by C. L. Bevill
“How do you know he’s the Roux-Ga-Roux?” the doctor asked. He appeared dumbfounded, not knowing what else to ask.
“Well, he told me,” Jane said, and she watched the doctor’s shoulders slump. Clearly, he thought they were both wandering lunatics. “Also I saw him change into the werewolf. But he’s not the kind you see at the zoo. No, he’s more like a horse. I don’t know, you think I can ride you, Christien?”
Christien slanted Jane a glance. Maybe if you scratch my belly first, chère.
“I would have taken photos, but I was a little busy with the witch,” Jane said. She spared Christien a brief look. He was flirting with her? She wasn’t sure how to take that, and she needed to concentrate on the doctor. “You see, she had my boss lure me to the building she owns, and when she speaks to me I have to obey.”
“You know who the witch is?” Dr. Sorrell asked slowly.
Jane nodded. “It doesn’t make any difference if she can control me with a few words. We need to know how to break the curse. We need to know because we’re damned if we don’t break it.”
Do you think that’s blunt enough? Jane thought to Christien.
Well, I could show him when the sun goes down tonight.
Jane considered that. What if you’ve got a taste for stringy old sociologists?
Christien shrugged again.
The doctor watched them both for a long while. Jane was going to say something, but Christien thought, Let him stew awhile. Let him think about right versus wrong, Jane. Don’t say anything.
Jane could see the indecision on Dr. Sorrell’s face. He was curious but also cautious.
Finally, the doctor said, “‘The fool has his answer on the edge of his tongue.’”
“A proverb,” Jane said.
“It seems apt.” Dr. Sorrell glanced at the magazine and finally put it down. “It’s Egyptian. The ancient Egyptians believed in magic, too. All types of dark mumbo. They even believed they would come back from the dead. Isn’t it amazing how societal mores remain constant from culture to culture?”
“Culturally speaking, what does one do with a curse?” Christien asked, his voice was the edge of a knife. He’s not as funny as he pretends to be, he thought to Jane.
Jane glanced at the doctor’s legs. The snake bite scars were marked on his skin. The ragged scars were long-since healed but remained pink and prominent. These weren’t the movie version bites with two parallel holes but ripped flesh where the snakes had been torn away from his skin. She had a mental image of the doctor yanking the reptiles away from him as he struggled to get away from them. Instead of releasing him, the terrified animals had hung on, shredding his epidermis and layers beneath that. He’s frightened, she thought to Christien. They put snakes in his room to scare him and keep him from asking questions.
Christien’s eyes dipped and his lips flattened.
Dr. Sorrell set his shoulders. “Very well. If you must know, and I thought initially you were simply messing with an old man.”
Jane shook her head. Like enough stuff isn’t going on that I need to mess with a retired sociologist.
“There are so many misnomers and stories about the various magical practitioners of the world, it’s easy to confuse the known with the urban legends. Marie Laveau, the Voodoo Queen, is the most infamous. Her legend vastly outweighs the woman she truly was, which was a shrewd businesswoman in a time where those who were of color were considered truly substandard.” Dr. Sorrell settled himself in for the lecture.
“There are many variations of the magical practitioner in Louisiana as well as in the United States. Voodoo is only the most famous. Hoodoo is another variation, but it differs in key aspects. It’s also called conjure and rootwork. Its origins are similar to Voodoo. The early Africans brought the knowledge with them as they came to the Americas. They incorporate their knowledge with Native American and some European rituals. They’ve used Christianity as well as grimoires from a dozen other countries. In case you didn’t know, a grimoire is a book of their most powerful magics. Most practitioners are benign and helpful. There’s nothing written in stone about their rites.” Dr. Sorrell stopped for a breath. “Today’s practitioners come in all races, creeds, and political parties. But the basis is the same for most.”
Christien cast a glance at Jane. I really wanted a history lesson, he thought with a dryness that would have required an ocean to quench it.
