She waited until the sparks died down, then traced the outline of Lena's body in the smoke. Without a word, she handed the smoldering bundle to Cyrus. He was already waiting with an ashtray, and stubbed it the rest of the way out.
Georgia picked up the candle and held it over Lena's belly. Suddenly, she seemed somehow bigger. MacMillian blinked. He couldn't lay a finger on any physical difference, but the change was undeniable. It was as though her very essence had expanded to fill the room.
She spoke, and even her voice sounded bigger. "In the name of the Lord and the Lady, I order you to leave this woman."
MacMillian shifted. A strange hum danced across the back of his neck.
Georgia's voice built. "By my will, I command you. By my power, I banish you."
The photos on the mantle started to rattle. Durbin's hand flew to his holster. MacMillian caught his eye, shook his head.
"Be gone from this vessel, and this house."
Lena's hands started to shake. Georgia kept her grip on the candle and nodded at Cyrus. He dropped to his knees and braced Lena's shoulders.
"I call you by name, Legion, and I order you to leave this woman." Georgia's voice thundered in the small room. "So mote it be."
She blew out the candle. At the same time, Lena's entire body seized. Cyrus grunted as she strained against his hands. Georgia set the candle aside and held her head. MacMillian forced himself to stay still.
As quickly as they had begun, the tremors ceased, and Lena collapsed back against the sheet. Georgia nodded at Cyrus again. He stood and stepped back.
Georgia placed a hand over Lena's forehead. For several long seconds, she didn't move. Finally, she pulled away. "Wake, sister."
Lena's eyes shot open. Air rattled in her throat. She stared up at Georgia. "Am I...?"
Georgia nodded. "You're clean. I'd eat something and take a nap if I was you, but other than that, you'll be fine."
Lena nodded. Her gaze drifted to where MacMillian, Durbin, and Cyrus still stood. She wheezed a laugh. "Will you three sit down? You're making me nervous."
MacMillian exhaled a snort. Cyrus rolled his eyes.
Durbin looked from one of them to another, and shook his head. "So what is all this, exactly? Who are you people, the Ghostbusters?"
"Hell, no." Lena clasped Georgia's shoulder while the other woman helped her into a sitting position. "Bill Murray's got nothing on me."
CHAPTER TWELVE
"You really didn't have to drive me home, you know." Lena glanced at where Durbin sat behind the wheel of his nondescript Corolla. His smartphone was plugged into the radio, and U2 filtered through the speakers. "Cyrus could have taken me after he dropped you at your car."
"True." He looked at her. A pair of dark aviator sunglasses hid his eyes. "But it's on my way, and there are a few things I want to ask you."
Of course there were. She should have known this was coming. Lena let her head fall back against the headrest. "Ask away."
"Okay." Durbin's fingers flexed against the steering wheel. "Why don't we start with what just happened."
"What about it?"
"What about..." He trailed off. "Are you serious? You were possessed. By ghosts."
Lena sighed. "Look, you may find this difficult to believe, but that wasn't the first time I've been jumped. It wasn't the worst time, either."
Durbin stared at her incredulously.
"Let me put it this way." She sat up a little straighter. "You're a cop. There are certain hazards that come with your job. Well, it's the same for me. Possession is one of the risks that comes with what I do."
"And what is that, exactly?"
"I, um..." She hesitated. The tone of his voice was impossible to decipher. "I'm a medium."
He didn't speak right away. Lena studied his face. Not so much as a muscle flickered.
She cleared her throat. "Please say something."
"I just..." He stopped, started over. "I should think all this is crazy, right? I should think you're crazy. But I just witnessed an exorcism performed by an actual witch, and what happened in that room..." He shook his head. "There's not a single way I can explain it that doesn't go against everything I know is true."
"You mean everything you think is true." Lena stared out the window as he pulled onto her street.
"I guess." He guided the Corolla around the rim of the park. "It's not that I don't want to believe you. I'm pretty sure I do, it's just..."
Lena's lips twisted. "An adjustment."
"Right. An adjustment."
