by Ken Lange
My stomach churns. His words are nearly the same as Kvasir’s. “Ah… I don’t put a lot of stock in fate. I believe we create our own luck and carve out our lots in life through sheer force of will. I’m not sure anyone should put their faith in any sort of prophecy, especially when it comes to me.”
He downs his vodka. “Perhaps, but it doesn’t change my purpose. Unlike many of my brethren, I haven’t forgotten why I’m here. While I cannot speak for the rest, you have my support.”
We spend the next few hours discussing what brought him and his partner to New Orleans. It turns out I’d met a domovoi before—his mother—but she was killed when a necromancer invaded her home. I’d been too late to save her, and he’d fled to Russia in order to regroup. It took a few years, but he returned to New Orleans to finish her work. It’s the reason he joined the UCD, and now that he’s the head of the New Orleans branch, he isn’t sure how to proceed.
Honestly, neither am I. This isn’t anything either of us expected, but here we are.
Shortly after midnight, he gets to his feet and holds out his hand. “Thank you for entrusting me with your secret.”
I bow slightly. “It’s the least I could do. Hope to be seeing you again soon.”
He smiles. “Da. Good night, Mr. Warden.”
“Good night, Captain Baptist.”
When he leaves, I move over to my desk and check the preliminary autopsy report for Geanann Mac Dala, the murdered Ulfr Hunn. According to the paperwork, the point of impact was his chest. Every bone in his core is now basically a fine powdery substance, meaning he was hit stupidly hard with a fairly large object. Even his skull, arms, and legs were shattered into hundreds of pieces.
Mir appears in the chair in front of the desk. “Evening.”
“How are things?”
He shrugs. “Could be worse.” Thumbing over his shoulder, he says, “That went much better than I’d anticipated.”
“Agreed.” I glance up at him. “Were you able to find out anything about the shooter?”
Mir hunches forward and places his elbows on his knees. “I’m afraid not. There are plenty of cameras in the area, but whoever it was knew to avoid them.”
More than most, I despise mysteries, even if they benefit me. And don’t get me started on surprises… “That sucks.”
He gives me a dismissive wave. “Don’t look at it so negatively.”
Arching my eyebrow, I ask, “How would you suggest I see it? These things don’t normally work out for me well in the long run.”
Rolling his eyes, he leans back in his chair. “True, but maybe this time is different. I mean…you could have your very own guardian angel.”
The image of an angel with wings spread wide, pure white light surrounding it as it wields a sniper rifle races through my mind, and I can’t help but laugh. “Yeah, any angel guarding me would have to be heavily armed.”
Mir winces. “True.” He offers me a sad smile. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. Geanann knew what he signed up for. They all do.”
The last thing I want to do is discuss his death. “Are you keeping track of things over at the coroner’s office?”
He nods. “I am.”
“Is there anything there that could point us to whoever saved my ass?”
Mir shifts in his seat. “No, but there was some definite weirdness.”
I down my drink. “Lay it on me.”
He takes a deep breath and gives me the initial findings from the cemetery—starting with the fact that the bullets used were made from depleted uranium. Which led to a mini-vacation at the morgue until Pete could verify that things were safe… When the all-clear was sounded, they took DNA samples from the skeletal remains of the half-baked wraith, which are now being run against the database to see if we can figure out who these guys were when they were people.
I’m not holding my breath that they’ll find anyone, since there’s no way to tell how long they’ve been dead. A few of them have orthopedic implants, but they haven’t been able to find anything connected to the serial numbers yet. Maybe tomorrow will prove to be a better day on that front.
As for me, tomorrow will be anything but pleasant. First, I’m attending a funeral then I’m going to have a conversation with the most renowned voodoo priestess in the city. Sylvia Jones. Though it’s been a few centuries, as far as I know, she hasn’t forgiven me.
For now, though, I need to go upstairs, see Justine, and, hopefully, get some sleep.
