by Leanna Ellis
The time when they’d known and anticipated each other’s thoughts, uncertainties, and decisions was long past.
Roc stood on the outskirts of this gathering, surprised at all the people—different races and ethnicities formed in a loose circle in a wide space on the warehouse floor. They were already well into the ceremony, swaying to the beat as if they were in some sort of trance. In the center stood a woman with a red drape of a dress, which touched the floor, and a yellow turban wrapped about her head. She held a wooden box with bells attached all over it, which tinkled and clamored enticingly as she set it on a table and opened the lid. Immediately, a snake reared its head through the opening, and those gathered gasped. Some shook as if they’d received an electrical shock.
“You with him?” A black man stepped beside Roc and nodded toward Brody, who was across the room in a small group, observing the participants. Brody seemed to know these folks and vice versa. It gave Roc an unsettled feeling. Hadn’t Brody said it had been a while since he’d heard anything about voodoo rituals? But then again, a cop had to rub elbows with all kinds.
A sheen of sweat made the black man’s shaved head glisten in the candlelight. He wore a loose-fitting shirt and shorts. His feet were bare on the concrete floor.
“Yeah,” Roc answered and stuck out a hand in greeting. “Roc.”
“Luis.” The man clasped Roc’s hand. His palm was callused and as thick as his Cajun accent. With a quick squeeze, he released Roc’s hand. “Brody says you okay.”
“As okay as I know to be.”
The man grinned. “That’s good. I like.” He clapped Roc on the shoulder. “You seen this before?”
“No. I’m a virgin, I guess.”
Luis laughed. “That’s our priestess there. She loves virgins.”
Roc stared at the woman with the turban, who was allowing a snake to lick her cheek. Obviously, she loved a lot of things Roc had no inclination to learn about, but he was here to watch, to learn, to know. He’d given up the right to turn away from the bizarre, the macabre, or even pure evil when he’d become a cop, much less a vampire hunter. Both in and outside the police department he’d witnessed unprecedented greed, corruption, and treachery. This was the land of lawlessness. Staring into it with wide-open eyes had destroyed any hope he’d ever had of making a difference.
He remembered something his friend Anthony had read to him. Not a bedtime story by any means, the ancient text had said something about “the lawless ones.” Were these, the participants in this strange ritual, the ones Anthony had spoken of? Had the priest known?
“Brody,” Luis said, interrupting his thoughts, “says you have the gift of sight.”
“Sight, huh?” Roc glanced across the way at his ex-partner. Brody’s head was bent as he spoke to a woman dressed in colors rivaling the priestess’s. Had Brody told some story about Roc to get him in the door and accepted? “I’ve seen more than I ever cared to.”
“Ain’t that the truth?” A vein pulsed along Luis’s scalp. “You’ll see some things tonight. You just waits.”
Roc watched the priestess dance around, gyrating her body like a snake slithering through the grass, reaching toward a half-naked man. When their hands connected, the man jerked and trembled, shook and shivered all over, then danced like a whirlwind, spinning and leaping around the circle.
“That’s sure nothing I ever saw in Pennsylvania.”
“Oh, sure,” the man said, “don’t know of nothin’ like that up there.”
“It’s Amish country,” Roc explained, “and they’re a bit on the conservative side.”
“That so? If you ran into these folks on the street, you’d never believe they could be involved in this. They’s from all walks of life. We gots doctors and lawyers. Heck, if you was to say they was here, they’d sue your ass. I reckon you never knows about folks though.”
“I reckon.”
“You from Pennsylvania then?”
“Nah, I’m a Louisiana boy, born and raised in St. Tammany Parish. But I’ve been up North for a few months.”
“That right? I knows someone from Pennsylvania, nows that I thinks on it.”
“Oh, yeah? He Amish?” Roc half joked, but he kept his gaze flitting back and forth between the man and the action in the center of the warehouse, where the worshippers were trembling from their heads to their bare feet. Many moaned and groaned as their bodies rocked and gyrated to the drum’s rhythm.