“I’ll use hoodoo as the object lesson because it represents most of what I want to impart. Its paranormal/supernatural/religious aspects are significant to the practitioner, and thereby, to you. Hoodoo is based on 18th- and 19th-century Christianity. Primarily Old Testament values. Sometimes,” the doctor said as he shook a finger warningly, “an eye is for an eye and likewise a life for a life. The root doctor is assumed to know the mind of God. That individual, right or wrong, has all the powers to judge the individual who has wronged them.” He sat straight in his chair and added, “You see, cursing an individual to death might not be perceived as malevolent an act as our society pictures it.”
“The witch sees herself as God’s instrument of deliverance,” Christien murmured.
“Or possibly worse, she is God,” Dr. Sorrell said. He waved his hand. “You wouldn’t believe how many of my students are hung up on Judeo-Christian beliefs and can’t comprehend the mindset of someone who was raised in a different light. After all, who are we to judge another one’s belief system? Who is going to be right at the end? Maybe the Greeks had it correct. Or perhaps it was a small tribe in a rainforest who had the right set of gods, and the rest of us are forever damned.”
“I said before, you must have been very popular in school,” Jane said.
Dr. Sorrell sniffed. “Understanding is important.” He paused a moment and went on, “The goal of hoodoo is much like other religions and organizations in human history, although this is another sore point for many of my students. By accessing the supernatural powers of the magical world, the practitioner is able to improve their lives in specific ways. Or possibly they seek to improve the lives of others. Luck, divination, revenge, love, and health are all vital targets of the hoodoo doctor.”
“I suspect we fall under the revenge category,” Christien commented.
“Of course, there’s also a necromantic facet to the hoodoo practitioner,” the doctor added. “And several of the other magical cultures involved follow this practice.”
“Necromantic,” Jane repeated.
“You mean, they deal with the dead,” Christien said flatly.
Dr. Sorrell shook his head slightly. “Yes and no. Necromancy deals with magical communication with the dead by talking to them. They summon their essence, their spirit, or they simply raise the dead.” He considered. “Well, not simple.”
Ice filtered through Jane’s blood. Christien’s horror-filled words echoed in her head. “You died. Oh my God, you died, Jane.”
Christien’s head spun toward Jane. His hand touched her arm, smoothed over the healed scars at her wrists, and he thought, You’re not dead now. I won’t let you die again.
She has control over me, Jane thought nearly frantic. She killed me, so she would be able to use me. It’s like being raped over and over again.
I know, his thought snapped back. Every night, I know.
Dr. Sorrell was staring at them again. His mouth gaped. “You two aren’t just messing around, are you?”
I’m calling duh, Christien thought.
He thinks it’s all stories meant to frighten the superstitious. He thinks it’s psychosomatic. He’s never seen the reality. When he was threatened and almost killed, it still wasn’t magic. It was people who got a bunch of snakes and put them where they would bite him. It wasn’t supernatural, Jane thought back.
His warm fingers still touched her flesh. Always like that, he thought indulgently. Ready to put your dukes up for the underdog. It’s what you did with Anna. I—
“Crap,” Christien said aloud. “It’s gone. Who’s Anna?
”
Jane’s arm was cut, a bad cut, something that had slashed through the soft meat of the underside of her forearm. There were several people with her as she was rushed somewhere on a hospital gurney. One was a girl in her middle teens with the same gold eyes that Jane had seen in her mirror. Her lovely face was worried as she’d peered down into Jane’s. The words she’d used were anxious. “It’ll be all right,” she said hurriedly. “You just need some blood. Remember, we’re the same type, and I can donate to you.”
“Anna is one of La Famille,” Jane whispered.
The girl, who watched Jane in that long ago dream, the dream that wasn’t really a dream at all, was Anna. Anna was Jane’s best friend. They’d spent time together in foster homes. They’d gone up against adults together. They’d even faced Sister Mary Joseph together, and no one faced up to that nun.