Chapter 6
Most of the folks who work for me aren’t exactly religious. It isn’t that we don’t have faith in some sort of higher power, but more than a few of us have been around long enough to see the rise and fall of several different belief systems. Many others have met supposed deities, not all of them horrible but clearly not gods. These sorts of interactions make it difficult to believe in an actual religion. I guess that’s part of the curse of being so long-lived.
But we do have our traditions. One of those is how we honor the life of a fallen comrade. For the next month, his immediate family and the Ulfr Hunn will celebrate Geanann Mac Dala’s life. After we laid him to rest this morning at daybreak, there was a massive feast in his honor where we shared our memories of him. His wife, Cnucha, was the first to speak, telling us how he and his brother had once been high kings of Ireland. More tales of his bravery, kindness, and generosity have followed.
Rick steps up beside me, tapping his watch. Leaning over, he whispers, “This will go on for a while, and we need to talk.”
I squeeze Justine’s hand, and she gives me a knowing nod.
The moment we’re in the hall, I turn to Rick. “What’s on your mind?”
Rick gestures toward the stairs. “Let’s walk and talk. My first question is, do you have any idea who might have summoned Bakulu?”
Arching an eyebrow, I side-eye him. “Do you really think I’d still be here if I did?”
He pulls up short and touches my arm. “No, I don’t, and that’s why I’d like to throw out a suggestion.”
Well, this is curious. I stop and lean against the railing. “All right, I’m listening.”
His voice drops to a near whisper. “You’re going to think I’m nuts, but we’ve both seen the sort of injuries Geanann suffered.”
Furrowing my brow, I ask, “We have?”
His expression tells me he’s disappointed in me. “Think back about thirty years.”
I scratch my head and blow out a long breath. “Ah…oh shit. You mean Ethan?”
He nods. “I do.”
Pulling air through my teeth, I shake my head. “Not seeing how that’s possible. He’s been dead for a few decades now. That’s how Leonard took over the family business.”
Rick cranes his neck from side to side. “Well, that’s the story. But think about it for a minute. All we know for sure is that Ethan vanished. It’s not like anyone saw a body, and as far as I can tell, no one signed his death certificate. Plus, given how pathetic Leonard is, you’d think someone…anyone would’ve challenged him as head of the Marcello syndicate if Ethan was truly out of the picture.”
Believe me, the thought’s crossed my mind before, but honestly, Ethan was too much of a control freak to just hand things over to his incompetent son. “It’s a solid theory, and for a while after he disappeared, I was right there with you. Thing is, if he was still alive and kicking, he would’ve come out swinging when Nigel started taking Leonard apart at the seams. If he were capable of wielding that type of power, or even bargaining with someone like Bakulu, he would’ve done it by now.”
Grunting, he bangs his back against the wall. “I see your point…but something about this whole thing feels familiar and I can’t shake the feeling that he’s somehow involved. I know how unlikely it sounds, but I’m not sure we should rule it out entirely. If it turns out I’m wrong, fantastic. If not, we’re in for a world of shit.”
That’s putting it mildly. Ethan was a ruthless and brutal man. If he’s somehow tied
into these half-baked wraiths, he’s going to come after me, everyone I care about, and do his best to set the city on fire just for spite. He’s the kind of man who likes to turn his enemies into broken pieces of meat and leave them on display as a warning to others.
As much as it pains me, I’d be stupid not to at least dig into this to make sure he’s dead. “Fine…I’ll shake a few trees and see what falls out.”
Rick nods. “That’s all I’m asking.”
God, I hope he’s wrong about this. “As soon as I know something, you’ll be my first call.”
He places his hand on his heart. “That makes me feel almost special.” Pointing up, he says, “Go handle whatever it is you’ve got planned. I’ll tend to the fort in your absence.”
I pause. “Hey, I’ve been thinking.”
He screws up his face. “That’s never a good thing.”
