Arms upraised, Marie felt static in the air. A space opening between worlds.
“Ride,” a follower shrieked. The drums cajoled. “Ride,” she murmured.
Petey became Legba. He walked bowlegged, with a cane, his back bent. Head cocked, almost darting forward like a bird, Petey puffed on Legba’s black pipe.
Followers, in swirls of white, praised him, reaching out to touch his hand.
Then Petey convulsed. Fell to the ground. Limbs twitching.
Desiree’s head lolled. Lila clapped, shouting, “Praise be. Praise be.” Parishioners chanted: “Legba, Legba.”
DuLac laid props and garments on the ground, anticipating the arrival of other gods. Ezili’s fan and shawl. Ogun’s sword and headdress.
Parks was transfixed. He moved closer to the swirl of bodies.
Marie slowly turned, studying the worshipper’s faces. Ecstatic. Anticipating miracles, spiritual release. But no one was possessed. Haitians called possession “Monte shwal,” “ride my horse.”
Loas controlled; personality diminished.
Marie kneeled beside Petey. Cold air surrounded him. He was trying to tunnel into the dirt. Slobbering, shaking, his eyes rolled high in his head. His pulse was erratic.
She gripped Petey’s head, trying to hold it steady, trying to peer into his eyes. For a brief flicker, she saw his irises. A dark mist clouded his pupils, seeming to bleed like tears.
Unnerved, she fell back.
The mist elongated, covering Petey’s body like a blanket. Salty, crusted with sand.
“What’s happening?” shouted Parks.
The drumming stopped. The silence was disorienting, like the aftermath of a hurricane. Worshippers began wailing. Petey gasped, clawing for air. His body flopped like a rag doll.
“DuLac,” Marie screamed. “My med kit. DuLac.”
DuLac brought the kit. “Merde. What is it?”
“He’s having a seizure. This darkness—it’s hurting him. But the seizure is a secondary symptom.”
Parks, on his knees, said, “Use this.”
Marie stuck the pen in Petey’s mouth. Kept him from swallowing his tongue. Parks held his flailing arms.
“It’s freezing,” Parks said.
The darkness coiled about Petey’s legs, his torso.
“He all right? He all right?” asked Lila.
“Lord, have mercy,” said Auntie.
Wire, Renee, and Raoul stood over them. DuLac prepped a needle with a sedative; he pushed the liquid into Petey’s veins.
Marie felt the mist, amazingly ephemeral yet substantive. It uncoiled from Petey and wove up her arms.
“Marie, watch out,” yelled Parks.
DuLac reached for her.
“Keep away,” she said, stepping away from DuLac.
The misty darkness brushed through her hair, against her skin. Like ice, it burned. She shuddered.
A voice warned: “Show no fear.”
Agwé?
Petey’s breathing slowed.
“What’s happening?” asked Parks.
The darkness explored her body. Marie kept still, learning about it as it learned about her. She swore she felt textures in the darkness, a shape molding to her skin.
Before, the creature was invisible, but she could tell by her followers’ terror, DuLac’s curiosity, Parks’s horror that the spirit had become visible to them.
The darkness withdrew, coalescing into a tight ball. It hung, suspended in the air, then elongated, seeming to form a mouth, pressing against Petey’s wrist.
Blood dripped from Petey’s arm.
“No,” Marie shouted, gripping Petey’s arm, beating the dark air.
Petey’s body rattled like a crazed marionette. He was unconscious, the drug dominated, but his wrist was still twisting in the darkness, draining, losing blood.
“Be gone,” Marie screamed. “Agwé, help me. Send me your grace.”
At the word “Agwé,” Wire renewed his drumming. Rene and Raoul supported him, pounding the pattern of waves crashing against the shore, beating against a ship’s bow.
Marie quivered; Agwé answered their plea.
Possessed, she grabbed Agwé’s sword, feeling as powerful as a tide, swiping, stabbing at the creature. She could see the elements in the darkness, the particles disintegrating with each stab, thrust. But, quickly, the particles reassembled, the damage minimal.
Agwé roared: “What comes from the sea, belongs to me.”