Dr. Sorrell looked back and forth between them, aware that something extraordinary was happening.
Whatever she did to us is crumbling apart, Jane thought.
Good. Damn her to hell.
“You’re…uh…you’re communicating with each other?” Dr. Sorrell said, his index finger pointing at Christien and then at Jane. “Telepathically? You’re finishing each other’s thoughts.”
Jane snapped back into the moment. “We’re on the same wavelength,” she said. There’s a politically correct answer.
Without saying we’re whackjobs, Christien finished.
“You said before, doctor, that to break a curse, one had to kill the curse-layer,” Jane said.
“Yes, I said that.” Dr. Sorrell frowned. “I wasn’t being literal, of course.” He raised his voice a notch in case someone was listening. “Not literal.”
“Would that work?” Christien asked, quite serious.
Dr. Sorrell stared again. “I’m not sure if I would recommend that course of action. It develops into a nasty cycle. When a person falls ill, gets a headache or such, the very superstitious person accuses another of cursing them. So the person kills the curser. Then the relatives of the curser kill the person. The person’s relatives decide to kill the curser’s relatives. Pretty soon, no one ever gets sick again.” He made a face. “Probably because everyone’s dead or afraid to be sick again.”
“Theorize then,” Jane said quickly, “how would one break a curse?”
“Simplify,” Dr. Sorrell sneered. “You want me to simplify hundreds of years of cultural and societal mores that have guided generations of individuals. Amateurs.”
“Yes, break it down for us lowly misguided peons,” Christien growled.
“Obfuscate the mark of the witch,” Dr. Sorrell said rapidly, judging Christien’s level of patience as being close to depleted. “Disable her strongest magics. Cause the witch to recant her spell. All would work. Possibly all of them together. Possibly one might do the trick.”
Your mark was the medallion, wasn’t it? Jane thought. So why are you still the Roux-Ga-Roux?
I don’t know.
And I’m not marked.
Christien looked at Jane. His gaze settled on her wrists. You have scars. Those are marks.
Jane’s hand came up by itself. She rubbed the nape of her neck. She hadn’t been able to see the faintly raised scars on the back of her neck, and she had disregarded them. In fact, she had nearly forgotten them. What is this? she thought to Christien. She turned away from him and held the hair away from her neck.
Christien made a choking noise, and there was an errant thought that slipped through his head before he cut it off. It was as though he had sliced through the thought with a knife. It’s a fucking tat—
“This is called a veve. A veve is a religious symbol that sometimes acts as a beacon for the spirits.” Dr. Sorrell paused and asked Christien, “Do you have a similar mark?” in a voice far more calm than any of them was feeling.
Christien’s long fingers knocked Jane’s hand away from her neck. It allowed the fall of her hair to cover the mark. Out of sight, out of mind? she thought, and it was half hysterical. He caught her hand and clenched it tightly. Abstractedly, he glanced at the doctor. “No,” he said, shortly. “No, I’ve got nothing like that. I’ve looked.”
The doctor crossed his arms over his chest. His brow crinkled into a delicate glower. “She has the trident veve.” His finger sketched the symbol in the air. “It’s not really a trident, and the meaning is something like putrefaction. Sometimes it is associated with Maman Brigitte, and she’s a loa, an intermediary between the Almighty Creator and the humans who worship Him. Although that’s oversimplification like you wanted. Overall, the symbol itself can mean that the person will die slowly or lose everything or lose everything and then die slowly.” His eyes came to rest on Christien. “But you, she took the cursed object off you when you were a Roux-Ga-Roux.” He laughed gently as if he couldn’t believe he was giving voice to the words. “That was the hoodoo’s control over you. You shouldn’t be cursed anymore.”
“He doesn’t remember anything more than I do,” Jane whispered. She desperately clutched Christien’s fingers, savoring the warmth of his flesh. “She made us both forget. Everything and each other, as well.”
“You don’t remember any of your other life?” Dr. Sorrell asked Christien.
