The Edge

by Annie Windsor

  The Edge

  Annie Windsor

  Redevence

  Prologue

  In the time before time, in those last days before mud huts and stone plows, on the dunes where Ur would rise and give way to Babylonia and Assyria , The Seven stood facing the souls who had called them.

  It was sunset, and more than night was falling.

  To the human eye, The Seven seemed naught but shimmers, rising from desert toward waking stars like pillars, holding up the sky. They touched each other as long-time lovers, and spoke as freely as eternal mates.

  And then a dry wind stirred sand-whispers from the dunes, and the priests of men began their deadly incantations.

  Such hateful sounds to the ears of The Seven!

  Crying out, they clung to each other like children. Hurt. Confused. Had they not come to serve? Why were their former friends causing such pain, such harm? The Seven had no proper names known to the priests, who simply called them by their animal natures—names later translated into proper French: Léopard, Python, éléphant, Hibou, Crocodile, Loup, and Lion.

  To the priests of men, The Seven embodied an unspeakable threat. Keepers of true magik, wielders of the Old Powers, The Seven were strong enough to turn the swelling tide of man.

  And so the priests set out to destroy them.

  And so the priests succeeded.

  Almost.

  In a desperate effort to escape mortal binding, The Seven cast a final spell, then released their life forces to assure reincarnation under ancient spirit-laws, destined to return as full-human in appearance. Fated not to remember their true identity until the moment of next death—or until the right blood finally mixed in the right veins.

  How the priests howled when The Seven vanished! How they tore their black frocks as the dunes spit forth the spell’s spawn: seven guardians, in the image of their masters—Léopard, Python, éléphant, Hibou, Crocodile, Loup, and Lion.

  And so the Montre were born, spell-bred watchers tasked with defending incarnations of The Seven, those oldest of souls, later called the Redevence. The Montre would be night-walkers, bound to their spirit-forms by day but fully human—and hungry—beneath the light of the moon. From the moment of inception, they hated the enemies of their spirit masters. They hated the priests of men.

  As one, the beasts advanced on the priests, slowly shifting from animal to formidable human shapes as darkness claimed the barren plains.

  Terrified, knowing the guardians could not be defeated by any magik known to this Earth, the priests fell back. They could but borrow a shred of power from the lingering Redevence spell. Enough to counter the guardians…or so they fervently hoped.

  And so the Empêche were born. Mirror-doubles of the Montre, the Empêche were spell-bred to seek and slay the Redevence. The Empêche would be day-walkers, bound to their spirit-forms by night but fully human—and hungry—beneath the light of the sun. From the moment of inception, they, too, hated the enemies of their masters.

  As one, the well-muscled men advanced on the Montre, slowly shifting from human to formidable beasts as moonbeams glinted on the changing sands.

  Even the priests knew the skirmish would be a draw before it began.

  They soon fled, taking their Empêche guardians with them.

  And thus the battle ended.

  And thus the battle was joined, forever and across eternity.

  Chapter 1

  July 15, 1843

  If ever you see a spotted cat, baby girl, a cat with no earthly business in this part of the world, run like the gods bringin’ all they wrath. Don’t look back. Don’t look at nothin’.

  And if you see two spotted cats, baby girl…pray. That’s all I can say, but you listen. That’s all I remember…so it must be the most important thing.

  Ruli Danbala

  * * * * *

  July 15, 1863

  Late afternoon sun baked Ezri Danbala’s skin a fine brown as she worked the blunt-edged shovel, ramming it into dry Arizona Territory earth. She wore nothing but a red cloth skirt. Her cotton shirt bound her waist, leaving her breasts to feel the sun’s searing touch, like hungry kisses from the sky.

  Like a true lover’s touch, with a true lover’s passion.

  Ezri’s mound ached below her heavy skirt—strange time for that to happen. But she figured it for the sun’s fault. All that heat. All those sky kisses. Shame on the sun for giving her dreams about a lover who would excite her, who would tend to her satisfaction and pleasure, and not be frightened away by her independence.