The darkness pushed back. A test of wills. Energy that pushed, prodded each other. Like a chain reaction. Building, pulsing, explosive power.
Marie cried out, fell backward.
Agwé flew. So, too, the darkness.
Petey’s wrist lay limp.
“It’s gone,” said DuLac, checking Petey’s pulse and heart.
Parks helped her to sit up.
Followers crowded: Auntie, Desiree, Erma. “You all right, Miz Marie? You all right?”
“I’m fine.” Marie looked at Wire, somber; at Renee and Raoul, disappointed and scared, like vulnerable teenagers.
Marie touched Petey’s chest. His carotid artery. “He’s alive.”
DuLac wrapped Petey’s wrist. “He may need a transfusion. I’ll call an ambulance.”
Marie rested her head on Parks’s shoulder. Fireflies danced, a mosquito tried to draw Petey’s blood. She swatted it.
The air was warm, sticky. Wet. The moon was growing full. Petey’s body was ice cold.
“Everyone go home,” said Parks. “This is a police matter now.”
Lila, Yvonne, Paul, and the others began ambling away. Elderly, they’d seen worse. Renee tipped his hat, then, he and his brother were off.
Wire squatted. “I wasn’t much use tonight.”
Marie squeezed his hand. “No. You did fine. Agwé didn’t have the strength to stay.”
“All my life I heard about my family’s history. Part of me never really believed my father’s stories. How our drumming was all powerful.”
“Do you believe now?”
“Yes, I do. And, tonight, I feel as though I failed you.”
“You didn’t.”
“I commit myself to your service.” Unexpectedly, he knelt, his chin on his chest, all pride washed out of him. His brow, dripping sweat, stained the dirt. “Bless me. I’ll make myself worthy.”
Parks was looking at her strangely.
Marie laid her hand on Wire’s head. “I accept your service.”
Wire clutched her hand, kissing the inside of her palm. Abruptly he stood, gathering his drum. Leaving through the backyard gate.
DuLac covered Petey with his jacket.
Two years ago, she’d envisioned a bad end for Petey; she’d lied, telling him he’d die in bed. Whatever his end, she hoped this wasn’t it.
She looked at Parks. “New clue,” she said softly. “It’s becoming stronger. Agwé can’t slay it. It’s from the sea, but it’s something else. Something Agwé has no sway over. I’ve never known anything like it.”
His blue eyes looked into her brown eyes. “Are you okay? That’s all I need to know.”
Marie cocked her head. “You’re a strange man.”
She looked at her hand. Blood rising to the surface, she stared at the crazy quilt of veins. Life was mapped by blood, DNA, all the way back to Eve.
“It won’t die,” she murmured. Her knees buckled, and she slipped into darkness.
“Doc?”
She was in Parks’s squad car, her head leaning against the window. She remembered Parks lifting, carrying her. The parishioners huddling like scared mice.
“DuLac?” she asked.
“He called an ambulance for Petey.”
“I need to help.”
“No.” Parks reached across her, snapping her seat belt. “DuLac told me to take care of you. Take you home.”
“I need to speak with him.”
“Doctor’s orders.”
“But he doesn’t know—” She stopped. What? W
hat could she possibly tell him that would be useful? She slumped back against the seat. “This is the second time you’ve rescued me. Won’t happen again,” she said, defensive.
“Didn’t expect it would. Figured this was unusual. Like the case.”
Parks started the engine. Turned on the whoosh of the air conditioner. Flicked his headlights to high as he tried to maneuver out of a too-tight spot.
Parks was a good man. Marie pressed her face against the window. Staring at the row houses: folks, inside, listening to music, soaking their sore feet after a ten-hour shift in the Riverwalk casinos; folks, outside, playing cards, participating vicariously in the voodoo ritual in Lila’s backyard. For hours, drums had resounded throughout the neighborhood and no one had seemed to mind. Or, if they did, they kept their mouths shut. Most New Orleanians were believers; and those who weren’t believed well enough to leave voodoo alone.
She touched her palm to the window. Wire was standing on the sidewalk, grim, his hand held high. He’d called something all right. And she wondered if he regretted it, felt sorry about it.
