Tainted Love

by Nancy Morse

  The smell of boiling yellow soap and hot charcoal filled the air when Pru returned to the cottage on Rue Ste. Anne the morning after her encounter with Nicholas. Satisfied that he was on his way to rescue Stede from the Spaniards, albeit not out of kindness, she could concentrate on working her way into the voodoo queen’s confidence. Nicholas might not want his soul back, but she wanted hers, and this was the only way she knew to get it.

  Beyond the gate she could see the figure of Sabine Sejour hunched over the washtub in the yard, and called to her. The voodoo queen straightened up, wiping the suds from her hands on her apron as she came forward.

  “So, you have come to learn the ways of voodoo.”

  Pru smiled courteously. “Yes, as I told you, I am eager to learn.”

  Unlatching the gate, Sabine said, “Every leader must have a successor, so maybe you will be mine, eh? Come in.”

  She followed the woman into the yard, past the clouds of white smoke rising from the tub, noticing the white skirt brushing her ankles, the white tignon, and arms the color of warm molasses covered with gold bracelets.

  “Sit.” Sabine pointed to the stoop and sat down beside Pru, drawing her knees up to her chest and winding her arms around them. “You will come with me to Bayou St. John Saturday night. Then you will see.”

  Pru dared not reveal that she had already been to the bayou and seen the dreadful spectacle. “There is one thing we must agree on,” she said. “I will not harm another person.”

  Sabine slanted a suspicious look at her from narrowed black eyes. “What makes you say that?”

  “Nothing,” she lied. “I just wanted to be clear about my intentions.”

  “Good gris-gris, yes, I understand. I myself am a good Catholic and do no evil work.”

  Now, who is lying? Pru thought, careful to maintain a level look lest her thoughts show on her face.

  “You will come here every day for lessons and then on Saturday and I will take you to the place of the ceremony. You will watch and learn.” Her dark eyes moved over Pru idly but thoroughly. “Yes, I think you will make a good voodooienne. The mortals will feel your power.” The gold bracelets jangled when she pushed herself up from the stoop. “Go now. The washboard is calling me.”

  She walked with Pru to the gate, and as she slid a slender finger beneath the latch, she said, “Do you have a name, blood-drinker?”

  Pru looked back at her with large blue eyes. “It’s Prudence.” She prayed the name would have no meaning to her. “And what may I call you?”

  “You may call me—”

  Sabine? Lienore? A queer tingle went through Pru’s body as she waited for a reply.

  “You may call me maman.”

  The word rankled in Pru’s brain. She had only one mother, the one that evil witch Lienore had driven to her death from the London Bridge all those years ago. She fought to keep a tone of revulsion from her voice. “As you wish, maman.”

  ***

  Moonlight shimmered along the moss that hung from the twisted branches of the live oak trees and rippled across the dark waters of Bayou St. John. Pitches of flame from a giant fire leapt toward the sky and gleamed upon the brown naked flesh of the dancers.

  An area was cleared at the bayou’s edge and a small wooden platform erected. Seated on a high-backed chair atop the platform, looking for all the world like a queen on a throne, was Sabine Sejour. Tonight she wore a dress of scarlet kerchiefs sewn together. A red shawl with long, cord-like fringes draped over her statuesque form, and a blood-red tignon covered her hair. Her feet were bare, and the bells at her ankles tinkled as she tapped them in time to the beating of the drums. Heavy gold chains jangled around her neck and rested upon her bosom. Her arms were covered wrist to elbows in gold bracelets that sparkled almost angrily in the firelight.

  Pru slid forward in her chair set below Sabine’s, blue eyes wide and staring at the dancers. One strapping male dancer in particular drew her attention. Clad only in a red loincloth, he danced to the rhythm of the drums. It was only when he danced close to where she sat that Pru drew back. Thick black lines tattooed on his forehead looked like writhing snakes, and the bracelets around his wrists were fashioned from what looked to be human bones.