Lena didn't look at him. The turquoise exterior of Cross Your Teas peeked between the buildings in front of them. A wave of exhaustion swept over her. Suddenly, all she wanted was to go home, drink a cup of chamomile tea, and crawl into bed. Maybe just crawl into bed. "You can let me off here."
Durbin pulled over to the curb. Lena slipped off her seatbelt. "Thanks for the lift."
He caught her hand before she could reach for the door. "Listen, please don't think less of me for this. I mean, I'm just," he looked down, then back up at her. "I'm glad you're okay. I hope I get to see you again."
She smiled in spite of herself. "I hope so too." She gave his hand a quick squeeze. He let her fingers slip through his as she opened her door. She smiled again and climbed to the pavement.
"Hey."
Lena bent down. "Yes?"
Durbin's sunglasses were gone, and his gray eyes sparkled up at her. He winked. "Take care of yourself, Dr. Venkman."
Lena bit back a grin. "You too, Dana Barrett." She straightened, and allowed the grin to flood her face.
Durbin was still laughing when she closed the door.
←↑↓→
He had the entire ride back to the office to fester.
MacMillian struggled to keep his hand steady on the driving controls. A clip of Lena heaving on the floor of the tunnel played over and over again in his head. His stomach turned. Less than a week ago, he hadn't even believed in ghosts; now he was finding out they could possess people? His forehead started to ache.
And some good he'd been. Acid burned the back of his throat. If Durbin hadn't been there, she'd probably still be in that tunnel. For the first time in a long time he felt like a cripple, and in more ways than one.
Something hardened in his chest.
The door to the adjoining office was closed when he arrived. Ray Charles' distinctive alto filtered through the walls. Darius's deeper, coarser voice sang along with it.
Something dark and unpleasant welled up inside him. MacMillian snatched the spare cane from next to his desk and marched over to the door. He pushed it open with such force it banged against the wall.
Darius jumped and turned down the volume on his iPod dock. "Have you lost your goddamn mind? What the hell is wrong with you?"
MacMillian didn't apologize. "How long have you known about all this ghost stuff?"
Darius stilled. "Why?"
"Damn it, just answer the question. How long?"
Darius hunched forward in his chair. "My whole life."
From the look on his face, it was clearly a sore subject. MacMillian swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth and pressed on anyway. "I want you to teach me."
Darius sat bolt upright. "What? What the fuck are you talking about?"
"You heard me." MacMillian's jaw worked. "You think I haven't always known you were into something? Maybe I didn't know about all of it, but give me some credit."
Darius's face turned ashen. He started to shake his head. "Whatever you think you know..."
MacMillian rolled his eyes. "Don't start. How long have we been sharing this office? You have a weird symbol carved under your desk. You have piles of salt in all four corners of this room. And don't think I haven't smelled whatever the hell it is you burn in here." He planted his feet. "I never mentioned it because I never cared. Now I do. I want to learn. So teach me."
Darius's expression darkened. "You don't understand what you're—"
"That's exactly
my point." MacMillian dragged a hand through his hair. "Something happened today, Darius. Something bad that could have ended up worse. And if it had, there wouldn't have been a damn thing I could have done about it."
Darius's brow furrowed.
MacMillian started to pace. "I'm in this now, and I don't even know what 'this' is. So you tell me. Am I supposed to just live my life blindfolded when I have a fucking target on my back?"
Darius's voice was so low he had to strain to hear it. "What do you want me to say?"
"I don't care." MacMillian trapped his gaze. "Just help me."
Darius's lips thinned. MacMillian refused to look away. For a moment, he wondered if his partner wasn't getting ready to throw him out by the scruff of his neck.
Then Darius rubbed a hand over the smooth dome of his head. "Fuck. I'm going to regret this."
MacMillian raised his eyebrows.
Darius sighed heavily and stood. "You got your keys? You're driving."
←↑↓→
"This is it. Just park on the street."
MacMillian peered up at the sign on the corner building as he pulled up to the curb. He glanced sideways at Darius. "The Black Magic Voodoo Lounge. Really?"
Darius didn't look at him. "Just trust me."