Headlights flared diagonally, illuminating parked cars, the road. The car stopped as a whooping ambulance rounded the corner. She and Parks were, for seconds, drenched in red.
The car jerked forward.
“It fought with Agwé,” she marveled. “Shut the gate. Opened its own.”
“I don’t understand a word you’re saying.”
“I wonder if it’s a new kind of spirit? A new loa?”
“Seemed plain evil to me. DuLac thought Petey had rib fractures. Internal injuries.”
“In voodoo, gods are like people, a mixture of both good and evil.”
Parks glanced at her, then focused on the empty road. “You feel anything good?”
She shook her head.
“It’s going to rain. Smell it.”
Marie rolled down the window, sticking her head into the air. Salt, diesel oil, fish. Body smells—sweat, tears, sex—were heavy in the air. The sky was smoky black, the clouds gray. The moon was crystal white, pregnant. A hurricane was stirring off the Florida Keys, roiling its way eastward, toward the Carribbean Sea and the Gulf. Sailors were battening their sails, hatches. Murmuring curses and prayers.
The car’s clock read 2:13 AM.
“Have you ever gotten lost, Detective?”
“All the time. Clues get me lost. Always chaos before I can figure it out. Who did what to whom. And why.”
“That’s how I feel. Lost. Chaos. Can’t figure it out. It’ll be a full moon soon. The tides are rising. All around the earth. Amazing—how that happens.”
She shifted in her seat, studying Parks’s profile. High cheekbones, a nose etched sharp. Thin lips.
“Legba opens the gate. Agwé should’ve arrived first. Instead, an unnamed thing taunted me.”
“Taunted?” He looked sharply at her.
“No, pushed back. Against Agwé. It explored me.” She paused, reliving the feel of an inexplicably hard but soft darkness. It couldn’t be a loa; there was too much substance. Presence.
If she’d shown fear, would it have attacked? Had Agwé warned her? Or had there been another spirit present?
Her breathing slowed, she closed her eyes, trying to see connections in the dark.
“Show no fear.” It had felt like a woman’s voice. Cautioning that the creature sensed emotions.
Did it feed on fear as well as blood?
“Where are you?”
“What?”
“It’s like you go somewhere else. Disappear. From the here. You know what I mean.”
She shuddered. “I’m in another world. Inside myself. Thinking. Trying to travel roads I don’t understand. Roads my ancestors have traveled.”
“I thought you—”
“What?”
“Thought you, voodoo people, controlled things. Hey, I’m not saying I believe.” He pumped the brakes, realizing he had been speeding. “I mean, I believe something is happening. If you’re not in control, who is?”
“Good question.”
She pressed the button on the armrest, watching the window rise. The glass reflected streetlights. She saw her face. Sad. Dirty, hair awry.
The car, a nondescript black Taurus, rolled through the streets of the Garden District. Ancient trees shading the road. Gnarled roots. Mansions with deep porches; windows like jaundiced eyes. Such lovely glory, yet, decaying. Insects burrowing into trees. Soft soil alive with weeds.
Sin City. Decadent. Corruption beyond the neon, the raucous music. Behind elegant mansion doors. Inside tourist bedrooms. Modest cottages. An unforgiving past. Slavery, opium, and fever. Preternatural possibilities.
New Orleans reeked. Caught between the Mississippi River and Lake Ponchartrain. Swamps to the south. It was unsettling living below sea level, it always felt as if destruction was imminent. For decades, the Canal Street pumps had drained streets when it rained. Brackish water mixing with sewer overflow.
Parks said nothing. Just drove.
She wiped tears from her cheeks.
She didn’t understand why she felt at such a loss. All her life, she’d been strong. When her mother died, when she was left in foster care, she’d survived.
Had it been her mother who warned her to show no fear? Or someone else? Another ancestor stirring in her blood?
Times like this she felt unprepared. Didn’t know enough. Funny, her mother had escaped from New Orleans and her heritage; Marie had felt drawn, like a moth to a flame.
“Here.” Parks handed her a handkerchief.
“I didn’t expect you to carry a kerchief for a crying girl.”