I wave away the comment. “It’s probably best that you don’t assign another person to me until this is over. It’s clear Bakulu can spot your people, which makes them little more than sitting ducks.”
Rick shakes his head. “That’s not the way this works.”
I put my hand on his shoulder. “Not normally, but this is a special situation.”
His expression darkens. “They’re all special situations. Let me do my job, and I’ll let you do yours. We’ve already taken steps to ensure that what happened last night won’t happen again.”
I drop my chin to my chest. “Fine…just keep a healthy distance.”
He rolls his eyes. “We always do.” His phone beeps, and he reads the screen. “Got to go. Good luck.”
I wave. “Take care.”
With that settled, I make my way into the office. My desk is piled high with a bunch of paperwork, but that will have to wait. What I’m interested in is the autopsy report and crime scene photo. I scan them, but there’s nothing remotely helpful. Guess it’s time for plan B.
After opening the bottom drawer of my desk, I pull out a small bag of gold coins, a bottle of old rum, and a box of Cuban cigars. While this won’t make things right, it is a fair payment for what I want to know.
Most days, the only quiet to be found in the building is either on the fifteenth floor or in the stairwells. Today, it’s the entire complex. Even the garage is silent, so much so that when I open the door to the Kia, it echoes. I sit there for a moment before turning the ignition and pulling out onto St. Charles. My destination today is in the Bayou Saint John area. Fifteen minutes later, I’m turning off Esplanade onto Moss, where I slow to a stop.
The local Hounfour is housed in an old slaver’s home—sorry, plantation home—called the Pitot House. Humans have a way of sugarcoating their history, and this atrocity is a prime example. They’ve so romanticized the era that when the house was scheduled for demolition, a group of people banded together to save it. They put up a ton of cash to purchase it then have it moved to this place, where it’s been painstakingly restored to its former glory. Honestly, the only thing missing is a white guy in a rocking chair, smoking a pipe and watching other people suffer for his profit.
You’d think that after having been a slave herself, Sylvia would’ve found a new home for her beliefs, but her anger and stubbornness has kept her rooted in the past, so much so that she’s unable to create something new for herself or what’s left of her family. Which is probably why her youngest son, Zadock, came to work for me.
Given that she hasn’t forgiven me for her son’s death all those years ago, I’m really not looking forward to this meeting. If there were any other way to get the information needed, I wouldn’t be here.
I put the car in park, lean over, and pick up the paper bag containing my peace offerings. When I get out of the vehicle, Sylvia’s standing in the middle of the street, arms folded.
Oh, good. This is off to a great start already.
I let gravity close the door for me. Smiling, I wave. “Afternoon, Sylvia.” I hold up the bag of goodies. “I come bearing gifts.”
She snorts and gives me a dismissive wave. “Keep them.” Sylvia is a few inches shorter than me, pretty, but far too thin.
“Are you sure?” I pull out the box of cigars. “Pretty sure you’d like these.”
She narrows her eyes. “I said no. Tell me why you’re here and be on your way.”
I put the bottle of rum at my feet along with the other items. “If you don’t want these, they can sit here, but they’re payment for a favor I need to ask.”
She cuts her eyes at the loot and smirks. “Fine, if that makes you feel better. Now get on with it.”
I blow out a long breath. “Baron Kriminel paid me a visit last night…along with Bakulu.”
At the mention of the Baron, she smiles but it dissipates the moment I say Bakulu’s name.
She shakes her head. “This is none of my concern.”
I hold out my hand for her to stop. “I get that, but do you know anyone who’d summon Bakulu?”
She chuckles. “There’s only one man foolish enough to even consider such a thing.”
Gesturing for her to continue, I ask, “And that would be?”
Her eyes twinkle in the sunlight. “You’re familiar with the former gatekeeper?”
My head starts to hurt. “Leonard?”
She nods. “Yes…his family and Bakulu have always been close. If I were you, I’d start there.”
I give her a slight bow. “Thank you.”