Christien shook his head.
“Both of you,” he considered. “All I can think is that perhaps you’re connected in some primal fashion. What cursed her also affected you. But then the hoodoo thought she was cursing you with being a loup-garou.”
“That isn’t quite right,” Jane said. “She’s not just a hoodoo. She’s a witch. She’s a magic worker. She’s all of them rolled into a malignant bundle. She uses bits and pieces from all practices to get her what she desires. She’s the mother of all evils.”
Dr. Sorrell shuddered. It was a long time before he spoke again. “You’ll have to find her lair, her lodestone, her position of power. The place she does her magic and her most powerful spells. When you do that, destroy her grimoire. If that doesn’t work, then you’ll have to do what I wish I had never said to you.”
“Kill her,” Christien said grimly.
Chapter 21
Talk about the wolf, and the wolf is here.
– Russian proverb
When Jane and Christien left the library, the beautiful blue day outside was astonishingly misleading. Saturday in New Orleans, she thought wistfully. We should be strolling down by Jackson Square, getting a cup of hot chocolate…
Not the kind with half espresso, Christien finished. But I didn’t have that because I needed to be in Pilottown. I needed to be there to catch the boat out to the oil platform.
You work out there in the Gulf, Jane thought, hoping that the remainder of the knowledge would come flowing to them just as it was, freely, without pushing at it. You specialize in—
The information slithered away leaving baseless frustration.
“Merde,” he muttered. “It’s there, just out of the corner of my eye, waiting for me to turn my head and notice it, to understand it. It tempts me, it teases me.”
“It’s what she wanted,” Jane said. I committed some sort of offense against her. Took someone away from her. In my dreams, there’s a man lying on top of me. He attacked me. I think I stabbed him with a knife but not just any knife, a chef’s knife. Who was that man?
Christien reached for her hand, threaded his fingers through hers, and closed his eyes for a moment. What he was, was worthless. You were dying. He killed you. If you killed him in return, then he was like the other one, the one in the parking garage. He deserved nothing less.
Jane looked at him, wondering if their lives would ever be anything resembling normal again. They had been shredded to pieces by some incident they couldn’t quite recall.
Look, Christien thought. He jerked his head toward the street. There was a battered pick-up truck parked there, and Philippe leaned against the side. Looking lanky and young, Philippe might have been waiting for some pretty young thing to pass his way
so he could chat her up. His brown hair fluttered in the breeze, and his equally brown eyes shone.
I guess he did follow me. Jane was glum. Philippe could have turned around and called Adrienne Viqc. But he did rescue us from the building last night. He risked it just to help another human being.
And a part-time human being, Christien added slyly.
Jane jerked her fingers away from his. Feeling sorry for yourself isn’t going to do anything.
Sorry for myself? The thought was incredulous.
Yes. Poor me. I’m a werewolf by night. No one loves me. Boo hoo.
Christien’s mouth opened in surprise. Finally he thought, Well, it’s not like I got fired from my job or my car got wrecked and I’m not insured.
There’s a way out of this, Jane thought. Look what fortune has brought us. She waved at Philippe.
A kid with a roving eye, and who has the misfortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time?
Jane sighed. “We need to find out where Adrienne does her worst magic, right?” she asked. “The day I escaped from Raoul, we were driving from the southeast, on the north side of the river. We were coming as if we had driven for a while. Think about it. What’s over there?”
Christien thought about it. “The further you go down that way, the more remote. There are towns along the edge of the Mississippi, but if you head toward the southeast, you run into a lot of marshy bayous. There are lakes where the gators like to eat ducks and stray hunters who don’t know better. The people who live there don’t like to have neighbors within gunshot range.”
“Raoul was taking me somewhere,” Jane said. “We don’t know why, but there was someone who got a good look at the car he was in. We know Adrienne Viqc owns the building we were in, but the place that is so important to her, where is that? It isn’t going to be listed on the Internet.”