“My mother taught me manners.”
“And to be prepared?”
“That was the Eagle Scouts.” Parks turned the steering wheel left. “You did a remarkable thing. I don’t understand any of it. But I understand you saved Petey’s life.”
Parks’s head dipped and bobbed. He was scanning the streets for crime. Reneaux had driven the same way.
She stuffed the kerchief against her mouth, muffling her wail.
The air conditioner kicked in again, whirring. Even at night, New Orleans was often too hot. Steam rising from the pavement; from the bumping of bodies, personalities trying to thrive in a decadent, desultory world.
Rain started to fall, soft as petals. Marie promised herself that this was the last time she’d ever cry.
Not enough blood. The man’s blood had been thin. Filled with regrets, petty crimes. Old blood for an old man.
It enjoyed the victim’s fear—the horror when it approached, when the blood began draining.
She didn’t fear. Curious.
What secrets stirred in her blood? What memories?
Her blood would be thick, rich with emotions.
It needed not just blood, but the memories the blood sustained. Memories coupled with feelings helped it remember. Feel.
What it was now, it hadn’t been. It had been more real.
What was real?
It gathered itself, high above the candles, the bonfire smoldering. It listened for a call. Hungering.
For the girl without fear.
SEVEN
MARIE’S APARTMENT
THURSDAY NOON
Marie sat, her feet propped on the balcony rail. Kind Dog lay at her feet, panting. He was hot, would’ve preferred being inside, but he wasn’t going to leave her.
She patted his head. “Good boy,” she said. “We’ll go in soon.”
Inside her apartment, she felt as if she couldn’t get enough air. Outside, the sun shining, watching the street life, she could pretend it was an ordinary day and she hadn’t any failures. Maybe because she’d been raised in Chicago, she found the sun soothed what ailed her. Even when she complained about the heat and humidity, she felt grateful it wasn’t snow. Wasn’t ice.
“Hey, Doc. Doc!”
She lowered her feet, peering over the rail. “Parks?”
Dog stood, waving his tail,
his nose pushed between the wrought-iron rails.
“Can I come up?”
“Only if you’ve got good news.”
Parks’s shoulders drooped. He lifted high a paper bag.
Dog barked. Sharp. Then barked again.
“Guess I’m overruled,” said Marie.
“Door unlatched?”
“No. I’ll get it for you.” She rose, looking at Dog, his brown eyes soulful. “You should open the door. You invited him in.”
She stepped inside the house. Dog padded behind her. She pulled two beers from the refrigerator.
Parks entered, looking unbelievably cool in jacket and tie. Dog, his tail waving mightily, pawed at the bag.
“He’s smart.” Parks pulled out a bone. Raw, fresh with meat and marrow, from the butcher. “An associate runs a shop.”
“A good associate?”
“No. A bad one. A snitch. Good for me. But bad for criminals. He didn’t have a tip. So I asked for bones instead.”
Dog barked. Tired of waiting patiently.
“Can I?”
“Sure. Dog will bite you if you don’t.”
Parks placed a bone in Dog’s mouth. He went to the fridge. “Save the rest for later.”
Marie offered him a beer.
Parks declined. “I’m on duty.”
“Suit yourself,” she said, walking through her bedroom to the balcony. “Grab a kitchen chair.”
Parks lifted jeans off the floor. Folded them, laid them on the bed. Squatting, he studied books strewn on the floor.
His tattoo showed—just a little, blue with a red outline. Marie wondered how far it extended. She could see, too, that his hair was a bit too long for a cop, curling on his neck, over his dress shirt. His hair was a subtle rebellion.
“You’re not a neat freak?”
“No.” Parks stood, smoothing the front of his suit.
“Sure you’re not. Come on, watch me drink.” She swallowed the cool foam.
In New Orleans, beer could be as potent as a shot of vodka. There weren’t any alcohol limits.
“You’re not planning to work tonight?” asked Parks.
“What else should I do?”
“Another ceremony?”
“Doesn’t work that way. It’s not like turning a lightbulb on and off.”
“I didn’t think it was.”
The Legend of Marie Laveau Mystery Trilogy Page 8