“Yeah, yeah, I think maybe he was Amish at that. Or had been. Or knew of ’em anyways. I can’t recall just what now.”
“He still around?” Roc indicated the group of folks dancing to the dark rhythm. “We might have something to chat about.”
“Might at that. Seems to me he still around. Far as I know. Ain’t seen him in a while, but he used to come here. I sees him out there hoodooing with the best of ’em.” He snapped his fingers twice, trying to jog his memory. “Now what was that fella’s name?”
Roc waited, his muscles tightening with anticipation, but he tried to restrain his eagerness.
“Hmm…it was one of those common Bible names.”
“John?” Roc suggested.
“Maybe. Don’t know.” Luis’s interest in the topic faded, shifting into acute avoidance.
“Maybe it was—”
“No, don’t know. I probably get it wrong anyways. I do that.” Luis’s body swayed with the beat, the muscles in his arms flexing and veins popping to the surface of his dark skin. “It’s getting heated out there.”
Roc watched as those dancing began to shed their clothes as a snake might shed its skin, rubbing against one another and leaving their clothes on the warehouse floor. When he glanced back at Luis, the man was gone. He’d joined the dancers and was sandwiched between two women; one straddled his thigh, rocking in an ancient sexual rhythm, and the other cupped his backside, her arms snaking around his torso. Feeling voyeuristic, Roc backed away from the circle and leaned against the wall.
He’d pushed the man too hard, too fast. For some reason, Luis hadn’t wanted to remember the man from Pennsylvania. Was it possibly Jacob? Akiva? Or someone else?
The rhythm of the drum and dancers became more frenzied, the tempo picking up and commanding the dancers to follow. Some drifted off into the shadows and others stayed in the circle, going from partner to partner. Roc’s own body began to respond. He glanced down at his hand and rubbed a bruise on his thumb. What was he doing here? And how would being here help him find Rachel?
“You looking for the Amish girl?” A voice came from his left. A woman bent over and unstrapped her sandals in an unhurried pace, her hands sliding along her calf and foot. She couldn’t have been much more than the legal age, but he’d learned a long time ago it was often hard to tell women’s ages. She had skin the color of melted caramels. Her foot was braced on the seat of a metal folding chair, and her skirt draped downward toward the floor.
“Don’t look at me,” she hissed, never glancing in his direction. Her movements didn’t quicken or slow. She kept her focus on first one sandal then the other.
Roc glanced back at the dancers, but his full attention was on the woman only a few feet away from him. Through tight lips, he said, “I am looking for—”
“She not far. From what I hear.”
“And what’s that?”
She bent down and placed her sandals carefully under the chair. “She in danger, this Rachel.”
His gaze darted sideways again—the woman straightened and began unbuttoning her dress, working her way down a long row traveling from neckline to hem—then he jerked his gaze away. “How so?”
“Akiva have her.”
Roc’s heart thrummed, jerking and pulsing in the frenzied swell of the drumbeat. “Where?”
“You figure that out, mister. She close. Just so you know,
you didn’t hear nothin’ from me. But take her and run for your life.”
He looked back at the woman, who let her dress slide off her shoulders to land in a soft pool at her feet. But he wasn’t looking at her shapely form. He stared straight into coal-black eyes, and the darkness told him more than he’d expected. Then she strode forward with long, determined strides to join the dancers, leaving him with a shiver of heat.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Had Acacia just confessed she had killed? And drank blood? And did all sorts of abominations?
Rachel’s vision wavered. Blood pooled in her legs. She braced a hand against the desk to keep from passing out.
“Orphelia says I’m bad.” Acacia shrugged a narrow shoulder. “I guess she’s right. I do bad things sometimes.”
Rachel sat very still, feeling as if her heart had frozen. A portion of her brain began to pray fervently, frantically—“Oh, Lord…help me.” Over and over again she thought the same prayer without any elaboration.
The girl was looking at her like she wanted forgiveness, which was something Rachel didn’t have authority to give. But it did give her a place to start. “Everybody makes mistakes.”
“I s’pose. But I keep making the same ones over and over. Just can’t help myself.”
“You mean k…killing people?”