  One clump at a time, Ezri hollowed a long hole as hot wind stirred dust and rustled through water-starved pine needles around the edge of the campsite. The barren sound reminded her how little she had left: a covered buckboard, two horses tugging at meager grass in the distance, and an old blind dog.

  White.

  Papa Loa was white. And big and fuzzy, with a pelt as pure as fresh snow. The dog often made her wonder if a bear-spirit had mistakenly chosen a canine body to inhabit. Papa Loa had traveled the endless road from Louisiana to these godforsaken high desert woods, trotting all the way. Her husband Delmont made the dog walk behind the buckboard because the bastard hoped Papa Loa would die. Delmont tried to kill everything Ezri cared for, probably hoping she’d be left with nothing but him.

  Ezri paused in her digging again, this time long enough to cough, rub her baby-swollen belly, and wish the sun would finish its day’s work. Soon, soon, her precious enfant would join her in this life, such as it was.

  Delmont fucked her, got her pregnant, tried to rule her—but she never loved the man. Mais, non. That’s why she never married him. She couldn’t love any person so weak, so petty.

  Sometimes Ezri thought Delmont fancied killing her, but then he wouldn’t have had a woman to hate and insult. So he settled for her precious things. Her cats. Her birds. Her bébés, the dogs—especially Papa Loa. All the creatures drawn to her by that special shine inherited from Ruli Danbala, her coffee-Creole mother—and even from Aristed LeBron, her eccentric golden-haired and very white father.

  LeBron, one of the richest men in New Orleans , hadn’t hidden the fact he had a mixed race child. Twenty-five years ago, on the day Ezri was born, the crazy man freed his slaves, sent his white wife back to her white people in Boston , and moved Ruli and Ezri into his white-columned mansion. He hired the best tutors for Ezri, and saw to it she was educated in both the European and Creole traditions. Ezri read Shakespeare alongside the proper ways to construct a Voudon Oum’phor—a temple for what scared Christians called devil-worship. Hoodoo. Conjuring.

  Voodoo.

  Oui. Best they can do to say Voudon. From the old words “vo”—instropection, and “du”—into the unknown.

  It had been Ezri’s experience that the bontemps in the big New Orleans mansions had little use for introspection into the unknown.

  “You’re a special girl,” Papa LeBron had told her even then, back in that time when Ezri never lacked for love or tenderness. “A child of both worlds. You have more inside you than people understand. And you’ll remember what your mother can’t.”

  Remember.

  Rappelez.

  Remember.

  Ezri sighed.

  She’d heard that word, along with her mother’s cryptic warning about spotted cats, nearly every day until her parents were murdered.

  In a way, she almost missed the litany.

  Ezri’s jaw clenched as she fought the dry heat and dry fatigue from her journey—and her task. Le bébé cher in her belly lay uncharacteristically still, as if bearing the tiredness for her. Thoughts of her parents made Ezri ache down deep, like her heart didn’t want to keep beating.

  But it had to. And she had to dig.

  The shovel made a loud thwack as sh
e plunged it into the dirt again.

  The locals back in New Orleans , white and black, got a little nervous with LeBron and especially Ruli. If truth be told, Ezri had thought her parents were strange, too. Sometimes. The rest of the time, she just loved them.

  Folks said LeBron had taken an old-souled witch into his home—a mam’bo—an empress of voudon. More than one person whispered that LeBron himself had taken up dark arts. But to Ezri, nothing about her life or her father or her mother had been dark—except for Ruli’s skin, of course.

  As for Ezri, she had ebony hair and the inner shine from her mother’s side, sapphire blue eyes and stubbornness from her father’s, and golden skin and a mixed patois accent from the blending. The only time she turned dark was when she tanned.

  Like now.

  Out here in nowhere, Arizona , digging a half-ass grave for a worthless bastard who made her last dog walk too many miles.

  Damn that man.

  And damn me for taking up with him. In my right mind, I never would have put up with Delmont.

  Twenty-five years old. Homeless. Stuck in the middle of nowhere. Broke. Pregnant. And a murderer.

  This was not what Ezri had planned for herself, and certainly not what her parents tried to give her. But as tensions worsened and Civil War circled the south like a dark bird of prey, her parents had been slaughtered for their open disregard of social custom.