Inside, the lounge was nearly empty. Burgundy-cushioned banquets lined the walls opposite a long wooden bar. Behind it, shelves packed with bottles and various kitschy gimcracks extended to the ceiling.
MacMillian trailed after Darius as he headed past the tables. A woman with long dreadlocks, two tattoo sleeves, and a faceful of piercings looked up from wiping down the bar. She tossed her head at Darius. "Hey, D. Been a while. Papa was gettin' worried."
"Yeah, just Papa, I'm sure." Darius mustered a smile. "How you been, Bez?"
The woman's lips ticked up at the corners. Her heavily shadowed eyes slid to MacMillian. "Who's the mundane?"
MacMillian scowled. "I wish people would stop calling me that."
Darius ignored him. "He's fine. The shop open?"
"For you? Always." Bez flashed him a grin. A diamond stud above her lip winked in the dim light. "Go on down."
She reached below the bar. A latch clicked, and a section of the counter swung open. Darius stepped through it and brushed a kiss over her upturned cheek, then motioned for MacMillian to follow.
MacMillian gave the woman a polite nod, then tailed Darius through a set of double doors. Instead of leading to a kitchen, they opened into a narrow hallway, even more dimly lit than the lounge. A few steps in, the passage split. MacMillian pulled his shoulders closer together as Darius led the way down a cramped set of stairs. At the bottom was a door, marked with black block letters:
NOT AN EXIT.
Darius pushed it open, and a draft of fragrant air flooded out. MacMillian recognized some of the individual scents: sandalwood, frankincense, patchouli, all underlaid with something indescribably musky.
Darius stepped inside, paused just over the threshold and looked back. "You sure about this?"
"Yeah." MacMillian flexed his fingers on the head of his cane. "I mean, of course, I just—"
"You better be." Darius's eyes were hard and unreadable. "Because once you're in this world, trust me, you're in it for good. There's no going back."
MacMillian paused. A memory of Lena's pale, sweat-soaked face filled his mind. He squared his jaw. "Let's go."
Darius searched his face, then turned on his heels with a clipped nod and continued forward. MacMillian followed him inside.
The first thing he saw was the altar. It held pride of place on the wall opposite the door, situated at what on a shorter man would have been shoulder-height. At first glance, it didn't look so different from the altars he was accustomed to. It was draped in white, simple and clean-looking.
Darius turned to him. "I need to go find someone. Wait here. Don't touch anything." Before MacMillian could protest, he disappeared through a narrow archway into another room.
Unsure what else to do, MacMillian drew closer to the altar. A single white candle sat in the center, a brandy sniffer filled with what looked like water beside it. Behind both stood a grotesquely detailed crucifix. A Bible lay open off to the side.
MacMillian peered at the words on one crisp white page. He recognized Psalm 91 immediately. A familiar phrase leaped out. Without thinking, he murmured it aloud. "There shall no evil befall thee, neither shall any plague come nigh thy dwelling."
A deep, rich voice spoke behind him. "For he shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways. They shall bear thee up in their hands, lest thou dash thy foot against a stone."
MacMillian barely managed not to jump. He turned. A man was waiting, arms crossed. Polished white teeth grinned from a deep mahogany face. The man was dressed even more impeccably than Darius, in a black three-piece suit with a matching dress shirt. A red tie and a red-and-black polka dot pocket square broke up the monochromatic effect. Black and white spectator shoes gleamed on his feet.
He nodded at the open Bible. "You're wondering about the altar."
MacMillian cleared his throat. "No, I just—"
"The color white represents piety and attracts benevolent energies." The man slipped an arm around his shoulder, seemingly oblivious when MacMillian stiffened. "The cross represents our link to God. The water allows our ancestors to commune with us from the spirit world, and the candle marks our intention to hold communion with the spirits."
He withdrew his arm and stepped back, an expectant look on his face.
MacMillian cleared his throat again. "That's... interesting."
The man raised an eyebrow.
"I see you've met Papa."
MacMillian turned to Darius with a barely disguised sigh of relief. "Are you ready to tell me just where exactly we are?"