She sneers. “You can thank me by leaving this place and never returning.”
Sighing, I say, “I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise that.”
Anger dances in her eyes. “Of course you can’t.”
Without another word, I turn, open the door, and slip into the driver’s seat before pulling off.
Halfway back to the interstate, I reach for my phone. I’ve got to talk to someone about Leonard and his family business. Since he and I aren’t on speaking terms, my next best option is the man who’s been giving him a black eye for the better part of six months.
I scroll through my contact list to find Nigel Fabre’s number.
Nigel picks up on the first ring. “Good afternoon, Viktor. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Shaking my head, I try to get my thoughts together. “Afternoon, Nigel. Any chance you’ve got a few minutes for me?”
He pauses. “I’m sure something can be worked out. What’s on your mind?”
Clearing my throat, I say, “I need some information.”
He chuckles. “I figured that much. Care to be a bit more specific?”
“Leonard.”
A loud rumbling comes across the speaker, and he says something I can’t understand. “Sorry about that… Why do you want to talk about that asshole?”
Yeah, this is going about as well as expected. “Did you hear about what happened last night?”
His voice hardens. “If you’re talking about the incident at the Masonic Cemetery then yes and no. I know there was an issue, but I haven’t got a clue what actually happened.”
That saves me the trouble of having to rehash the evening entirely. “To hit the highlights for you, I met Baron Kriminel there. Our conversation went nowhere fast, at which point he vanished. The only useful bit of information was that Bakulu wants me dead. To that end, a bunch of mutant wraiths showed up with these weird shadow creepers along for the ride to make that happen. As you can tell, they failed.”
“I see, but what’s this got to do with Leonard?”
My knuckles turn white as I grip the steering wheel. “Apparently, the asshole and his family are somehow connected to Bakulu. If what certain people have implied is true, he’s the one who struck some sort of bargain with the loa in order to have me killed.”
Nigel coughs. “I’m sorry, what?”
I rub my temple. “You heard me.”
He’s quiet for several seconds. “In that case, are you hungry?”
Well, that’s a weird segue. Checking my watch, I say, “Sure, I could
eat.”
Relief sounds in his voice. “Excellent. Meet me at Good Time in Gentilly in half an hour.”
I nod. “Okay, see you then.”
After making a couple of other calls, I punch in the address for the restaurant. Twenty minutes later, I’m at the corner of Filmore and Elysian Fields. I pass the remains of an old bank that’s been turned into an insurance office and stop at the building next to it. Atop the little faded yellow building is a brightly colored blue and red sign that reads Good Time.
It doesn’t look like much, but if Nigel’s eating here, the food is excellent. I pull up next to a beautiful Havana Black Audi R8. Typical Nigel. Not only is he king of Zulu within the MCC, but outside those doors, he’s the leader of a Haitian crime syndicate and, ironically, a high-powered lawyer—his most-prevalent persona. He drives the nicest cars, wears the best suits, and is one of the sharpest, most capable people I’ve met. I don’t know why people continue to underestimate the man, but they do so at their peril.
I straighten my shirt before walking inside, though I’m not sure why I bother. It isn’t as if I’ll be any less underdressed sitting next to him. Dollars to donuts, he’s wearing a custom suit that costs more than my car.
Inside, it’s a bit small but comfortable. There’s something about the place that says welcome in a way most can’t. Nigel is sitting at the sushi bar, and the Asian man behind it is making a roll and talking to him.
Nigel waves me over. “Have a seat.” He gestures at the sushi chef. “This is Thomas.”
I glance at him and bow my head slightly. “Pleasure. My name is Viktor.”
Thomas returns the gesture. “Please, sit.”
A young woman takes my drink order. I turn to Nigel when she leaves. “So, you wanted to see me in person. May I ask why?”
Nigel holds up a finger. “I’ve got a few of my own questions before we get there.”
I gesture for him to continue. “Okay, shoot.”