  Ezri’s childhood home had been burned. She’d been flogged, nearly hung, and finally thrown into the streets to wander, dazed, until she ended up on the wrong side of Lake Pontchartrain .

  That’s when Delmont “rescued” her. Made her his “high yalla” girl, and showed her off to all his kin. Until he started beating her so badly she didn’t look pretty anymore. Until the war came South for real.

  They left New Orleans then, trekking west like so many others. Meant to go to California , but true to form, Delmont changed his mind just yesterday. They had stopped here, a hundred miles from anywhere, on the brink of the high desert.

  Delmont wanted to stay. He wanted Ezri to live on a dust farm carved into the side of a mountain, overlooking a steep drop with a panoramic vista—mais, non. Thank you, no.

  But in truth, Ezri knew it would have been fitting. She would have lived where she’d always lived. Where she figured she’d stay for the rest of her life.

  On the edge.

  Right on the relentless, unforgiving edge.

  She shoveled out more dirt, and a little more, then glanced at Papa, who sat close by on her right, keeping his sightless eyes fixed on her every move.

  Delmont had tried his hardest to kill that poor dog.

  Papa Loa had ignored the jackass, though. The dog never lost his pace following behind their wagon. A bad skunk attack ruined his eyes, left him blind—and sharp root cut off one of his toes. Still, Papa didn’t slow down. He didn’t even limp.

  Ezri made a kissing sound at the dog, who thumped his tail softly in the lengthening shadow of the wagon.

  Papa knew. Oh, yes. He did.

  Mama finally took good care of a bad situation.

  “Sweet dog.” Ezri tossed another shovel full of dirt from the pit. She could stand in the hole now. It came near to six by six. “You be my only beau now, oui?”

  The dog didn’t answer, but he didn’t have to. Ezri could sense his consent.

  And the hole she dug—it was good enough for Delmont now, since she didn’t plan to give the son of a bitch a proper coffin. She looked to her left and spit on his corpse. Her mouth ached from the effort, still bruised at the corner from Delmont’s last punch.

  By all the gods and rites of Voudon (and there were too many to name), she would never suffer another bruise at a man’s hands. She rubbed the back of her shovel. The shovel that had killed le bâtard and now helped her dig his grave.

  “I told you you’d only hit me one more time,” she said to dead-as-dirt Delmont. “Guess you know now I meant it.”

  Chapter 2

  Right about the time Ezri dragged Delmont’s carcass into the makeshift grave, she smelled something unusual. Something like iron, hot from a smithy’s forge. She wrinkled her nose and glanced down at Delmont.

  Was he stinking already? Because it smelled a little like dead things, all sulfury and bitter and…wrong.

  A blood-stilling howl rose from behind her, from somewhere back in the dry, dusky pines.

  Papa Loa stiffened. His hackles bristled, and he growled, low-like.

  Ezri raised her hand to shield her eyes from the setting sun—and caught a flash of movement. Like butter, drizzling across the nearest tree trunk.

  Was it a cougar? Some kind of wildcat?

  If ever you see a spotted cat, baby girl, a cat with no earthly business in this part of the world…

  Her mother’s warning washed Ezri like an unwelcome tide.

  Raaaaooooowwwrr!

  Gooseflesh broke across her arms and shoulders. Almost on cue, pain lanced her quickened belly.

  “Not now,” she murmured, stroking the round dome of flesh still holding her offspring—but apparently not for long. “Damn. Be still, child. Please.”

  And then another cry—from in front! And another flash of white-yellow butter through the pines.

  Ezri kicked dirt on Delmont’s body, just in case his dead-smell was drawing predators.

  The sun hung on the edge of setting, snagged on a single line of clouds.

  Shadows played tricks on Ezri’s mind, her senses.

  A rustling noise made her spin around, and a shirtless man stepped out of the trees and into the clearing.

  Lightning couldn’t have struck Ezri faster than her body-shocking fear. She thought about putting on her shirt, but there was no point. The man had already seen what there was to see.