Acacia tilted her head as if contemplating the sin of murder. “Nah. I gotta do that. How else would I live? I mean, really. Do you worry about killing cows and pigs and fish and stuff so’s you can eat?”
Could this child do something worse than murder? Or was her whole right and wrong so skewed she had no idea what right and wrong truly was? Were people now simply animals to her? When Rachel spoke, her voice trembled. “So…what do you do that’s so bad?”
Acacia giggled then pressed the tips of her fingers against her pink lips. “I play tricks. Usually on the other vamps. I rearranged a couple of apartments, moving Stephanos’s stuff to Erika’s, and hers to his.” Another giggle bubbled up in Acacia. “Boy were they mad. Orphelia just laughed and said, ‘You is bad, Acacia. Real bad.’”
Suddenly an idea sparked in Rachel, and she took it as divine revelation or intervention.
Attempting a smile, Rachel feared it might be a look of revulsion instead. “You know”—she leaned toward the little girl and tried for a conspiratorial camaraderie—“we could play a trick on Orphelia and Akiva right now. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
“Oh, no. Akiva don’t never laugh.”
Rachel leaned back, tapped her chin. “You’re right.” She remained quiet for a moment and let the seed she’d planted in Acacia start to grow. “It’s a bad idea. I shouldn’t have even suggested it.”
Feigning interest in the fried chicken, Rachel picked at the bones but couldn’t manage to swallow any of the meat. Her stomach was churning and heaving with images: rituals she’d witnessed while in New Orleans with Jacob, now mixed with pure imaginings of what this girl did, and what Jacob…now Akiva…did, and what he wanted to do. She tried to block the pictures from her mind, but they assaulted her. The prayer she’d been praying was silenced by her fear.
Another giggle from Acacia shifted Rachel’s focus. The young girl’s dark eyes glinted with mischief, and Rachel’s heart began to beat more steadily with hope. “What was it you had in mind?”
Rachel shook her head and shoved the scraps of chicken into the paper sack. “It was just a silly idea.”
“It’s okay. You can tell me,” the girl insisted. “We don’t have to do it. We could just laugh about it ourselves.”
Rachel managed a smile. “That’s a good idea. Well, I was thinking we could hide…you know out in the big area, among the shelves somewhere, and then when Akiva came back, he’d have to search for us. And then we’d pop out of our hiding place and surprise him.”
Acacia laughed, the sound so innocent and yet full of something darker. “I got a better idea.” She jumped up off the bed and rushed to the door. “We could…come on, and I’ll show ya.”
Rachel’s heart pounded. Carefully, so as not to spoil the mood, she stood, her joints stiff from sitting for so long, slipped her bare feet into her tennis shoes and followed after the young girl, who didn’t just walk but frolicked out the door and out onto the landing, like she was chasing butterflies in a meadow.
“Isn’t this fun?” Acacia turned to look at Rachel, her face split in a big grin, like they were playmates.
Rachel nodded and held tight to the side rail.
“So where should we hide?” The girl looked down into the warehouse from the landing outside Rachel’s room. “I know! We could go up to those beams.”
“I think I’m too big to do any climbing like that.”
“Oh, yeah, I forgot. I can change, but you can’t. Well, we could—”
“Is it day or night?” Rachel asked.
“Night.”
“Then that’s perfect.”
“Why?”
“We could go outside, and Akiva wouldn’t see us. We could see him approaching. And when he goes inside, we can laugh, and he won’t hear us.”
“You’re right! If we laugh inside, he’d know for sure.”
Rachel’s heart skipped ahead of itself. “Then when he comes back outside, we’ll surprise him.”
Acacia giggled, bending slightly at the waist as if she couldn’t contain the laughter. “I like it! He’ll be mad, but Orphelia will be with him. She’ll get a good laugh out of it. And she won’t let him hurt us.”
The girl zipped down the stairs, her footsteps light. Rachel descended more slowly, yet her heart pumped like she had run the entire way. When they reached the bottom of the warehouse floor, they walked together through the dark. Occasionally, Rachel saw red eyes glaring at them—mice or rats, she suspected.