  During their weekday lessons Sabine had told her how the voodoo religion had been brought from Africa to Saint-Dominque, and from there to this new land and to New Orleans when revolution on the island had driven many of the natives out, and that the religion was older than Christianity. For tonight’s ceremony she’d been given a snow-white camisole to wear that fell to her knees and had been instructed to leave her hair unbound and her feet bare. She was to remain quiet and not say anything or join in the dancing.

  Watching out in the open and not hidden behind the trees brought the ceremony into sharp focus, and for the first time Pru asked herself if she really wanted to become a part of this ancient darkness.

  The thought was smothered when Pru watched a man approach the platform and hand Sabine a cup which he filled with a strangely glowing green liquid. Sabine drank in long, measured swallows and then passed the cup to Pru. Again it was filled. Pru looked skeptically down into the cup.

  “It is only la fèe verte,” Sabine said as she placed a finger beneath the cup and tilted it toward Pru’s lips.

  The taste was strangely pleasing, and she drained the cup. The man smiled through yellowed teeth and filled it again. Soon, Pru was seeing out of haze-filled eyes, and her body swayed to the rhythm of the drums.

  Sabine leaned close and whispered, “Not now, cher. Your time for dancing will come.”

  Just then, the big dancer let out an inhuman cry. One of the women shrieked and fell to the ground, but no one paid any attention to her as the male dancer launched into inaudible mumbling, raising his arms to the heavens as if calling upon ancient gods.

  The drums throbbed and the dancing grew more frenzied, and suddenly, as if on cue, it all stopped. Two men stepped out of the shadows into the circle of firelight carrying a large box. They placed it on the ground and then slowly backed away, bowing. The male dancer came forward and withdrew from the box a cage fashioned out of reeds. Inside, was the Vodu, a thick-bodied snake.

  The shawl fell from Sabine’s shoulders when she rose from her throne and walked barefoot to the cage. Lifting one foot, she brought it down upon the cage to the wild shouts and cheers from the crowd. Then, grasping the hand of the male dancer, they both began to twist and convulse. One by one the others joined in, until they all formed a circle of writhing, twisting bodies. The circle then broke and became a chain, undulating and slithering like a serpent around the fire, the lurid light of the flames gleaming across faces with eyes rolled back in their heads.

  Withdrawing her hand, Sabine broke the chain, the others falling away like loose links scattering across the ground. Drawing near to the cage, she lifted the reed door, and reaching in with both hands, withdrew the snake. A hush fell over the dancers as Sabine lifted the serpent above her head, held it there for a few moments and then draped it around her shoulders. She began to spin, around and around, faster and faster. Words poured from her mouth, words no one could understand, but which Pru recognized with shock as the language she’d heard chanted long ago in London, the language of ancient Dubh Lein. The figure dancing and chanting and spinning wildly before the fire was not the voodoo queen Sabine Sejour, but the witch, Lienore.

  While she wailed on and on, the big male dancer led a black goat into the circle. With one sweep of his knife he slit the throat of the goat and held a cup beneath the dripping blood. He offered the cup first to the queen, who stopped her chanting and spinning to take a sip. The people crowded around with cups to catch the blood of the goat, licking the scarlet stain from their mouths.

  Pru watched the spectacle with eyes that grew even wider when Sabine approached, the snake still draped around her shoulders and offered her the cup. “Drink and be blessed.”

  Drinking the blood of thieves and murderers was one thing
, but Pru had no desire to drink the blood of the goat. She accepted the cup and brought it to her lips and waited until Sabine turned away to rejoin the others before overturning the cup and spilling the goat’s blood on the ground.

  The throbbing of the tom-toms continued long into the night as the dancing grew wilder. People were falling to the ground, their clothes in shreds, blood glistening on their bodies. Eventually, clouds began to roll in from the river, obscuring the face of the moon, and the fire gradually died to a few smoldering embers. Couples began disappearing into the shadows. Sabine wandered back to the platform, and nodding toward the clumps of trees from which came wild moans and cries of sexual frenzy, she said to Pru, “They need no love potion for that.” Reaching for Pru’s hand, she drew her to her feet and draped something over Pru’s shoulders.