The other man stepped forward again. "You, friend, are standing in King Papa's House of Hoodoo, the premier supply shop for conjure and rootwork in the greater North Bay—hell, the whole Bay Area. King Papa, proprietor, at your service."
MacMillian stared at Darius. "Hoodoo. You're serious."
"A skeptic." King Papa's other eyebrow lifted. "I take it you're new to conjure."
"You could say that, yes."
"Well, just tell me what it is you seek." King Papa went to the wall nearest the door. "Is it oil? We have a variety: Sanctuary oil, Van-van oil, John the Conqueror oil, Crossing oil, Uncrossing oil..."
He took in the blank look on MacMillian's face, and moved on down the wall. "Or maybe water? We stock Holy water, Storm water, War water, Peace water, and Florida water."
MacMillian opened his mouth, then shut it again.
King Papa seemed unperturbed. "We have candles, all colors, for every kind of spellwork. Quite popular with the witches."
MacMillian thought back to Lena's friend, and swallowed.
King Papa didn't slow down. He strolled to the far wall. "We are also the foremost supplier of minerals in the city. Perfect for cleansings and energy work. Alum, sea salt, sulphur, lodestones, crystals, graveyard dirt. You name it." He snapped his fingers. "Oh, and herbs, of course. We source them locally from a curandera in the Mission."
MacMillian's eye drifted towards the archway Darius had disappeared through earlier. "What's back there?"
"That would be our menagerie."
MacMillian gave him a blank look.
King Papa's eyes twinkled. "Animal curios, friend. We stock black chicken feathers, chicken feet, chicken bones, cat bones, black cat fur, and black dog fur." He paused. "Poodle, to be precise. Very standard."
MacMillian turned to Darius. "Get me out of here."
King Papa blinked. Darius nodded to him. "Would you excuse us for a moment?" Without waiting for an answer, he steered MacMillian into the far corner. He lowered his voice. "What's the problem?"
"The problem..." MacMillian clenched and unclenched his fingers around the head of his cane. "Are you fucking kidding me? Cat bones? Graveyard dirt? This was no
t what we talked about."
"This was exactly what we talked about." Darius leaned in and lowered his voice. "You're the one who came to me, remember? You asked for this."
MacMillian shook his head. "No. There has to be another way."
"Of course there's another way. There's always another way." Darius rocked back on his heels. "But this is the way I know. You want my help? This is me helping."
MacMillian pressed his lips together. What else had he expected? Had he really thought he could simply dip a toe in this pool and somehow avoid falling in? Darius had warned him what he was getting into. Once you're in this world, you're in it for good. There's no going back.
He took a deep breath, but before he could speak, King Papa's voice rumbled over his shoulder. "I know what you're looking for."
MacMillian sighed and turned. "Look, thank you for your help, but I don't even—"
"You're looking for an edge."
MacMillian stared at him. "I... yes, actually. How did you...?"
King Papa's eyes twinkled. He crooked a finger and started towards the other end of the shop. MacMillian traded glances with Darius, then fell into step behind him. King Papa spoke over his shoulder.
"Seen men like you come through here before. Men who got the same look in their eye. You can't stand the thought of relying on somebody else to get where you're goin'. Think your ignorance makes you weak." He stopped in front of a row of shelves and turned to MacMillian. His bright eyes hardened. "Well, it does."
The words caught him like a straight-punch to the chest. MacMillian buried them deep and met the other man's gaze without flinching. "Look. You have a nice establishment here, Mr..."
"Papa." King Papa crossed his arms. "Name's Papa."
"Right." MacMillian shifted. "And you obviously know what you're talking about. But I didn't come here to learn about candles, or oil, or water, or to look at, Christ," he gestured to the shelf next to them, "Dragon Blood, whatever the hell that is."
King Papa didn't speak.
MacMillian took a fortifying breath. "It's like you said. I'm here because I need an edge. Something that'll scare off whatever I can't shoot."
Darius snorted. King Papa merely studied him without answering. MacMillian's insides twisted under the weight of his deep, disconcerting eyes.
A World Apart (Shades Below, #1) Page 11