  He was golden, this man, from his long, waving hair to his skin. And he had a shine, a shimmer, like a piece of sun. His eyes—bluer than hers. This was no Delmont-boy. This fellow towered like a tree, muscle-heavy, square-jawed, and a damn near perfect example of manhood. A mark blazed on his right shoulder. Ezri thought it might be some sort of star. Seven-pointed, drawn deep, deep in the man’s golden flesh. A silver ring glinted on the third finger of his right hand, and he was dressed in white breeches tied at the waist by yellow cord.

  Below that cord…Oh, lord. The size of that pénis…mmmm, hmmm. Ezri’s nipples turned hard as the stones she’d battled to dig Delmont’s grave.

  She felt stupid and dizzy, and wet between the legs.

  Hand on her baby-basket, she swayed, staring at the god-like stranger.

  Papa Loa raised up, barking fiercely, but the man waved a hand and the dog fell silent and lay down, as if suddenly sleepy.

  Ezri’s thoughts cleared in an instant. “Monsieur, you might be a god. A true Loa. You might be Legba himself.” She tightened her grip on the bloody shovel. “But if you hurt my dog with your magic, I put you in this grave, yeah. Right alongside the first bastard.”

  At this, the man laughed.

  The sound—Ezri felt herself swoon into it. So sweet. Like an angel’s harp, but low and rumbling. So completely male.

  “There, there petite chou.” The formal French endearment rolled off the man’s tongue. His accent was flawless, cultured—upper-class New Orleans or Paris itself, Ezri would near bet her life. “I’ll not damage your brave companion.”

  His gaze traveled to the grave, then to Ezri’s bare breasts, then back to her eyes.

  Ezri felt touched. Fondled. Aroused.

  She wasn’t sure if she liked the sensation—didn’t know if she wanted it—but she didn’t dislike it either.

  Above her, the sun finally dropped below its cloud barrier. Darkness crept into the clearing.

  The golden man glanced at the sky.

  “It be getting’ dark, Alain,” came a bass whisper from behind Ezri. “You Empéche âne.”

  She turned so fast she almost toppled into the grave—then covered her mouth to kill a scream.

&nb
sp; A spotted cat had entered the clearing, so soft on his feet that Ezri hadn’t heard even the snap of a twig.

  A spotted cat who talked…and then that spotted cat…changed.

  Slowly, torturously. Growing in stature, and growing—until it became a man. A near double to the first intruder into Ezri’s clearing.

  This man had golden skin like the first, like her—but his hair was black. His eyes, like glittering chips of obsidian. He was just as tall, just as muscled, just as handsome and showy in his form-tight red breeches. An ebony seven-pointed star covered his left shoulder, and a silver ring glimmered on the third finger of his left hand.

  There was no heavenly glow around this man. Hypnotic shadows followed his supple movements as he crouched, glaring past Ezri to the man he called Alain. And his voice, what little she had heard—no cultured accent, that. Mais, non .

  Raw, bayou Cajun. So humid she could almost feel the swelter slide across her lips…her neck…her bare, puckered nipples.

  The first man, he had made her horny. This second man made her pussy ache. Ezri had never known such desire in all of her life.

  How could she want anything or anyone like she was—coated in Arizona dust, worn from weeks on the trail, heavy with child, stained with blood?

  But she did. By all the gods, she did.

  If the absurdity and potential danger of the situation hadn’t held her in firm grip, she might have masturbated on the spot.

  “Typical Montre slackard.” Alain’s previously warm voice dripped with ice. “You’re late as usual, Méchant.”

  The dark man laughed. The low, spine-tremoring rumble stroked Ezri’s clit as surely as a blazing tongue. “Seems to me I be right on time, yeah.”

  Ezri eased away from the grave, toward Papa Loa and the wagon, where she could see both of the giants. She kept a hard grasp on the shovel, ready to use it if necessary. As if it would do any good against these mirror-image—what?

  Gods? Voudon Loas? Demons?

  Because whatever they were, they weren’t normal men. That much, Ezri knew for certain.

  If ever you see a spotted cat, baby girl…and if you see two spotted cats…