tense beside him and leap forward. In the space of time it took him to blink, all three of the vampires were hurtling towards the girl with inhuman swiftness. The child had the dagger raised, ready to plunge it into the mambo’s heart.

  Mason tried to rush after them, but his limbs were hopelessly sluggish in comparison to the lightning speed of the events unfolding around him.

  The dagger slashed downward in a shining arc.

  NINE

  OKSANA SPRANG FORWARD, aware of the other vampires doing the same. Knowing even as she flung her body toward the pair by the altar that they would be too late. A small part of her—quickly subdued—felt dismay at the idea of attacking a child, but she knew in her heart that the spirit of the young girl was long gone. Only her body remained, a puppet of Bael’s will. For all intents and purposes, she was dead already.

  An animalistic snarl ripped from the child’s throat, and Oksana’s fangs elongated in instinctive reaction. The need to protect Mama Lovelie rushed through her veins like ice water.

  Oksana had good reason for being protective of any priestess that she happened to meet. As a youngster, a local mambo had guided her in her journey to open her soul to communication with the loa—a kindness she had never forgotten.