Acacia skipped ahead and turned back toward Rachel. “What’s it like to carry a baby inside you like that?”
The girl’s question surprised Rachel. It was a typical question from a child. And this was a child. Although she wasn’t a child. Or was she? Confused, Rachel focused on what the girl had asked. “It’s nice. And sometimes it’s a bit uncomfortable.”
“Does the baby move around in there?”
“Sure.”
The girl stared at her tummy for a long while. “That must be weird, huh?”
Acacia’s eyes looked moist, and Rachel wondered if she was thinking of her own mother. The hardened young killer still had such innocence about her. But no more questions were asked; Acacia simply turned and led the way toward the door.
“I better peek outside and make sure Akiva isn’t coming.”
“Okay.” Rachel tried to act casual and completely unconcerned, as if she wasn’t about to bolt for freedom. She offered up a prayer of desperation, not for herself, but for her baby. What would she do? Make a run for it? Wait for another opportunity? But if she waited too long and Akiva came back, then her one chance would be lost.
The door creaked open, and Acacia stepped outside boldly, confidently, and disappeared into the darkness. What would it be like to be this little girl and have no fears? As it was, Rachel trembled all over, scared to move forward, scared to stay where she was. She glanced behind her then stared at the door. Her heart pounded heavily and awkwardly. Her limbs wobbled, as if her legs would collapse under her and she’d crumple to the floor. For ye have not received the spirit of bondage again to fear; but ye have received the spirit of adoption, whereby we cry, Abba, Father. She bowed her head, fingered the tie of her prayer kapp, and simply whispered, “Abba, Father.”
A calm settled over her and strengthened her from the inside out. Rachel laid her palm against the warm metal door and waited, counting to herself and wondering if she should follow Acacia. But she sensed she should wait. Was it fear guiding her? Or was it God’s steady hand? One
minute passed. Then another. With each second ticking away, Rachel’s heart sped up until the blood pounded against her eardrums and her head felt as swollen as her belly.
Then the door pushed toward her, and Acacia’s face appeared. “Rachel!”
“I’m right here.”
“Come on! Let’s—”
Acacia was suddenly jerked backward, her eyes widening. Her mouth opened, but her words were cut off.
Rachel caught the door with her hand. An outside light shone down on a face she had seen before, a face like an avenging angel. The man had dark coloring, dark hair, dark eyes, dark expression, yet his eyes were only brown, more coffee-stained than the solid black ones of Akiva, Orphelia, and Acacia. She’d met him somewhere…New Orleans? No, back home at Josef’s family farm.
She had time only to open her mouth, no solid thought even forming, before she, too, was yanked outside into the wet-blanket heat.
What was happening? How was he here? Why was he here? She sensed maybe he was an answer to her prayer.
“Rachel,” he said, urgency in his tone, the fierceness in his gaze alarming her more than Acacia’s black one. “Who is this?”
He held Acacia in some kind of a viselike grip, her arm wrenched behind her back. But Acacia’s expression was not pained or fearful, more tolerant. The calm look frightened Rachel even more, for the girl had boasted of doing things Rachel never could have imagined. Which put this man’s life and her own at stake now.
“H…her name is Acacia.”
“Is she a vampire?” he asked.
“A vam—?”
“One of them,” he added. “Like Akiva.”
Before Rachel could answer, Acacia moved with amazing speed, spinning away from the man. But he had tethered a leather strap to her wrist. When she lunged at him, he produced a wicked wooden stake and pointed it at the girl’s chest.
“Wait! Please,” Rachel cried. No matter what Acacia had done in the past, Rachel wanted to help and protect the young girl.
Acacia tipped her head sideways, her face looking so young and innocent, and she blinked those big black eyes. The silly game was now over; the playmates were now on opposite teams. With strength coiled in her petite muscles, she pounced, knocking the stake out of the way. The almost three-foot piece of carved wood arced through the air before crashing to the ground. Rachel’s gaze had followed it, and when she looked back, Acacia and the man were grappling and struggling and rolling on the ground.