  The weight of it was heavy. Pru felt it moving against her skin and wanted to scream, but no sound emerged. She shivered and flailed her arms wildly in an attempt to shake it off, the way one does when walking unexpectedly into a spider’s web. Panicked, she grabbed for it. Her fingers touched something soft and warm. It was not the body of the snake, but the woolen shawl that covered her shoulders.

  Sabine laughed. “The Vodu is back in his cage.”

  “It felt so real.”

  “The green drink can make us see things that are not there,” Sabine said knowingly. “Come, cher. It is time to go.”

  They left the bayou and walked back to town. “You saw many things tonight,” Sabine said. “Do you have questions for your maman.”

  The trance that had overtaken Pru during the frenetic ceremony was beginning to fade. Had she really seen the people tearing and clawing at each other or had she only imagined it? “The snake,” she said.

  “The Vodu is a symbol of the ancient religion. It is no different from praying in the cathedral before the statues of the saints, eh? The dancing, the sacrifice, even the love-making, it is all a form of worship, is it not? And speaking of love, did you give your young man the potion?”

  Stede. The very thought of him was a sharp reminder of why she was here in the first place pretending to cozy up to the witch she despised. “Not yet. He is away.” Nicholas would bring him back to her. He had to, now that she had paid his price.

  She left Sabine at the cottage on Rue Ste. Anne and continued on her way, passing through the Vieux Carrè with its pastel-painted houses, iron lacework and lovely courtyards. She was in no hurry to return home. Drawing the shawl tighter about herself to hide the chemise and ward off the autumn chill, she picked her way through the narrow, muddy streets, trying to make sense of all she had witnessed tonight on the bayou. At least she had managed to wedge herself into the voodoo queen’s life. Where it would lead remained to be seen. Although, at the moment, it was difficult to concentrate on what the future held when the pain in her head that had begun as a dull ache escalated to a merciless throbbing as if she’d been drugged, and all she could think of was crawling into bed.

  The next morning, she washed and dressed and went downstairs to make coffee in the kitchen, when there came a rapping at the door. Her first wishful thought was that it was Stede, but she knew it was too soon for him to be back. A tall Negro stood at her door. She might not have recognized him in the dull morning light were it not for the snake-like tattoos slithering across his forehead.

  “From Madame Sejour,” he said, placing a small box in her hand.

  Closing the door, Pru carried the box to the kitchen and removed the lid. Inside, among other things, was a black candle.

  “To exact revenge,” Sabine explained later that day when Pru went again to the cottage on Rue Ste. Anne.

  “And the chicken feathers?” Pru asked.

  “You can put them inside the pillow of an enemy for revenge.”

  “And what do the bags contain?”

  “Powders and dust from graves for protection.”

  Pru laughed. “What would I need protection from?”

  “Not what. Who.”

  Her laughter died. “You still think someone close to me will cause me harm?”

  In a voice riddled with bitterness, Sabine said, “There are always men who want nothing more than to see a woman destroyed.”

  A man. But which one? Not the one whose safe return she prayed for.

  From the voodoo queen she learned how to make good gris-gris and which herbs and powders to put into the chamois skin bags, careful to follow Sabine’s instructions and not handle the bags too much. She learned how to make evil gris-gris, too—a tiny black casket containing a small doll stuck with pins and left on a doorstep would bring death to someone within, or a mixture of Jimson weed and the powdered head of a snake would cause blindness. Just in case, Sabine said, although Pru claimed she would never use it.

  “Eh, bien,” Sabine said with a shrug. “The good gris-gris will bring you enough power and money.”

  It was neither power nor money she wanted, just the love of the mortal pirate with the infectious laugh and happy-go-lucky nature. Had Nicholas made it into the fortress to rescue her beloved? Had he kept his part of the bargain?

  Chapter 18

  The coral and limestone walls of the fortress reflected the moonlight. In the tower, the bats hanging upside down from their perches in the beamed ceiling unfolded their finger-like wings and rose in a great swarm. With a thunderous flapping, they flew out the narrow unshuttered window and headed for the mangroves surrounding the fortress in search of an evening meal. They moved as one, winging their way across the sky and darkening the face of the moon. The soldiers on patrol did not notice the lone bat that peeled off from the others and winged its way back to the fortress.

  Flying back into the tower, it alighted on the stone floor that was cold and thick with droppings. It took a few steps on its membraned wings, nose pads twitching and pointy ears straining for sounds. As it moved forward, its wings lengthened, taking on the appearance of arms, and its hind legs grew longer, stretching into flesh and bone. Each awkward step became more graceful until, within moments, the bat transformed into a man, fully clothed and determined as he strode across the floor.

  The heavy oak door, bolted from the outside, was no match for his inhuman strength. Without breaking stride, he thrust out his hand and knocked it off its rusted hinges, splintering the timbers. He climbed through the shattered door, snagging his sleeve on a piece of broken wood, cursing Prudence for asking this of him, but mostly himself for being so besotted with that miserable little vampire that he would jump through hoops for her like a pet dog. And why? So that she could have her pirate? Why couldn’t she see that only pain and heartache would come from loving a mortal, not to mention the possible destruction from loving this particular one? What was it about Prudence that drew members of the Sanctum to her like flies to honey? First, Edmund de Vere, the London pewterer who had used her as bait to destroy him and who he’d been happy to dispatch, and now Stede Bonham who was stupid enough to get himself caught by the Spaniards.

  His anger intensified as he followed the winding stone corridors. Not only did he not want to be in this fetid pit of misery, but it had been two days since he’d fed and his insides were burning up with thirst.

  He stopped in his tracks at the sounds of voices coming from around the next corner. Into his nostrils wafted the scent of human blood. The aroma maddened him. He winced at the prick of eye teeth lengthening through his gums. It didn’t hurt; it was more like the feel of biting down on a beignet that had been left to harden. Flexing his lips over the fully extended fangs, he poked his head around the corner and peered at the Spanish soldiers.

  There were two of them, donned in short jackets of blue cloth with red cuffs and collars, blue breeches and buckled shoes. They had cartridge pouches and bandoliers slung across their chests. Their muskets rested against the stone wall.

  He shook his head at the half-savage Spaniards who lacked the savoir faire of the French and the civility of the Creoles. But a meal was a meal, and in t
his place he could not be picky.

  “Buenos nochas, soldados.”

  The soldiers turned in unison at the silky smooth voice that spoke from behind and stared at the tall, languid figure gliding toward them. One of them reached for his musket, but before he could lift it to his shoulder, the stranger threw him against the stone wall. Seeing this, the other soldier drew a bone-handle knife from his belt to defend himself, but it was useless against the force that came at him like a cold, dark wind, grabbed him by the neck and lifted him off the ground.

  “¿Donde estàn los prisioneros.”

  With feet dangling, the petrified soldier told him between choking breaths where to find the prisoners. He clutched the knife so tight that the blade cut into the flesh of his hand, drawing blood. His clenched fingers were pried open and the knife thrown into the shadows. Then he watched with bulging eyes as the strange man lifted his hand and licked it clean of blood. Seconds later, he was robbed of his last breath and drained of every ounce of blood in his body.

  Nicholas dropped the bloodless body to the ground and removed the black neckerchief from his victim and was wiping the crimson stain from his lips with it when the soldier he had hurled against the wall regained consciousness. Stepping over the body of the dead soldier, he reached down and grasped the other’s head in both hands. With a quick twist he snapped his neck like a dried twig. Feeling robust from the warm blood coursing through his veins, he continued on his way.

  He felt no remorse for what he did, just the cold, irrefutable knowledge that if he hadn’t acted, they would have tried to kill him, not that he could be killed, of course, save with a hawthorn stake to the heart. But it wasn’t as if he couldn’t be harmed. It had taken him quite a while to recover when his sweet Prudence had plunged a poker into his heart all those years ago in London, and he hadn’t been about to find out what kind of damage the Spaniards could inflict.